Northern Ireland was the news when I was a child.  At least, the reports of the violence, the death and the misery related to the Troubles seemed to be a reliable constant in the news.  I wasn’t generally all that interested in the news, but the reports about Northern Ireland always drew me in, because I wanted to see the bit where Gerry Adams was interviewed and the reporter would say “for reasons of security his words are spoken by an actor”.  That fascinated me.  Firstly, since you could see his mouth moving on the screen and hear the words he was saying (intriguingly not in synch with his lips) it seemed an entirely pointless exercise.  Secondly, I couldn’t understand the purpose of the policy, which presumably was not to fascinate small boys.  What was so wrong with people listening to what someone had to say that anyone would attempt to interfere with the process?  Thirdly, I desperately hoped that one day they would forget to overdub him so that I would get to hear what his real voice sounded like.

Growing up, I thought that there was no hope for peace until the generation of leaders like Ian Paisley, Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness had retired or died.  The peace process and resulting advent of power sharing is, therefore, one of the most astounding things that I have seen happen in my lifetime.  To see power sharing in action, with Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness working together as First Minister and Deputy First Minister was something that had seemed impossible.  The complexities of remembering Martin McGuinness are well described elsewhere, so I’m not going to dwell on that beyond to say that I suspect people will still be debating how to remember him centuries from now.  In thinking of complex lives like that of Martin McGuinness, what I reflect on is that all of us have the capacity to do evil and the capacity to do good.  We also all have the capacity to be changed:  by the events we live through or by the people we live with; by the force of our own will or by the tender love of God’s will.

In one of the many counselling sessions I had during my depression, I was asked “Being completely honest, do you want to change?”  This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question and I’d always just answered “yes”.  It seemed like the obvious answer and it seemed to be the answer that I ought to give.  However, on this occasion, I paused and thought really hard about it.  I realised that the truth was neither “yes” nor “no”.  The answer I gave was “I’m not particularly happy with the way things are, but I can’t want to change because I can’t want something that is impossible”.  When I look at intractable conflicts like that in Northern Ireland and listen to the language used, I am often reminded of my depression and the language my own mind used.  It is the language of absolutes (never, impossible, can’t).  It is the language that crushes hope and stifles our capacity to be changed.  When change seems utterly impossible, the only option left is violent self-harm.  It is only through the language of truth (the language of Social Stories; the language that makes the impossible seem possible) that we can embrace our capacity to be changed.