Could I strike a deal after a public humiliation?

How to come back from setback after setback.

Jean Kabasomi

Jean is a consultant working with financial and Christian organisations. She also writes and broadcasts.

President Zelensky speaks and a caption reads ' on the economic partnership with the United States.

The art of the deal.

x.com/ZelenskyyUa

‘USA and Ukraine sign a minerals deal.’

Two months ago, this headline looked impossible. The world watched in horror as President Zelensky was mistreated in the Oval Office and then appeared to be booted out of the White House before scheduled negotiations for the deal could begin. Zelensky left Washington having been publicly humiliated by the most powerful leader in the world.

Whether he was blindsided, underprepared, badly briefed, misguided, disrespected, the victim of bullying or some combination of all of the above, the stakes for both him and Ukraine were as high as it could possibly get.

These sort of political bust-ups if they happen, happen behind the scenes. But this was in the open, on air, for all the world to see. Not only then but it is available to view online in perpetuality.

Now for just one minute, put yourself in President Zelensky’s shoes, what would be your next move? Me, I am probably going to cry, check my socials, go to sleep and say I am going home. I am done for the day. So many thoughts would be going through my mind. In all honesty, I would probably be going through all the stages of grief!

Denial – ‘I can’t believe that just happened. Did they really just throw us out?’

Anger – ‘What was J.D. Vance doing? Why did they gang up on me? I thought we were allies. I am not coming back here ever again.’

Bargaining – ‘Let’s get them on the phone. Does anyone have a contact we can reach out to? Can someone try to call the Secretary of State, Marco Rubio on private number?’

Depression – ‘What have I done? I have made things infinitely worse for my people and our country. Will we ever win this war? Will I be responsible for the surrender and end of Ukraine? Maybe I should resign and we hold elections?’

Acceptance – ‘It has happened now. No use crying over spilt milk.’

At this point I would say, ‘I am going to bed. Let’s start again in the morning’ (I think you can see why I am not a political leader).

When I put myself in President Zelensky’s shoes and I think back to that day in February, (putting the war itself aside) and contrast it with his recent meeting with President Trump at Pope Francis’ funeral alongside the minerals deal, I am reminded of old wisdom found in an old book - the Bible.

'Even if good people fall seven times, they will get back up.'

Public humiliation, shame, disappointment and failure are often times when we give up and disqualify ourselves. Rather than view it as a moment in time, we tend to claim our failure, mistake or mishap as part of our identity. This often causes us to walk away from good opportunities and hold ourselves to an unattainable standard. My Christian faith teaches me to place my identity not in anything I do but in what Jesus Christ did for me when he died on the cross for my mistakes. Jesus like Zelensky, faced public humiliation and shame. He is the ultimate example of how I ought to respond in the face of opposition. Jesus did not respond to his accusers and remained focus on his mission to save not just a one nation but an entirely broken world. Every so often I need to be reminded of this.

Very few of us, if any of us, will ever face the level of public humiliation or as high stakes as President Zelensky did on that day (even if it feels otherwise). Things will go wrong, we will make mistakes, people will cause us embarrassment, but it will only be for a moment in time. This new minerals deal is a reminder that things can and will get better. Our mistakes or bad circumstances do not define us, we can and will recover if we are able to get up and try again.

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Death & life

Music

19 November 2024

2 min read

Lullabies and lists that tell of lifelong love

A Laura Marling gig and an All Souls remembrance reverberate life.

Jessica Scott

Jessica is Assistant Professor in Christian Theology at the University of Nottingham.

A misty back lit stage hosts a singing guitarist and a double base player

Laura Marling performs at Hackney Church.

YouTube.

This year, I did not go to my own church’s All Souls Day service. I went instead to another church - Hackney Church - to hear Laura Marling perform her new album, Patterns in Repeat. Marling wrote its songs in the months following the birth of her first child. Her daughter’s coos and gurgles occasionally overwrite the recording of Marling’s own ethereal, elastic voice as she contemplates parenthood, heritage, and new domesticity. Critics are in agreement: this is Marling’s most accomplished album yet.

As I stood amid the congregation gathered to hear her, I was struck by the overwhelming love contained in those lullabetic songs. As if line by line Marling swaddles her daughter, each lyric wrapping her with words that hold and assure. Sleep my angel, you’re safe with me. What she conjures is the magnificent reorientation entailed in love - Time won’t ever feel the same - and the promises that tip from the mouths of those experiencing it - I’m not gonna miss it, child of mine.

Of course, love is not always so pure. We may find, miserably, our own love tilting this way or that, towards dominance or possessiveness, or muddied by some other perversion. But this isn’t to deny that there really are pockets of pure love in our midst. All around us are people writing their own lullabies: sending texts, preparing meals, writing cards, taking photos. And, in these ways, saying to one another, as the theologian Josef Pieper paraphrases the affirmation of love, ‘I am glad you exist’.

While I listened to Marling sing lullabies for her baby daughter in one church, the gathered faithful of my own congregation read out the names of the dead in another. Each year the list is long and spans several minutes. By its end the names start to undo themselves, beginning to sound only like their component syllables, blurring towards the non-words found in a book of phonics. But each name uttered - perhaps for the only time that year - tells of a whole beloved life, witnessing some homely love swirling still, years later, in the memory of a congregant. In years past I have sat around that altar as those names are read out. I have listened out for the names I added, like a child seeking the face of her mother.

These two Saturday evenings, unfolding a few Overground stops apart, were not wholly discrepant. Each sounded the cry of love from one person to another, against cynicism, even against death. Each told of love that reverberates where love cannot yet, or still, be reciprocated. All these hearts swelling and bending and breaking for each other strikes me as a kind of Grand Canyon: a remarkable thing to consider, seeming to be a miracle that might, if we let it, render us speechless.