Theology Everywhere

by Anne Ostrowicz.

In January of this year, I travelled to India to take part in the first conference of the newly formed International Education Today Society Tomorrow. The five-day conference was entitled, A Values-Driven Education in a Power-Driven World.

India ETST has been at work for three decades, founded by several highly successful Indian businessmen, disillusioned with the increasing focus of their employees on personal benefit.  Educator delegates to the conference came from all over India but also from countries like Syria, Lebanon and Indonesia.

There is much discussion and writing in education at present in the UK on values and character-building, and I was particularly interested in which values and virtues would be prioritised at the India conference, and also in the practical question of how these values were being promoted in schools.

To my joy key values presented included: honesty, compassion, justice, forgiveness, collaboration, respect (across sex, sexuality, gender, religion, social class, species), love, and peace towards all nature. Educators are challenged to model these behaviours to their students, flowing from regular self-reflection. We experienced guided self-reflections at the start of each day. Workshops delivered practical and inspirational ways of promoting these values in schools and classrooms:

‘The Gandhi Project’ promotes the value of forgiveness and has been taken to numerous countries including to China. (Rajmohan Gandhi, Gandhi’s grandson and biographer, delivered the conference’s opening address.)  Reference is made to a tribe in Africa who encircle the offending person and then ‘flood’ them with memories of their many good past actions towards their community.

Another series of inspirational lessons focused on a ‘Charter for Compassion’. We met the children who had been part of a project which facilitated the crossing of social class barriers between an affluent city school and a poorer school in the countryside.

I was invited to be on a panel sharing how to promote compassion and inclusivity in a world containing so much violence and extremism. Pertinently, for the very first time a large group of educators from Kashmir had joined the conference, and shared with us the challenges of their difficult political situation.

As a teacher of both Religion and Philosophy I was also interested in the basis upon which the prioritised values of the conference would be proposed. The answer was essentially our shared humanity and what we can see, via experience, brings flourishing to us all. As a foundation this tears down every wall we have created between ourselves as humans; values the insights of science; and is a thread woven into many religions and philosophies (eg. in the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas).

Of course, the dangers of not teaching grounding for values includes society simply promoting whatever the majority, or government, propose. Two Lebanese women educators presented citizenship lessons where a good citizen is seen to be not simply ‘participatory’ but ‘justice-oriented’, hence having responsibility to critique societal values including attitudes to women’s rights.

On the final day of the conference I was invited to participate in an inter-faith act of prayer, a fitting and moving conclusion to the week.

This summer I retire after almost four decades of teaching Religious Education. My own approach to teaching the subject has grown in ways I could not have envisaged as a twenty-three year old setting out. Values of inter-faith sharing and of diversity generally, have grown exponentially in recent years, expressed just this last term in my own school in Birmingham in events which included an iftar created by our Islamic Society; a Scriptural Reasoning event where we discussed scriptures from five religions on our relationship to nature; and a garba (dance) celebration created by our Hindu Forum. RE lessons continue to be very popular in many schools in the UK, as are school societies which promote discussions around religion, philosophy and ethics. Whether from religious, agnostic or atheist homes, UK teenagers generally enjoy sharing and discussing with one another, considering the reasons for their views, open to change when they hear persuasive argument and evidence, the most powerful of which is life example.

Today’s teenagers face moral and intellectual challenges which call for each of us in our own unique way to give time to bolster this precious and valiant generation who will be tomorrow’s society. What unfailingly encourages and moves me is the way young people are drawn to the beauty of truth and specifically to those values listed earlier: a most hope-full capacity of our shared humanity.

by Karen Turner.

She walked away from faith in her teenage years, a doctoral student told me recently, but she still remembers a Methodist junior church leader who, at Easter each year, gave her a Mars bar saying that the letters stood for ‘Meet A Risen Saviour’. This wasn’t a quaint memory but carried real meaning for her. 

When my own children were of an age to be running around wildly after church services, I felt that the generous supply of biscuits at coffee time said something significant to them about their place in the community.  I didn’t mind that it might ruin their lunch.  What mattered was the encounter.

In both cases, it wasn’t the treat itself, but the interaction that it signified; one that I am increasingly thinking of as ‘translation’.  How can we speak to one another about things that are holy when there is such a large gulf between us?  With differing ages, experiences, identities; ministry involves translation even if we are seemingly speaking the same language.

If you haven’t yet read R F Kuang’s novel, Babel, there are many reasons to pick up a copy.  Kuang creates a world where all sorts of things are powered by a ‘magic’ that comes from translation.  In this fantasy world (which isn’t too different from our own) there is almost a magnetic power that comes from matching pairs of words from different languages with similar, though not exactly the same, meanings.  The gap between them, or the slight contradiction, is where the magic happens.  Without this, the world literally collapses.

The book has made me imagine the unheard hum of energy in every human interaction as well as the mystical daily encounters that I have with people as a chaplain. Those who listen well are involved in the act of translation; so are those who are able to speak in ways that can be understood. What if ministering was imagined as translating, and actually, just being a willing participant was the most important part?

Towards the end of Babel, the main character, Robin, remembers his friend saying: 

“That’s just what translation is, I think. That’s all speaking is. Listening to the other and trying to see past your own biases to glimpse what they’re trying to say. Showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands.”^[1]

Someone I know who has worked in the publishing world says that the best literary translators talk about almost ‘inhabiting’ the writer that they are translating. Translating is both science and art and maybe magic, too (and currently not done very well by AI).

In Acts 2.14-21 when Peter willingly ‘steps up to the mic’ to explain the noisy co-speaking and how it is that this mystical translation seems to be unconsciously happening, his quotation of Joel contains some contradictions.  This manifestation of the Spirit is completely inclusive, all genders, all ages, all positions in society.  All people.  Yet it is also particular. Only those who call upon the name of the Lord will experience God’s rescuing action. Both inclusive and particular. Holding these statements together is where the power is in all the noise.

Most days I use Northumbria Community morning prayer and the haunting challenges of the canticle stay with me, perhaps because this ‘translation’ of discipleship is so curiously contradictory: ‘This day be within and without me, lowly and meek and yet all-powerful’.^[2]  I often feel that if I could just genuinely inhabit that prayer my work for the day would be done.

Representing one institution to another is not ‘translation’ because human beings are required for the love that holds near-meaning together.  No manner of programming, or on-point messaging can hold this tension together.  Only people can.  Only we can, and frankly this is a bit beyond what an institution can control.  It pushes us into the realm of the Spirit. 

When we look back at our lives, many of us might name moments when a person ‘translated’ God’s love to us.  These things are really hard to describe because they likely come from the provocative encounters, interruptions, and unhurried spiritual conversation that are part of shared life in a community (and, ideally, university chaplaincies).^[3]  They come from difference held together by love.

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^[1] R. F. Kuang, Babel or The Necessity of Violence, London: HarperCollins, 2022. p. 537.

^[2] The Northumbria Community Trust, Celtic Morning Prayer, London: HarperCollins, 2015, p. 18.

^[3] Lucy Peacock, Mathew Guest, Kristin Aune, Alyssa N. Rockenbach, B Ashley Staples and Matthew J. Mayhew (2023) Building Student Relationships Across Religion and Worldview Difference, Coventry University, Durham University, North Carolina State University and The Ohio State University.

by George Bailey.

Increasingly I am reflecting on how Christian theology connects with environmental ethics. This can be seen a simple ethical responsibility which we are called to act on as human creatures within God’s creation. However, the Easter season strains this environmental logic, with so many hymns and other aspects of Christian culture about a new world to which humans can go after they die. What about this world and this life we are living?

A common answer is realized eschatology; put briefly, the world that God is going to reign over eternally, which will be characterised by justice and peace and an environment in complete balance and harmony, is not a new world, but this current world transformed… and that transformation is beginning now. We can be part of it, and this fuels our environmental ethical actions – we are called to participate in the transformation which God has begun.

This realized eschatology can become ‘over-realized’ in several ways; we could be over-optimistic about the state of this world and relax our efforts in the light of imminent realisation of the vision, or it could be that we overestimate our ability to enact change ourselves, and proceed without God – neither of these possibilities sits well with a Christian theology developed from the good news of the resurrection, but there is a more immediate problem.

The bigger problem faced by realized eschatology at Easter is the simple question of how the risen Jesus fits into any ethics focused on this life. Having been part of the created natural world and subsequently dying, he is then raised to new life, in what is clearly a different way of existing. After appearing to a few people for forty days in ways which emphasise that he is alive but in a new way, he then ‘ascends’ into a way of existing that is separate from the environment in which we live. I find myself expressing this life-beyond-death theology in some contexts, especially around questions of death, resurrection and eternal life, most often in funeral ministry. However, I tend not to talk about this theology whilst pursuing net zero for church buildings and exploring new environmental ethics for Christian discipleship. I want to resist this separation, which at worst becomes a deliberately limited reading of the New Testament that reduces reference to the resurrection to only a source of hope, and instead to hold these two themes together as vital for a more effective and integrated environmental theology. Here are two hints towards this which I am working on at present… both regarding the image of plants growing and dying.

I am privileged to have been able to walk and run through the same stretches of woodland in suburban Leeds for some years now – 12 years for the places I know best, and others for 17 years. I notice trees grow from seeds, become features of the landscape for years, and then fall and die but continue to enhance the ecosystem in new ways, even after disappearing from our view. In the New Testament both the gospel of John and the letters of Paul use the image of a seed ‘dying’ when buried in the ground to lead to new life (John 12:24; 1 Corinthians 15:36ff). However, the life they then describe can seem to be entirely focused on an existence separated from the environment of this planet. In a complex extended discussion, Anthony Thistleton’s commentary on 1 Corinthians 15 argues persuasively that Paul is not simply contrasting life in the way we experience it now with a separate new resurrection life, but is presenting resurrection life as both encompassing life as we know it now, and also going beyond it [his bold italics indicate quotations from his own translation of 1 Cor 15: 42-44]:

‘a resurrection mode of existence characterized by the reversal of decay, splendour, power, and being constituted by (the direction, control and character of) the (Holy) Spirit would be expected not to be reduced in potential from the physical capacities which biblical traditions value, but enhanced above and beyond them in ways that both assimilate and transcend them.’[1]

The resurrection and ascension of Jesus demonstrate that life beyond death both assimilates and transcends the earthly environment. Our environmental ethics and action now can be united with the work of God in us beyond our death.

This leads to the second hint in which I am interested. Other New Testament passages use the image of a plant growing to refer to the way that followers of Christ are called to grow in faith and discipleship; the church is God’s field, planted and watered by humans, but in which God produces the growth (1 Corinthians 3: 6-9), and the people within this field are to be ‘rooted and grounded in love’ (Ephesians 3:17). We readily take these growth images and use them in our talk about faith, but we rarely connect them with the language about the seeds which must die. If we are likes trees growing in Christ, so like trees we will die and interact with the environment in new ways – perhaps our environmental ethics can focus less on growth and more on the reduction of our impact on the world around us as we progress towards death. I am hoping to explore further for ways to connect the theology of resurrection with new environmental ethics in fruitful ways – that is, fruitful both in terms of practical this-worldly results and simultaneously in the eternal perspective of the gospel of Christ’s resurrection.

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[1] Anthony C. Thistleton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text. The New International Greek Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans’s; Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2000. p.1279.

by Ken Howcroft.

Why, O Lord, do you seem far off?
Why are you hard to find in these times of trouble,
when the world is distorted, disrupted
and fragmenting around us,
when abuse, isolation and broken relationships
surround us,
and we find ourselves awash with tears
in the deserts of desolation?
How has it come to this,
when people rage and politicians thunder
as waves of pandemics crash down upon them,
and we are all drowning in sickness, poverty and war?
Save us, Lord!
The waters are up to our neck.

Where is your healing?
So when you speak words of peace and forgiveness,
how can we hear them,
and experience your grace,
allowing it to transform us and our ways?
We have heard of new life,
of new beginnings
and a return to a normal
reshaped from the past for the future.
We have heard the talk,
but how are we to walk it?

We are out of our minds with anxiety and fear,
yet suddenly and unexpectedly
you come to be with us,
in our meetings and homes;
in our conversation on a journey;
and when we are striving to go back to what we did before,
trying to fish but catching
nothing.

Again and again
you come to us,
gathering us for meals,
strengthening us,
comforting our confusion,
prompting us to hear your voice
as we read the scriptures in heartening new ways;
miraculous banquets celebrating new life in the world,
foretastes in the present
of our past coming to us
reformed from the future:
a new heaven and earth but no longer the seas of chaos;
a new paradise garden now found in the city;
and a new people of God now including all peoples.
But as suddenly and unexpectedly as you come,
you vanish.
We cannot touch you.
We cannot hold on to you.
You are gone.

Why abandon us, O Lord?
Are you raising us up to forsake us again?

Or…
are you really just going ahead,
and if we share in your mission,
is it there we shall see you?

Remember, you say,
that heavenly banquet which we shared on that night,
celebrating the triumphs of God’s love
rooted in the Cross.
Did you see when I showed you my body
that it still had the holes from the nails
and the wound in my side,
raised to new life?

So, Lord,
are you gone from our table
to be with what the world belittled,
to create there your feast,
sharing food with the hungry and drink with the thirsty,
welcoming migrants and strangers,
providing cover for those with inadequate shelter or clothing,
caring for those who are sick,
and visiting those locked away?
Is it as we become one with you and with them
that they share with us
the bread of life
and the wine of mercy?

Is it when tears of gladness become tears of sadness
that tears of sorrow become tears of joy,
suffering, dying,
despairingly waiting,
rising and praising
commingled?
Is this the pain
that those who seem impaired
sometimes seem able to bear
and redeem?

Lord, help us become an openly broken people,
open to be raised to life with you,
raised with wounds still in hands and side.
As you wept over Lazarus with Martha and Mary,
and wept over the city, both institutions and people,
may we weep with those who weep
fresh tears of grace,
and discover in you the grace of tears.

April 2021; revised Easter 2024

by Sandra Brower.

At the recent Wesley Theological Society in Nashville, Tennessee, I had the privilege of sitting on a panel that reviewed the first volume of Professor Thomas A. Noble’s Christian Theology, entitled The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. It is a weighty project – this volume alone is over 1000 pages in length. Noble offers a thorough survey of the Tradition which helps readers to place themselves by recognising the philosophical and cultural influences and key players that have shaped them. But more importantly, his work is a call to ground Christian practice – our living and doing – in God, rather than ourselves.

Noble defines theology as ‘the articulation of our personal, interactive knowledge of the Triune God…within the fellowship of the Church which God has called into being’ (Preface to Part 2, vii; see also p. 283). Personal is not individualistic. As he states, ‘dogmatics arises out of doxology’ (see pp. 287-88 and p. 544). Not only is worship a corporate practice, it is also the context in which we are gifted participation in the relationship that the Son has with the Father through the Spirit, and therefore the context in which we come to know God. Noble articulates the two tasks of theology as first, identifying distortions of the Gospel, and second, thinking creatively about how to articulate it ‘effectively and redemptively’ today (p. 472). His concern is that we know the Tradition well so that we can engage in these tasks, today, well informed.  

Though Noble situates himself as Evangelical, Wesleyan, and Nazarene, what he offers is not sectarian. To the contrary, he is clear that a ‘Wesleyan’ dogmatics will only survive if its emphases are articulated in a way that is ‘integral to the Trinitarian, Christ-centred faith of the Church catholic’ (p. 42; see also p. 25). Noble’s Christocentric focus is evident in his theological method. He begins with ‘the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ’ rather than ‘the love of God’ because of his conviction that we can only know who God is through God’s revelation of Godself to us. In theological speak, we can only get to the immanent Trinity through the economy. And so he begins with the Gospel, articulated as a ‘two in one’ narrative; Jesus is the crucified and risen one, the one who is both truly human and truly divine, and the humiliated and exalted one. Each is linked to the parabolic shape of ascent and descent (clearly seen in the Christological hymn of Philippians 2), which represents the ‘wondrous exchange’ articulated by the early Fathers.

Through this lens, Noble discusses the person and work of Christ, arguing that we must hold them together. Another way of saying this is that the atonement cannot be separated from the incarnation. What is unassumed is unhealed, and healing is secured through a whole life of obedience and putting the old, sinful humanity to death. We need to account for both the moral and ontological aspects of the atonement. It is here that we find Noble offering a critique of his own tradition which has a tendency to focus on soteriology as separate from Christology. Linked to this is a tendency to focus on the individualistic and subjective as opposed to the corporate and objective elements of faith (see his introduction to Part 3). In response to a conversion-centric theology where ‘my’ faith becomes the key point of salvation, Noble asks us to put our focus back on Christ. This is rooted in his rejection of subjective articulations of the atonement (where atonement is completed when we respond to God) and his support of McLeod Campbell’s stress on the prospective aspect of the atonement, that is, what we are saved to. We are not just saved from the moral and ontological consequences of sin, we are saved to be children of God. This relationship is a gift that we partake of only as we are drawn up by the Spirit into the communion that the Son has with the Father; it can never be abstracted from this dynamic relationship.

It is here we see most clearly how it is that Noble’s theology helps us to ground our understanding of who we are and who we are called to be within the doctrine of God and to find the resources for Christian practice in God, and not ourselves. And this is good news, indeed. Instead of a life-draining theology that sends people back on themselves, Noble offers a life­-giving articulation of the faith that rests in Christ, who was and is for us.  Noble’s contribution to the academy has always been in service of the people of God, and this is no exception. We await eagerly volumes two and three of this definitive work.

by Tim Baker.

These reflections are informed by a reading of  Exodus 3: 1-17

Where are you, right now? You could use lots of words to answer that question, but one of them would be: ‘here’.

What does ‘here’ mean?

How are you here?

Why are you here?

To adapt a familiar phrase, could we say that ‘here is where the heart is’? At least literally.

So at least part of what ‘heartfelt worship’ is about is our ability to be here, to be fully present, to avoid distractions or longings or worries, and be here. Rob Bell wrote a book about 10 years ago called ‘How to Be Here’, and that simple phrase continues to affect how I think about worship.

The church community I belong to has had to rethink the way we are ‘here’ over the last few years. In the heart of the national lockdowns in the UK, we took the brave decision to sell our building and to commit to continuing to worship online — even after the pandemic was over.

Three years on, we couldn’t be more satisfied with that decision as our worship has grown richer and more connected using Zoom each week, seeing each other’s faces, sharing and talking and learning together.

We haven’t always got it right, and sometimes the technology has let us down — but I guess the same could be said for a lot of ‘in person’ worship over the years too! And we’ve been blessed to be joined by people from across many miles, including a connection with a church in Copenhagen which has joined in our worship.

The experience of worshipping online has raised critical questions around our ‘hereness’, the erosion of the break between sacred and ordinary, church and home, — as we’ve tuned in from our studies, lounges, kitchen tables and even bedrooms to worship together. We’ve been reminded of how our ‘situatedness’ affects how we learn, how we communicate, and how we encounter the living God. The theory of situated learning reminds us of the importance of the world around us when we learn, and the same is true in our worship. The world of learning has been transformed by the pandemic, in the way people learn at home, and we’ve seen the same thing happen in people’s discipleship as we’ve sung, prayed, listened and shared in all the messiness of home life.

Not everything works as well — I’m lucky to be married to someone with an amazing singing voice, so when we sing together I get to listen to her, but everyone else is on mute (and so are we), because the delay on the connection means it’s not possible to sing in unison.

Occasionally we miss the joy of being part of a village of worshipping people who will look after our five-year old for a minute (or an hour!) while we join in with the service. But online worship has undoubtedly shaped my journey with God over these last three years.

The domestic has become a little more sacred. Worship has become something we do together, rather than have done to us (the fact that Zoom is a meeting platform, rather than a lecture platform, works nicely for having conversation about faith rather than listening to 20-minute monologues!). And I can take worship with me too! We’ve had people dial in from all over the world as they’ve gone on holiday or travelled for work — as long as there is a bit of internet, you are welcome at Methley!

Home is where the heart is and — as E.E. Cummings would put it, when we recognise that worship happens in our hearts and in God’s heart at the same time, ‘I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart’.

To Consider:

• Share your experiences of on-line worship both in leading it and taking part in it.
• What are its advantages and disadvantages?
• Is this really the future? Will there still be a place for physical congregations?

We are pleased to continue our partnership with Spectrum, a community of Christians of all denominations which encourages groups and individuals to explore the Christian faith in depth. This year the study papers are on the theme of ‘Heartfelt Worship’ by Rev’d Jan Berry (author and former principal of Luther King House, Manchester) and Tim Baker (Local Preacher, All We Can’s Churches and Volunteers Manager and contributor to the Twelve Baskets Worship Resources Group). This is the fourth of six coming through the year.

by Ruth Gee.

In the fourth gospel we read that Jesus called his disciples friends (John 15:12-17).

In a report to the Methodist Conference we read, “In its eighteenth-century usage, ‘connexion’ referred both to the circle of those connected to some person or group and to the relationship itself.”[1]

In this short piece, I suggest that connexionalism can be viewed through the lens of the call to be friends of Jesus and of one another. I further suggest that, when viewed in this way, the distinctive Methodist understanding and outworking of Connexionalism predisposes and commits the Methodist Church to ecumenism.

The argument cannot be fully developed in this space, and in any case it is a work in progress. What I offer here is an outline and I would love to receive comments on it as such.

Much has been written about the nature of friendship from the earliest poets and philosophers to contemporary theologians, philosophers, poets and others. Among these, Thomas Aquinas, responding to Aristotle and others, argues that friendship is possible between those who are not equal in authority when it is rooted in God and routed through God. It is by grace that we are called to be friends of God through Christ, as friends of God we are friends of one another. Such friendship, rooted in God’s grace allows for disagreement between friends because, even where their understanding of the will of God differs, they accept each other as friends of God.[2]

Jesus calls the disciples friends and goes on to say, “I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.” (John 15:15) They are Jesus’ friends because they are invited into a relationship with him that enables them to glimpse and to participate in the relationship of Jesus with the Father. This call into friendship is a call into deep knowledge and mutuality, it is a call to share a common vision and to respect one another, even to be prepared to lay down one’s life for the other. Such friendship is transformative. 

Elizabeth Stuart powerfully describes the transformative effect of friendship. “When two bits of clay meet they impress their image on each other, each is changed, their encounter remains with them for ever.”[3] Stuart refers to the importance of the word, menein, in the fourth gospel, meaning to abide. Abiding describes the relationship of Jesus with the Father and of the disciples with Jesus. Abiding is a mutual encounter which transforms relationships and behaviour, this, says Stuart, is the language of befriending which is “the forming of mutual, equal, loving, accepting and transforming relationships.”[4]

In his commentary on the fourth gospel, David Ford points to the importance of the friends of Jesus sharing his knowledge of God and being known by name:

“…how Jesus knows his friends, and potentially all for whom he lays down his life, is that his friends can trust in being known by name by Jesus; being loved wisely, with joy and delight; being understood completely; and having their wholehearted response desired so that there can be complete mutuality, as between Jesus and his Father; and more.”[5]

On the basis of this very brief consideration of the friendship into which we are called by Jesus, we might describe such friendship as participation in mutual and abiding love which is always grounded in and springs from the love of God. Such friendship exists within and extends from the trinitarian relationship and we are invited to participate in it through the prevenient grace of God.

In The Gift of Connexionalism in the 21^st century it is noted both that in Called to Love and Praise[6], the essence of connexionalism is defined in terms of belonging, mutuality and interdependence, and that this understanding is grounded in the New Testament.[7] The references to texts in the New Testament focus on the image of the body of Christ but do not include the Johannine text in which Jesus calls his disciples friends in the context of the recurring themes in the gospel of abiding and of knowledge of God. I believe the Johannine texts are also important and persuasive.

The Gift of Connexionalism in the 21^st century argues convincingly for the continuing value of Connexionalism in the life of the Methodist Church, challenging us to recognise our interdependence, the value of belonging and increasing our connection with other people and with the world. These broader connections must surely include our ecumenical relationships (although this is not explicit in the report).

An understanding of friendship as described above, involving mutuality, understanding, respect and transformation, which is rooted in and routed through God, thus allowing for disagreement, is surely lived out in connexionalism.

One final but important point. Such friendship is not exclusive because it is rooted in the love of God which is inclusive. Ecumenism is rooted in the understanding that God’s love is inclusive and that we are called to love one another. This mutual love must include recognition of belonging, mutuality and interdependence, the three key characteristics of Connexionalism.

Is it too much to suggest that the ethos of the Methodist Church as connexional should predispose us to be ecumenical?

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[1] The Gift of Connexionalism in the 21^st century (Methodist Conference 2017) §1

[2] Here I am grateful to Gabrielle Thomas and her references to the thought of Aquinas in ” ‘Mutual Flourishing’ in the Church of England, Learning from St Thomas Aquinas”, ecclesiology 15 (2019) 302-321

[3] Stuart, Elizabeth. Just Good Friends : Towards a Lesbian and Gay Theology of Relationships. London: Mowbray, 1995. p169

[4] ibid. 168

[5] Ford, David F. The Gospel of John. A theological commentary. Baker academic, 2021. 209

[6] Called to Love and Praise. The Nature of the Christian Church in Methodist Experience and Practice (Methodist Conference, 1999)

[7] The Gift of Connexionalism in the 21^st century (Methodist Conference 2017) §5

by Caroline Wickens.

2 Samuel tells tales of guerrilla warfare across Israel and Judah, as David gradually establishes himself as the dominant leader for the territory and sets up his capital in Jerusalem. It is a distressing account of violence and death, moving from broad-brush stories of major battles to intimate focus on deaths such as that of David’s son Absalom, killed while caught by his hair in an oak-tree (18:9 – 15).

I want to pay attention to three stories with named female protagonists: Michal, Tamar and Rizpah. All are associated with the royal houses, but are vulnerable because of their gender. Michal is Saul’s daughter and David’s wife. Tamar is David’s daughter and Rizpah is Saul’s concubine. My core question is: why are these stories recorded in a narrative focusing on the development of kingship, rather than forgotten?

When David is still an up-and-coming rival to Saul, Michal becomes his wife and is in love with him (1 Samuel 18:28)[1]. Once David becomes Saul’s full-blown enemy, Michal is taken from him and given to Paltiel, a reliable supporter of Saul (1 Samuel 25:44), perhaps because she helped David escape from a trap Saul set for him. When David becomes king, he demands Michal back, and as she journeys back towards her first husband, Paltiel follows her, weeping (3:16). Michal’s own altered feelings are made plain when David enters Jerusalem, dancing before the ark of the Covenant. She despises him (6:16) and expresses her contempt (6:20), while he gives as good as he gets. The story ends bitterly: ‘Michal had no children to the day of her death’.

Tamar’s story is told in 2 Samuel 13. She is tricked and raped by her half-brother Amnon, who then rejects her. She finds refuge in the home of her full brother Absalom, where she lives ‘a desolate woman’. The story goes on to tell how Absalom kills Amnon in revenge before dying in turn in the succession struggles between David’s many sons.

Rizpah’s two sons are among a group of seven of Saul’s sons put to death on David’s orders to avenge a wrong done to the Gibeonites and end a famine (21:8). The bodies are not buried but left exposed[2], and for about six months Rizpah stays alongside them, protecting them from wild animals and birds of prey until David finally relents and allows the remains to be buried (21:14).

These stories raise many questions among scholars. How far is Michal responsible for her isolation?[3] Why does David take no action to protect his daughter Tamar either before or after her rape?[4] What motivates Rizpah in her difficult, lonely vigil?[5] My focus, however, is on the interface between these stories and the wider narrative of 2 Samuel with its seemingly relentless focus on battle. Are these shards of women’s experience intentionally recounted to offer an alternative perspective on violence?

The three stories create space to describe the women’s use of voice and agency. Michal is resourceful and proactive in arranging David’s night-time escape from her father through a window (1 Samuel 19:11–17). Years later, looking through another window (6:16), reclaimed as one token wife among others by a man she now despises, she can no longer act to change the situation but is only able to speak in ways which reduce her status even further. The violence of dynastic change robs her of both agency and voice; perhaps the ‘nuclear option’ of childlessness is her only remaining option for rebellion.

Tamar’s status as a virgin princess is high, in a patriarchal context where marriageable royal women are valuable assets. Amnon’s assault robs her of her dynastic standing and attacks her personal dignity and self-worth. Her words begin with appalled rejection of his intentions – 13:12 uses a strong negative imperative three times. There is a painful lessening of resistance in 13:13 until she is ready to consider marriage to her abusive half-brother as a better option than disgrace. Finally, she is speechless, using her body to express her tragedy as she tears her rich robe, puts ashes on her head and weeps aloud (13:19) –a ‘desolate woman’ in the face of violence and abuse[6].

Rizpah’s hilltop vigil begins in April, with the barley harvest, and continues through the heat of summer to the coming of the rains in October. Her silent, determined protest makes huge demands on her physical and mental resilience. How much risk and determination it takes for an ex-concubine of the wrong king to get her concerns for justice heard!

 All three stories name as a consequence of violent conflict the breakdown of communication between powerful and powerless people. They suggest that it is well-nigh impossible, in the context of war, for calls for justice from the margins to be heard; voice and agency are lost. By opening a way into the lived experience of these three women, they sketch an alternative perspective which pays attention to the suffering endured by those caught up in struggles beyond their control. Through including these stories in a narrative of war and dynastic violence, the narrator of 2 Samuel invites us to honour and lament these women and all who endure similar situations, and to remember that they are children of God.  

by Andrew Pratt.

Some thousands of years ago, so it was written, an ethnic group was in bondage, held as slaves constructing buildings and monuments for the proud nation that held them in thrall. These people were driven and ill-treated. Some died in captivity. A narrative history was built around the lives of these people culminating in a daring escape across the sea while being chased by their captors. The story was infused with the rehearsal of miraculous happenings and events. Finally free, their leader took them into a wilderness, through danger, through desert. At times they faced hunger and thirst. They rebelled against that leader, longed to return to captivity. Again and again, against seemingly insurmountable obstacles and internecine conflict, this body of people achieved a union, in sight of their objective as their leader died.

From a mountain top they looked out on a fertile vista, an attractive landscape, which offered a calm and verdant prospect. Another leader headed with them into this land. Stories of the incursion vary. Some perspectives relate a sudden dramatic fall of the first city, such that it was presented as miraculous. Others tell of progressive advance, stalling, progress. Eventually the then inhabitants of the land were assimilated, killed or driven out until the invading force were the dominant inhabitants.

Now let me step aside; and an admission. As a retired Methodist Presbyter I do not present myself as a Biblical expert, let alone a scholar of Hebrew scriptures, nor of Jewish history. But when I read this story, and admittedly the overview I have given is but a potted account, it raises questions for me in relation to the origination and authority of the Bible, which holds this account, and its application.

While the Egyptians left evidence of a sophisticated political and historical society, our Hebrew Scriptures offer a history which seems to have been validated more by later commentary, than contemporary record. I believe the dating of this commentary is later than the events that have been recorded and have grown in the context and ultimate culmination of the events that have been related. Alongside this record a theology was continually developing and evolving.

Moving forward, interpreters looked back on the ‘historical’ record and invested it with an insight related to this theology. This was not a sudden event, but a gradually developing understanding. Some of its conclusions were probably woven in contemporarily with the events. What is significant and dominant is the assumption that all the events were either invested with God’s influence, or subject to theistic control and direction. Counter-intuitively this was (and is?) accepted even when the events ran counter to the theological image of God that was developing. So God could be seen to be loving and caring, or devastatingly destructive. Through the whole sequence of development the persistent theme was that of a people treasured and protected by God.

Today it is easy to recognise that institutions develop sociologically to protect their own existence, over and above that of the individuals in those societies. They build walls, literally or legalistically, to protect their essence from others. That othering may be geographical or ideological or religious. Societies can be small, a single club or society; a city state; an empire. Many groups will assert that they are in a place predetermined by a divine institution. If that God is on our side then all is well. If not the supporters, worshippers, of that ‘god’ are heretics. Notice my change from capital to small-case initial.

To return to Judaeo-Christian history. If the perspective of a divine institution is real and pre-emptive then it trumps all opposition. If, on the other hand, it is something attributed after the events, or even prior to them, in order to support the actions of a group over all possible opposition then, I would argue, they are suspect. This is as true within Judaeo-Christian contexts as in any other faithful theological constructs. This is a question which undergirds the conflicts which persist in the Middle East to this day as people seek to justify their actions in relation to each other, regardless of the human consequences of these actions. The justification, or at any rate the tenor of the argument, that is elaborated to support one view or another is often rooted back into this distant history and is not solely a consequence of recent terrorism, persecution or a reaction to such. However faint, there is an assumption of divine institution or authorisation allowing what is taking place.

The bottom line for me is to what degree can we be sure of the foundations on which we build our Biblical interpretation, our subsequent faith and actions? To what extent is our interpretation, faith-statement and consequent actions internally coherent? Where there are inconsistencies, as we can already discern that there are, what common place of consent can we reach which will enable our coexistence with other human beings, or are we consigned to continuing dissonance and conflict?

What is there about our belief of which we might individually say with Martin Luther: ‘Here I stand, I can do no other’? And having decided, is this something which justifies our persecution or annihilation of another?

by Philp Turner.

Joan Chittister, the American Benedictine, describes a seeker approaching a monastic. ‘What do you do in a monastery?’, the seeker asks. The monastic replies, ‘Oh, we fall and we get up; we fall and we get up; we fall and we get up.’^[1] 

Lent has now begun, the season when churches often provide focused ways to draw people into closer alignment with God revealed in Jesus.  John Wesley highlighted prayer, searching the scriptures and receiving the Lord’s Supper as the ‘chief’ ways,^[2] as well as worship, the ministry of the word and abstinence.^[3]  In various places Wesley adds other activities like drawing alongside the vulnerable, remembering that God in Jesus became vulnerable.^[4]  Lent, then, is an opportunity to offer the invitation to ‘be holy’,^[5] though churches might choose different phrases to express this.  Yet, I’m drawn back to Chittister’s description of Christian community.  While churches raise people’s aspirations for following Christ, to what extent do our churches also use Lent to normalise falling and failing as integral and inevitable?  In addition to equipping people with the tools to press forward in discipleship, how well do we prepare others (and ourselves) for when we fall flat on our faces?

The world of politicians and celebrities can set the tone for much of life.  We raise up those who, by various criteria, do well, and we ensure that those who miss the mark are shamed.  There is merit to this: no one should celebrate actions that cause harm to others.  Yet there a risk that the vitriol of social media unwittingly creates our embodied theology.  Unless churches regularly check public discourse with the narrative of failure that is integral to the path of holiness, and with teaching of how people can get up after their fall, might churches risk promoting a gospel not found in the Bible?

Lent often begins through highlighting the Temptations of Jesus.  Mark is silent on how well Jesus did with these temptations,^[6] but it is Hebrews,^[7] perhaps drawing on Matthew^[8] and Luke,^[9] that enables the celebrant to exhort Lenten worshippers that Jesus was ‘tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin.’^[10]  While good and right, the congregation might understandably hear that failure is something that should not be part of Christian experience, and perfect performance as the only proper narrative of the church.  Yet Mark presents Jesus’ disciples as aspiring to be the best, but ultimately and persistently failing in their understanding and their lack of faith.  Mark is a Gospel that shows the followers of Jesus as those who fall, and get up; fall, and get up; fall, and get up.

I work as a chaplain in an acute hospital where, like throughout the NHS, doctors and nurses can be portrayed as ‘heroes’ who miraculously fix and heal.  Lower status is given the staff known as ‘Allied Health Professionals’.  These are Speech and Language Therapists, who support you as you learn to eat, for example, after a stroke.  These are Physiotherapists who help you improve your strength, for example, after or hip replacement or a time in intensive care.  These are Occupational Therapists who support you as you think through changes you might need to make to your everyday living.  These wonderful people perform necessary roles because, in life, unfortunate things do happen and we need people, quite literally, to help us back on to our feet.

Perhaps this comes primarily from outside the church, but too often there is a narrative that being a Christian is equal to living a perfectly performed life, and holiness is equal to flawlessness.  This is not the narrative of scripture.  The Bible highlights Jacob, Moses and David, as well as Peter and Paul, because, through their failings, God’s glory shines.  They all had at least one person in their lives who saw holiness not equal to ‘zero defects’, and the path to holiness not equal to a perfectionistic programme.  Clearly, failure was not their goal, and it should not be ours, but what if the Gospel presents falling as a necessary part – evidence, even – that someone might be sincerely aspiring to be a follower of Jesus?  And, if so, does our church have an ‘Allied Health Professional’ to help get people back on their feet?

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^[1] Joan Chittister, Seeing with our Souls: Monastic Wisdom for Everyday (London: Sheed & Ward, 2002)

^[2] John Wesley, ‘The Means of Grace’ in The Works of John Wesley, volume 1 ed. by Albert C. Outler (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1984)

^[3] John Wesley, ‘The Nature, Design, and the General Rules of the United Societies’, in in The Works of John Wesley, volume 9 ed. by Rupert E. Davies (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1989)

^[4] See Philippians 2.5-11 and Matthew 25.31-46.

^[5] See Leviticus 11.44-45.  See also Leviticus 19.2; 20.26; 21.8 and 1 Peter 1.15.   Methodists in Lent might even want to offer the invitation to ‘spread scriptural holiness’

^[6] See Mark 1.13.

^[7] Hebrews 4.15

^[8] Matthew 4.1-11

^[9] Luke 4.1-13

^[10] See Trustees for Methodist Church Purposes, The Methodist Worship Book (Peterborough: Methodist Publishing House, 1999), p.154.