Author: Theology Everywhere

by Brian Draper.

There are many reasons why Christians tend not to talk about their struggles. Here are two: First, suffering doesn’t always seem compatible with a positive faith that speaks of healing and seems to steer us toward the light.  And second, Christian people know there are plenty of others who are much worse off. ‘Everything’s relative. At least I’m not in Gaza / Ukraine / prison / hospital…’ So what right does anyone have to give voice to their own suffering?

The advent of Covid in early 2020 challenged that. It has been a time to taste both fragility and mortality, and a full recovery is still awaited. Meanwhile, of course, many of us struggle to speak about our ultimate mortality, even though it’s a universal experience and a fundamental part of our spiritual journey, irrespective of the promise of heaven we hold on to.

But what of the riches to be uncovered on this side of eternity, which come through struggles and equip us to share more deeply in each other’s journey? Brian, who’s lived for five years with long-Covid, shared some reflections in a 2021 ‘Thought for the Day’ (https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p09jftqc). It evoked a strong response and many wrote of how they felt they’d finally been heard.

While most folk know how they’d answer Jesus’ question to the man at the pool called Bethesda, are there not things to learn about what it means to be ‘me’ in weakness? Bishop John Taylor wrote that we might ‘cherish the weakness of limited means’ to explore what God’s promise of ‘strength made perfect in weakness’ could mean[1]. And the poet Kim Rosen’s question ‘What is it that shines through all this withering?[2]’ bears consideration.

How might Christians learn to love the un-loved days? This has less to do with finding a ‘happy-ever-after’ ending, and more about learning to meet each moment with a measure of whole-hearted love. It involves a shift from being braced like steel against what life might throw at us, into the softening openness of embrace, welcoming, with love, the circumstances, people, the feelings which might otherwise be pushed away.

Owning personal suffering and struggles gives others permission to honour theirs, and to see what ‘shines through all this withering’. And while all suffering is relative, every part of our collective whole is to be honoured because of Jesus, who suffered with us, and for us all. If there was anyone in the world who could trump anyone’s suffering and say, “Tell me about it!” it’s Jesus. He suffered to the point of death, and yet says with deepest compassion, “Tell me about it.” And, in responding, people open a little more to the mystery and wonder of life in all its different shades, and to love a little more those unloved days.

Questions for reflection:

• What elements of your own journey, especially your own suffering, have you been tempted to downplay from a spiritual perspective? What wisdom have you learned from someone who was unafraid to face into their struggles with an open embrace of their circumstances?
• How has your own theological understanding of life shifted through the suffering of yourself or those you love?
• What might it really mean to ‘cherish the weakness of limited means’? If God’s strength is made perfect in weakness, how have you felt God’s strength flow through the cracks of your own life and out into the world around you? ‘What is it that shines through all this withering?’

This year’s SPECTRUM Conference, Wounded Wisdom was held at Highgate House in May and was attended by around 25 people. The subtitle was Discovering Healing and Hope – Words and Wisdom for these days, and the content addressed how our minds and bodies try to cope with the sense of woundedness and vulnerability which are a familiar result of wrestling with all that the news and daily life throw at us. The speakers were Jo Cox-Darling and Brian Draper, who also prepared papers for the Spectrum annual study guide, which we also share through on Theology Everywhere. This is part three of a series of six articles. Also see The art of vulnerability and This is my body.

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[1] Quoted in Jonny Baker and Cathy Ross’s book Imagining Mission With John Taylor (SCM Press, 2020).

[2] ‘The Grand Finale’ by Kim Rosen can be read or viewed at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e52RYaFN4sc

by Jo Cox-Darling.

Our bodies matter.  Our embodiedness and our woundedness. Where we carry our wounds in our bodies. How we display our scars, or not. And what this says about our humanity.

“If I showed you my scars, would that make me more human to you? If I paraded my degrees, would that make me more valuable to you? (…)  Does my body need a name for you to include it, learn from it, love it?” (Amy Kenny)[1]

In this post-covid world, we’ve become more aware of the impact of communal trauma on the body, and the on-going health implication of high cortisol hormones on the main organ systems. The Vagus nerve connects the base of the brain to the base of the spine, controls our body’s response to situations and releases adrenalin, cortisol, and dopamine into our system. It controls how we feel and, because it runs away from the brain rather than to it, it can determine what we do before we have time to think about why we are doing it.

The Vagus nerve regulates our heart-rate, skin and muscle sensations, respiratory rate, blood pressure and mood. When it over-reacts to stimuli, or encounters a traumatic incident – not least a global pandemic – it can go a bit wrong and lead to symptoms such as abdominal pain, dizziness, loss of appetite, chronic mood issues and sleep and breathing difficulties.

Psychologist Bessel Van Der Kolk is an expert in the science and psychology of the Vagus nerve, recognising that when people are in a traumatised state their body gets ‘stuck’ and they become incapable of giving or receiving love.  They become tetchy – displaying abusive patterns of behaviour – relationships get strained and everything just feels more difficult.

Such patterns of behaviour are prevalent within our church culture, as well as within our social systems. Van der Kolk says:

‘I wish I could separate trauma from politics, but as long as we continue to live in denial, and treat only trauma while ignoring its origins, we are bound to fail.  In today’s world, your postcode, even more than your genetic code determines whether you will lead a safe and healthy life.  (…) Poverty, unemployment, inferior schools, social isolation, substandard housing are all breeding grounds for trauma. Trauma breeds further trauma.  Hurt people hurt people.’ [2]

Despite being a breeding ground for triggers and traumas, the church is also one place where there is an opportunity to explore the spiritual and psychological practices which enable healing and wholehearted living. Practicing mindfulness, meditation or yoga can help to keep our Vagus nerve healthy by calming our nervous system. Singing may also stimulate the Vagus nerve as vibrations stimulate the parts of the in the back of the throat. Creativity and things that need the connection of body and brain – especially when our hands need to be connected to the outcome – forces the brain to make new synapse connections.

Breathe. Pray. Stretch. Sing. Learn. Laugh. These are all deeply embedded in spiritual formation and practice, as well as having parallels in Brene Brown’s work on courageous community.  The things that we need to get back on track are the things of rest and creativity. If hurt people hurt people, healed people can help people.

Questions for reflection:

• What does it look like for us to thrive – individually, as a society, and as a congregation?
• Where does our healing start from?
• What can you add into your routine that helps heal your parasympathetic nervous system?

This year’s SPECTRUM Conference, Wounded Wisdom was held at Highgate House in May and was attended by around 25 people. The subtitle was Discovering Healing and Hope – Words and Wisdom for these days, and the content addressed how our minds and bodies try to cope with the sense of woundedness and vulnerability which are a familiar result of wrestling with all that the news and daily life throw at us. The speakers were Jo Cox-Darling and Brian Draper, who also prepared papers for the Spectrum annual study guide, which we also share through on Theology Everywhere. This is part two of a series of six articles. Also see The art of vulnerability.

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[1] Amy Kenny, My Body Is Not a Prayer Request: Disability Justice in the Church

[2] Bessel Van Der Kolk, The body keeps the score p348

by Jo Cox-Darling.

This year’s SPECTRUM Conference, Wounded Wisdom was held at Highgate House in May and was attended by around 25 people. The subtitle was Discovering Healing and Hope – Words and Wisdom for these days, and the content addressed how our minds and bodies try to cope with the sense of woundedness and vulnerability which are a familiar result of wrestling with all that the news and daily life throw at us. The speakers were Jo Cox-Darling and Brian Draper, who also prepared papers for the Spectrum annual study guide, which we also share through on Theology Everywhere. This is part one of six forthcoming articles.

The art of vulnerability

by Jo Cox-Darling.

“Wounded Wisdom” carries connotations of Henry Nouwen’s famous work The Wounded Healer.  Nouwen, and the now controversial Jean Vanier, have been responsible for a fundamental shift in pastoral theology, emphasising the importance of leadership being vulnerable and located amongst those who are marginalised for being different – rather than being the best of the best.

When military hierarchy are asked what sort of person succeeds in becoming a Navy Seal, the response is that there are groups of people who regularly don’t!

• Star college athletes who’ve never faced anything tough
• Tough guys wanting to prove that they are tough
• Leaders who constantly delegate their work to others

The people who get into the Navy Seals are those who, when they are exhausted, still dig deep inside themselves and find enough energy to help others. Research discovered that it is service, not strength and intelligence, which makes the best of the best.

Might our discipleship journey be similar? As a Church we constantly tell ourselves that we’re tired, ageing, declining, and dying, but what if that is only part of the story? What if our story is one of servant-hearted, wounded, wisdom deep within the Kingdom of God?

Dare we dig deep, and from the place of our pain, vulnerability – perhaps even fear and shame – find something of Spirit which enables us to serve the other… whomever that might be.

As Henri Nouwen writes in ‘The Wounded Healer’: “Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish… Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.”

Elsewhere, Brene Brown, whose research has been grounded in places of genocide, division, racism, and abuse survival, argues that in order to be fully human, creative and courageous – people need to share their stories of vulnerability and shame.  She says,

‘shame happens between people and it heals people…shame loses power when its spoken…Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it… Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light… The willingness to tell our stories, feel the pain of others, and stay genuinely connected (…) is not something we can do half-heartedly.  To practice courage, compassion, and connection is to look at life and the people around us, and say I’m all in.’

To live in the power of wounded wisdom leads us to a place of vulnerability where we get to know some of our scars and traumas – not to poke or to fix – but to hold with tenderness, and the invitation to curating a shared space of wholeheartedness, together.  To provide to the world an antidote to disconnection and brokenness which leads us into a place of authenticity, intuition, creativity, play and rest.

Wounded wisdom is tender work, asking much of our selves and of each other.  It also asks much of the God we know, and risks losing sight of that altogether.  This journey can be experienced as much as God’s presence as it is in God’s absence. 

It is possible to be so wounded and broken that faith seems utterly pointless. But these moments of desolation and disillusion can also be the catalyst for a whole new discovery of God. Through the wounds, the breaks, the pain, God is present and can be discovered – and this wounded wisdom can mean that the world is never the same again.

Questions for reflection:

• What are your core values, and what is sacred for you?
• What woundedness are you bringing into the room?  Where do you find wisdom?  And how might they be interconnected?
• What does it mean for us to be ‘all in’ to our lives? 

by Leslie Newton.

Across many parts of the church today we find ourselves navigating a landscape marked by fatigue. Congregations feel stretched; buildings often carry a heavy weight of responsibility; ministers and lay leaders often speak of holding more than they can sustain. This leads to us too often coming to think of church as something we must hold together — something that depends on our effort, energy, and resilience.

Yet in scripture, the church is born not as an institution to be maintained but as a movement of grace, a people called and sent. In Acts, communities take shape in homes and marketplaces, in synagogues and by riversides, discovering again and again that the Spirit goes ahead of them. The church grows where grace is recognised and joined, not where it is anxiously preserved.

This invites us to rediscover the church as a living ecology — a landscape of worship, discipleship, hospitality, and mission.

Here the historic Methodist Circuit offers a distinctive and timely gift.

From its earliest days, Methodism saw that church takes many forms. People gathered wherever the gospel stirred life — in fields and foundries, kitchens and chapels, class meetings and preaching houses. What united them was not uniformity but a shared pattern of grace-shaped life: discipleship in community, mutual encouragement, a life steeped in the means of grace, and a commitment to mission. The Circuit emerged as the scale at which this diversity could be woven into one body — a community of communities held in connexion. It was a primary place of belonging, oversight, discernment, and shared identity. The Circuit was never simply administrative; it was the framework through which a movement could remain a movement.

To re-imagine this gift today, it helps to name three faces of church life:

1. People – the community of disciples gathered in Christ.
2. Structures – the patterns that hold and sustain our shared life.
3. Places – the physical spaces where ministry, hospitality, and presence take root.

Trouble arises when one of these dominates: when buildings set the agenda, when structures harden, or when community turns inward. But when people, structures, and places are held in a balanced, relational tension, the church becomes open, hopeful, and responsive to God’s leading.

This is precisely the scale at which the Circuit has unique capacity.

The Circuit is not simply a layer of governance. At its best, it is — or could be — the ecclesial space where different expressions of church are discerned, nurtured, encouraged, and generously held together. It invites us to attend to the wider whole rather than only to the needs of any one congregation. It prompts questions such as:

• Where is grace already emerging, and how do we bless it?

• Which buildings might be re-imagined for hospitality, community presence, prayer, or justice?

• Where is pioneering possible, and who is be called to lead it?

• How might inherited and emerging expressions sustain rather than compete with one another?

In this sense, the Circuit becomes the curator of a blended ecology — a garden home to multiple forms of life. It creates ‘spaces for grace’ where stability and risk, familiarity and experimentation, tradition and discovery, are held together. It frees local churches from feeling they must be everything and instead supports them in being faithfully themselves within a shared landscape.

To see the Circuit this way is to reclaim its missional purpose. Not to abandon what is cherished, but to receive our heritage as a resource for what the Spirit is growing next.

The Circuit is a scale of church that has the potential to notice these threads and weave them. To rediscover the Circuit as a curator of grace is to remember that the church is a living tapestry — continually being re-stitched and woven by the Spirit.

by Catrin Harland-Davies.

“I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19)

These words, written around two and a half millennia ago to a nation in forced exile in a foreign land, have been echoing round my head over the last couple of months.

Perhaps this is because September and October are always a time of newness for me, and this year more than most. It is the start of the connexional year, bringing new colleagues and, on occasion, a new appointment for me. Much of my ministry has been in a Higher Education setting, as a university chaplain and now as a theological educator, and so the new academic year brings with it new faces. And this year, as well as the usual entirely new cohort of students, we have new colleagues making up half the Ministerial Formation team (both Anglican and Methodist) here at Queen’s – including a move into a new role for me.

Such a high proportion of new people within a team is a joy and a challenge. It challenges us to reexamine old habits and practices, and to confront new ideas. It invites us to answer difficult questions about why we do certain things in certain ways – and sometimes to realise that we don’t know the answer! And it forces us to recognise that we are all changed by changes around us. It should, of course, be the case that even one new member does all these things, but too often we can just expect one person to assimilate and accept the culture of the place as it is. But when as many in the team are new as are established, we don’t have that luxury. We have to face the challenge of becoming a new community. And this challenge is, if we allow it to be, a joy. It is an opportunity to let go of habits that have become a burden, and to embark on an adventure of discovery. And no – I didn’t say that was easy! But it can be joyous.

The words I quoted at the start of this article were written by the prophet known as ‘Second Isaiah’, and they are written to give comfort to a community living in captivity, a long way from home, deported there by a hostile, occupying power. They are words of comfort to forced migrants, whose homes and lives have been destroyed. And they continue to bring comfort to those facing difficult endings. They are cherished – and sometimes feared – by those facing the end of a relationship or a way of life, those losing their employment, those facing death, those forced from their homes. They are cherished for the possibility they bring of life, love and future. And they are feared for the fact that a ‘new thing’ involves the loss of the old.

That is, of course, a very different situation from Queen’s earlier in the summer. The change and newness of this September wasn’t a message of rebirth to a community suffering. But we had just gone through a season of goodbyes, which is often hard. So a season of welcomes and of new opportunities does bring a sense of refreshment.  We, too, mourning the fact that valued colleagues had moved on and that familiar ways had come to an end, can find joy and hope in the fact that God is in the new beginnings, the new ways, the new opportunities – even if it does also bring its challenges. When we want to hold onto what is past, God says to us, “I am about to do a new thing, and it may bring new hope, new life, new life.”

But some things feel desperately in need of change which doesn’t come. In our world, and sometimes in our own lives, we cry out for change. We see seemingly endless wars and conflict. We see no end to poverty and inequality. We see prejudice and injustice, which seems to increase rather than die away. And even when the news brings ceasefire, the release of captives, joyous reunions, the return from exile, it is hard to shake off the suspicion that it can’t last – that this is just the latest pause in the endless rounds of hostility. In our individual lives, we may feel the relentless path of poverty, pain, despair, loneliness, fear, and see no possibility of a better tomorrow.

Then, more than ever, God’s words need to be heard. “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” So often, the answer is, “No, God. No, I don’t perceive it. I can’t see it, I can’t hear it, and I can’t believe in it.” But that’s also, perhaps, partly why God created us in community. When I can see no hope or future in my life, when I can’t begin to perceive even the possibility of a new thing – that’s when my family, friends and community of faith can hold that light of hope for me. The famous tale of the footprints in the sand speak of seeing only one set of prints when times were tough, because that’s when Christ carried us. But maybe there are many sets of footprints in those times, for all those walking with us, and maybe helping Christ to carry us – or at least helping us to carry some of our burdens.

Wherever you are right now – whether you are embarking on exciting new beginnings, mourning the passing of the old, or longing for change that seems never to come – may God’s new thing in your life be a blessing, a challenge and a joy.

by George Bailey.

Last week I enjoyed a long two day walk on the ‘Camino Ingles’, a pilgrim route officially recognised as a section of the Camino de Santiago. It begins at Finchale Abbey, a few miles north of Durham, because that is where many early 12th century pilgrims from the area would go first, before embarking on their journey to Spain, in order to see the resident hermit, Godric. After his own wanderings across Europe, initially for money and adventure, and later, inspired by a visionary meeting with St Cuthbert, as a follower of Christ, Godric had discerned a new call instead to anchor himself in one place. Granted a plot of land by the monks in Durham he stayed for decades, dedicated to prayer and to be available for counselling seekers and pilgrims – Godric exemplified the life of a hermit, anchored to one site.

This contrasting conjunction of pilgrimage and anchoring, both in the life story of Godric, and in the experience of pilgrims, including now myself, opens insights into the way that these two vocations are both important in our conception of discipleship. This relates to two important aspects of the Christian conception of God. On the one hand, God is not confined by any limitation and God’s Spirit is active throughout and within all creation. On the other hand, God is uniquely located in Jesus Christ, divine and human together in one particular bodily individual. We might suppose that the experience of pilgrimage relates most closely to the everywhere-ness of God and that of anchoring relates to the particular located-ness of God. I think, though, it may be the other way round.

As Rodney Aist argues in his excellent theological analysis of pilgrimage, the practice is not about an aimless drifting through general ‘space’, but is instead defined by a spiritual desire to reach towards a particular ‘place’.[1] Pilgrimage affirms and connects people to the vital divine importance of the material reality of specific destinations. Though in Roman Catholic theology this has often been focused especially on objects, in the form of relics, the relevance of a particular destination and a chosen, often communally defined, route are also central characteristic features of the Protestant experience of pilgrimage. By leaving our usual place of residence and travelling through space towards a specific destination, we celebrate the way in which God is encountered in particular places, limited by physical boundaries, time bound and unique. The incarnation in Jesus Christ most supremely reveals this, and pilgrimage is an exploration of our desire to meet Christ in the real singular moments and places of our lives.

The vocation of a hermit, and even more so of a formally recognised anchorite, confined a human life to one location, but through this becomes a witness to the eternal immensity of God who is not confined and whose Spirit is active throughout all space and time. The decision to practice ministry and mission by staying in one place, to pray and talk only with people who choose to visit, is an act of faith in God whose work is not restricted by human material limitations. Another medieval anchorite, Julian of Norwich, is shown in prayer a round ball the size of a hazelnut, and God reveals there is contained in this all that is made. The intense focus on life in only the small place of one room proclaims faith in the immense God who is real everywhere: ‘It needeth us to have knowing of the littleness of creatures and to naughten [hold as nought] all thing that is made, for to love and have God that is unmade.’[2]

In scripture these twin themes are both affirmed – for example, in Genesis, Abraham is called to a life of pilgrimage, which heads eventually towards a particular place and vocation for the people of God; in the gospel of Luke, Zechariah is called to a life anchored in the temple, which is visited eventually by the Christ who is to be the light of God for all the world. In the missionary development of the Acts of the Apostles, we see both vocations working together, some who stay rooted with faith communities in each location and some who travel between them and then on to new places. We also need these complementary vocations in the Church. Some are called to stay and some are called to go; we need both anchors and pilgrims. In our own discipleship there may be different seasons for each vocation to be at the fore. Although pilgrimage is increasingly part of contemporary discipleship practice, perhaps recognition of some people’s vocation for anchoring a community, committing to a locality for the long term, needs to be celebrated afresh.

In Methodism it is too easy, and in my view, unhelpful, to too closely relate these twin vocations to the distinction between ordained ministry and everyone else’s ministry. For ordained Methodists, ‘itinerancy’ does not mean constantly relocating, but obedience to the Church’s discernment of how God is calling ministry to be shaped – which sometimes means a decision to stay. In my experience many others in church life are more mobile than the ordained, responding to professional and family vocations which require relocation to live elsewhere. Many indeed move between countries, following the call of God to a new life, or escaping crisis and seeking refuge. In these experiences, we long to see the work of God’s Spirit who is active with all people in all places, as well as the reality of Christ’s presence, uniquely revealed in Jesus, and so affirming each loving human encounter. This is central to what it means to be the Church – those who are rooted in local places, ready to welcome and offer hospitality, meeting those who travel and seek – anchors and pilgrims in solidarity.

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[1] Rodney Aist, Pilgrim Spirituality: Defining Pilgrimage Again for the First Time, (Cascade Books, 2022). chapter 13.

[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, translated by Elizabeth Spearing. Penguin: 1998. p.47.

by Angie Allport.

The UK Government is proposing the introduction of digital identity cards. Whilst the issue has sparked off yet another ‘for’ or ‘against’ debate, my thoughts have turned to the idea of identity, which, in itself, is a multi-layered, slippery concept. Who would people say you are? What defines you: gender, job, family, nationality, faith? Many use pseudo-identities for their online presence.  This can provide a level of protection through anonymity, but it also raises a question-mark about authentic identity. 

In the synoptic gospels, Jesus asks his disciples who people say he is (Matthew 16:15; Mark 8:27; Luke 9:18). According to the disciples, opinions are divided between him being John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah or one of the prophets. Jesus then asks for their personal opinions, as though copying what others think is insufficient. As is always the case, we do not know how Jesus asked these questions, what tone he used. Was it a casual enquiry or was there a hint of challenge in his voice?

Unsurprisingly, Peter is reportedly the one who jumps in first.  He proclaims Jesus to be the Messiah.  This connects with all the religious hopes and predictions of a great leader sent by God from the family of King David – the one who will set the people free. The moment when Peter is willing to take the risk of saying this, of expressing his relationship with Jesus in what at the time would have been controversial terms, is the moment when he demonstrates both his faith in Jesus and his willingness to be involved in Jesus’ mission. In Matthew’s account, Peter is then given a new identifier, he is to be ‘the rock’, the foundation of the Church.

Peter ‘the rock’ is still Simon, son of Jonah, a flesh-and-blood person living in relationship with others. He is not a simple, one-dimensional character with only one function in the Christian story. It was this ‘rock’ of the Church who was to go on and deny three times knowing Jesus before rediscovering his call to witness. When we become Christians, we are no longer atheists, agnostics, non-beliers (or whatever other identifier we might use), but we are still a flesh and blood person living in relationship with others. We can still mess up but know ourselves forgiven and valued by God. As Peter found, recognising Jesus transforms us and brings clarity to our identity and calling.

We live in a society which is suspicious of people speaking about their faith, but Christians are nonetheless called to witness in the world. Just as a member of parliament belongs to a particular party yet is required to work on behalf of all their constituents, whatever their politics, so Christians – informed by the Church that nurtures them – must speak of God’s love and care for all people and our planet. How do you talk about Jesus to people outside church? Given the secularisation of society, we can no longer assume religious knowledge or opinion, meaning that many people are actually very interested to know what and why Christians believe; it’s the Christians who are often too afraid to say anything. Indeed, do people know if you are a Christian?

Each person is called to a fresh assessment of Jesus, not to copy what others think. That is what makes faith real for them. Jesus calls us to recognise his true, God-filled identity, to emulate it and to share it. This is modelled in the account of Jesus and the woman at the well (John 4:1-42). She (Photina in some traditions) encountered Jesus, wondered if he was the Messiah and invited the people to come and see the man who had told her everything about herself. They came to believe not because they copied her, but because they had their own encounter with Jesus and were able to identify him as the Saviour of the world for themselves.

When you think about how Jesus shapes your life, can you condense those thoughts to just a few words should someone ask you who Jesus is? Meditate on those words or other words so that they become part of you, so that if and when the subject comes up in conversation, you can testify to your experience of Jesus and the difference he has made to your identity.

by Simon Edwards.

“Where shall we go on holiday this year?” In our family we start asking this question long before holidays are upon us. We want time to delve into all of the available places, to think about what activities we would like to do, and see where that leads us. The odd thing is that we almost always end up going somewhere that we have already been. Our children value the predictability that comes with knowing what the campsite looks like, which food vans will turn up on site each day and so on. There is great value for them in an ‘old’ place, one they know, one they can picture as they look forward to the holiday. Yet, each time we visit an ‘old’ place, we have a new experience. We may pitch the caravan in a different area of the site, and there are always new people camping nearby. We encounter a mix of the familiar and the new at the same time, and that seems to be what we need.

I sometimes wonder if we talk or think about newness too much in the life of faith and in the life of the church, or if we talk or think about newness in the wrong way. Does everything have to be new, without any link to what has come before to be missional? Is newness always about starting from nothing? New Places for New People is an important strand of God for All, and across the Connexion there are all kinds of initiatives that are growing and exciting. Sometimes, though, I hear people ask “what about old places?”, I worry that we can become so obsessed with creating something new that we fall into what Michael Jinkins calls ‘the hyperactivity of panic’ which he believes ‘manifests itself in clutching for any and every programmatic solution…in the desperate hope that survival is just another project or organisational chart away’ (1999, p.9). Do we cling to the hope that something new is what the world wants from the church? Is maintaining the old and familiar, or clutching for newness the easy option? Can newness be found in renewal that embraces both old and new?

A growing part of my work in circuit ministry is in the oversight of pioneering work. One such space, The Haven, is an ‘old’ place, a church building, rich with stories of faith grown and shared. The society ceased to meet a few years ago, and after hard work and prayer, The Haven came into being. Each Sunday morning there is still a broadly traditional act of worship with a small group of people. It is similar to the worship that has occurred every Sunday morning for more than a hundred years in that space. However, there are also less familiar moments of worship. For example, in the garden at the rear as a small group weed and plant, a ray of sunlight shines on the ground, and the conversation turns to the presence of God. Both old and new exist together in that space. The emerging community is embracing both the familiar and the new, learning to dwell in a known and familiar place, while encountering fresh experiences of faith and life each day in different ways. It is discovering the richness in tradition and innovation, old and new, and recognising how these diverse expressions of faith can support, challenge, and deepen one another.

In The Haven there is a mixed ecology of ‘old’ and ’new’ living alongside one another, not fighting for superiority, but offering different perspectives, creating a new experience as each learns to live together in a shared space. Mixed ecology is not just a way in which we can explain that different communities in different contexts can remain connected to each other, though that is true, it is more than just a way to explain that different communities engage in different activities or worship in different ways, though that that is also true. It is also the way in which God’s people live together in one space, sharing and growing in faith together. In his 2012 work, John Walker proposed that mixed ecology of fresh expressions and traditional church was only seen as an interim measure (2012, p.217) born out of necessity, and would fade away as ‘new’ communities grew in confidence. I believe that a mixed ecology is a fundamental part of the church, it is the way that the ‘old’ and the ‘new’ coexist, always bringing a new experience as life is lived.

The church must resist the temptation to chase the kind of newness that always means starting over, as a measure of missional success. While initiatives like New Places for New People are exciting and vital, we must also reimagine ‘old places’ where faith has long been nurtured. The church needs a mixed ecology, a space where ‘old’ and ‘new’ coexist, in mutual enrichment. The vitality of the church lies in the interplay between the old and the new, where both contribute to a living, growing, transformative, faith community, where all can find their voice and their home.

We will holiday in the caravan again this year, we will again travel to a familiar place and yet we will experience some newness. Perhaps that is a vision of a mixed ecology too?

Jinkins, M., 1999. The Church Faces Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Walker, J., 2012. Testing Fresh Expressions. Surrey: Ashgate Publishing.

by Philip Sudworth.

In the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York in 2001, Billy Graham took a very different approach from those television evangelists who declaimed that God was punishing the country. In a sermon delivered at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. he said: “I have been asked hundreds of times why God allows tragedy and suffering. I have to confess that I do not know the answer. I have to accept, by faith, that God is sovereign, and that He is a God of love and mercy and compassion in the midst of suffering.”  He added, “We’ve seen so much that brings tears to our eyes and makes us all feel a sense of anger. But God can be trusted, even when life seems at its darkest.”[1]

The main comfort for many Christians is that Jesus is alongside them in their suffering.  As Pope John Paul II put it: “The crucified Christ is proof of God’s solidarity with man in his suffering.”[2]   This message of consolation, solace and re-assurance is found in the Hebrew scriptures. When the Israelites were feeling desolate and abandoned in slavery and exile in Babylon, Isaiah brought them a message from God: “You are precious to Me. You are honoured, and I love you. Do not be afraid, for I am with you” (Isaiah 43:4-5).

Amidst the persecution of the early Christians, Paul could write “For I am convinced that there is nothing in death or life, in the realm of spirits or superhuman powers, in the world as it is or the world as it shall be, in the forces of the universe, in heights or depths – nothing in all creation that can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

The trusting acceptance of what happens to us as ‘God’s will’ may apply when we are the ones suffering, but is this acquiescence equally valid when suffering is being endured by others or when we see the evil in the world?  Should we not rage against it and take what action we can?  Perhaps we should stop blaming (or excusing) God for injustice and suffering in the world and look for the love in it which will enable us to do something about creating more fairness and removing some causes of suffering. 

A long-standing tradition in Christian philosophy is the unknowability of God.  As St Augustine of Hippo put it, “If you understood, it would not be God.”  You don’t talk to a four-year-old about nuclear physics and quantum uncertainty, and you don’t talk to people who think the earth is flat and at the centre of a 3-tier cosmos about a universe that’s 43 million light years across with 200 billion galaxies and still expanding.  So, you would expect God to reveal himself to us, and to other people, at different times and in different places, in terms and at a level that we can understand. As our knowledge, both individual and societal, develops, God’s self-revelation becomes an on-going process. Much remains, however, a mystery beyond our understanding, including the problem of suffering.

The 14^th century author of The Cloud of Unknowing wrote, “God can be loved but he cannot be thought. He can be grasped by love but never by concepts. So less thinking and more loving.”  This should be reflected in the way we talk to people about faith, and about evil and suffering.  We have to give people food for the soul, not just food for the mind. When the French mathematician, physicist, inventor, philosopher, writer and Roman Catholic theologian Blaise Pascal died, they found on a piece of paper sewn into the lining of his coat a message that he’d carried next to his heart: “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, not of philosophers and scholars. Certainty, certainty, heartfelt joy, peace.”

We are called to love God with all our hearts, with all our souls and with all our minds. We do need to use our God-given intelligence and to have our own rationale of faith, including how we respond to the problem of suffering. That has to be seen, however, within the context of the limits of human understanding. If we think we have all the answers, we have not yet found half the questions, and we are not showing enough awareness of the mystery of faith. 

This final article of a series on suffering – see also:

Suffering and Evil – Our Fault?

Suffering and Evil – For our benefit?

Suffering and Evil – A Different View of God?

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[1] Billy Graham (2001) – Sermon at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C  – September 14^th, 2001

[2] John Paul II (1994) – Crossing the Threshold of Hope. (Jonathan Cape.)

by Jennie Hurd.

As a probationer presbyter, the preacher at my Welcome Service in the old Nuneaton and Atherstone Circuit in September 1993 was the late (and, I’d say, great) Rev Donald Eadie, then Chair of the former Birmingham District. I remember very little about the service, though I haven’t forgotten that Donald preached on “Halfway Houses.” I have no idea what else he said or what was his meaning, but the phrase has stayed with me, and I’ve dug it out and pondered it from time to time. It resurfaced recently when I was reflecting on the image of a bridge as a metaphor for ministry and Christian service, whether lay or ordained.

Perhaps the concept of a Halfway House is not too dissimilar to the idea of a bridge. I feel I’m quite familiar with bridges as I grew up near the banks of the River Humber, very close to the north towers of the Humber Bridge. We watched the towers growing and the Bridge slowly coming to completion, and we were granted a day off school when the Queen came to open it. It joined a river between two counties, Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, that had been spoken of being bridged since the days of the Romans, according to my grandmother. It’s entirely possible than John Wesley himself might have wished there’d been a Humber Bridge in his day. It could have made some of his travelling easier!

There is an old Welsh saying, ‘A fo ben bid bont’: ‘The one who would lead must be a bridge.’ Bridges join and connect. They make possible meeting halfway, and enable communication and engagement. They allow for new encounters, explorations and experiences. They bring people together and enable the kind of relationship building that can lead to deeper, richer life for all parties. They can literally be life savers, allowing goods, medicines and skilled and able workers in and out of areas. Bridges can be fun (who hasn’t enjoyed a game of Pooh Sticks?) but they can be risky places as well, especially when particularly high and elevated. A bridge can be very vulnerable: they need constant inspection, maintenance and repair, and adverse conditions or human attack can cause damage or destruction. Day to day wear and tear has its impact, as a bridge is driven upon and walked over. There are many beautiful old bridges that were fit for purpose when first erected but which are challenged by the demands of 21^st century life. In the light of the old Welsh saying, the metaphor of a bridge throws light on the joys and privileges of servant leadership, but also the potential costs. 

This year marks the 700^th anniversary of the Nicene Creed. As I understand it, one of the purposes for the creed’s creation was as an anti-Arian move to affirm and establish the nature and truth of the incarnation within the church’s theology. The person of Jesus is both fully human and divine, the one who, “for us and our salvation, (he) came down from heaven, was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary and became truly human.”[1] While all our metaphorical language for the divine is inadequate, the image of Jesus’ person and ministry, his death and resurrection as a bridge, bringing to an end the gulf between earth and heaven, God and humanity, speaks to me very powerfully. The bridge belongs to both territories and to more than both territories, and while it may be a thing of beauty and worthy of praise and admiration, its primary purpose is to serve. Jesus as the bridge offers a pattern and inspiration to his followers: ‘A bo ben bid bont.’

Other metaphors relating to the incarnation present themselves. The late Rev Liz Smith, Chair of the former Leeds District and a Cornishwoman, sometimes spoke of the Cornish image for Jesus of a mermaid, as found in a carving in the 15^th century church of St Senara. It depicts one who inhabits two worlds, two environments, even two species, bridging and uniting them. It’s an image that may speak to some but not to others. Different concepts inevitably resonate with each of us differently, but I would want to suggest that if an idea seems to enrich and inspire our discipleship, it’s worth pondering and praying over, our incarnate God communicating through the things of this earth.

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[1] The Methodist Worship Book, MPH 1999, page 135