Author: Theology Everywhere

by Caroline Wickens.

What does justice look like through someone else’s eyes? That question engaged me when I worked as a mission partner in Zambia and Kenya, teaching alongside African theologians as they explored what justice meant for them. Over the years since, I’ve continued to benefit from listening in on conversations which begin from places outside my own experience. I hope these voices may help us in British Methodism to reflect on justice, injustice and walking with Micah.

Almost all African countries experienced colonial take-over by a European power. The mother of African women’s theologies, Ghanaian Mercy Amba Oduyoye, comments:

In practice, racism was central to the relationship between African and European. The chief reasons for this were ethnocentricity and greed.

The colonial past is still with contemporary Africa. Memories of violence are keen. Colonial languages continue to dominate. Western styles of clothing are popular, often via trade in second-hand clothes which threatens local enterprise. There is capacity for extracting raw materials but still very little to process it into manufactured goods, and in recent years the same economic approach has fuelled a complex relationship with China.

Independence brought celebration but also fresh injustice. A senior Kenyan theologian, JNK Mugambi, describes how the Cold War was fought by proxy in numerous African states. More recently, the Bretton-Woods institutions imposed ‘structural adjustment programmes’ on states with unmanageable levels of Western debt. The impact on basic health-care and education was appalling. Mugambi sees globalisation as the latest version of the West’s attempt to dominate Africa. Technological advances promote a Euro-American way of life and glorify white Western culture, sometimes described as Cocacolanisation.

And then HIV/AIDS struck. From Rwanda, Michel Kamanzi provides statistics from 2006: 24.5 million people living with HIV/AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa; some countries in south central Africa with prevalence above 20%; children infected or orphaned. ARVs have improved the situation, but HIV/AIDS continues to wound society. Despite this, African governments find themselves under pressure once again to pay debts to the West rather than spend on health and education.

Yet the conversations focus on hope, not despair. From the DRC, Ghislain Tshikendwa Matadi writes on Job in the time of HIV/AIDS. He discerns the possibility of justice even in a pandemic:

‘In the midst of absurd suffering, we are invited to maintain just and loving relationships with our fellow human beings and with God who identified with human weakness by adopting human form precisely in order to save the human race’.

From Benin, Valentin Dedji comments that African leaders’ first step is to collaborate to reconstruct African people’s broken human dignity. From Botswana, feminist theologian Musa Dube writes about mama Africa, a princess with a palace at Great Zimbabwe and a summer residence in the golden sands of Egypt, who finds herself sick and bleeding after the years of colonial imperialism. She turns to Dr.Neo-Colonialism and Dr.Global Village for help but finds none, then finds herself struck down by HIV/AIDS, burying her children. Her story ends like this:

When she called out, “Who is there? Who is there?”, she was told, “Jesus Christ, the healer of all diseases, is passing by.” She heard that Jesus is on his way to heal a little girl who is already dead, the daughter of Jairus.

Mama Africa is standing up. She is not talking. She is not asking. She is not offering any more money – for none is left. Mama Africa is coming behind Jesus. She is pushing through a strong human barricade of crowds. Weak and still bleeding but determined, she is stretching out her hands. If only she can touch the garments of Jesus Christ…

African theologians give voice to a passion to rebalance life away from deep injustice. The reflections above help in naming injustice:

• When economic or military power removes agency from indigenous leaders
• When human flourishing is restricted through lack of access to resources that are widely available elsewhere, ranging from COVID-19 vaccination to reliable food supplies and clean water
• When local or global cultural assumptions identify some ways of life as valuable and right, while disparaging others and despising those who live in those ways, whether or not by their own choice

Naming injustice in this way clarifies the challenge: what needs to change so that we can walk with Micah and do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with our God?

The Methodist Church is currently undertaking a two year exploration of what it means to be a justice-seeking church through the Walking with Micah project.  Theology Everywhere is working in partnership with the project to host a series of articles about justice. For more information visit www.methodist.org.uk/walking-with-micah/

by Angie Allport.

I have previously had a love-hate relationship with the Psalms; all those references to smiting enemies being at odds with my pacifist sensibilities.  Yet if, like me, your heart has been broken by the violence and tragedy we have seen over recent months, reading the psalmists’ complaints can give us the freedom to express ours.

All of life can be found in the Psalms.  Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann[1] breaks down the psalms into three categories: what he calls psalms of orientation when all feels right; psalms of disorientation lamenting before God hurt, injustice, alienation, suffering and death, and psalms of re-orientation when God delivers us from our disorientation.  Real life is about movement between orientation, disorientation and re-orientation.

Our western culture struggles to cope with grief and suffering, but they cannot be avoided.  They are part of the human experience, regardless of whether one is a Christian or not.  The psalms allow us to express negative emotion to God: honest feelings of grief, sadness, doubt, confusion, anger, frustration and questioning, but they also point to healing.  There is something cathartic in the way that we get a sense of healing just by being honest about our suffering, even if the situation does not change.  The lament psalms, before they ever sound a note of hope, spend a long time lamenting in pain, anger and tears.  This should teach us that even though we certainly do have great hope in Christ, we must not move to hope too quickly.  Whilst Christ does have the victory, we must not forget the necessity of lament if we are to avoid letting our anger, hurt or fear fester and paralyse us or, worse, undermine or destroy our faith.

I have recently returned from a Benedictine retreat at Worth Abbey.  Most of the daily offices are taken up with reciting the Psalms, such that they are all recited during the course of the week.  I found this emphasis on the psalms a little odd at first, until it was explained to me that it is seen as sharing in the words of Christ because Jesus would have recited the psalms.

Jesus’ cry of dereliction from the cross, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ (Mark 15:43; Matthew 27:46) is a quotation from Psalm 22:1.  There are seven reported sayings of Jesus from the cross, two more of which can be related directly to the Psalms.  When Jesus is reported as saying, ‘I thirst’ (John 19:28), he could be saying ‘my throat is parched’ from Psalm 69:3.  His ‘into your hands I commend my spirit’ (Luke 23:46) is to be found in Psalm 31:5.  It is feasible, therefore, that Jesus was using selected psalms to contend with God.  Rabbi Anson Laytner[2] includes Psalm 22 in his list of examples of laments and explains that they have a prayer-like quality in that they are uttered in the expectation that God will respond because God is a just and compassionate judge.  Whilst much has been made of Jesus’ sayings from the cross, I think that there is a credible case for arguing that he was doing no more than reciting the psalms as a devout Jew and that we only have snatches because of his state of delirium.

Most of the lament psalms follow a general pattern: they begin with a short cry for God to listen, they have an extended period of lament, they plead with God for deliverance and they often, though not always, end in praise.  In the psalms, there is something that Michael Card[3] calls the “Vav adversative”.  “Vav” functions almost as a “but”, but is better understood as an “and” “though” moment, or a point of turning and praising.  Whatever besets us, we must remember the “Vav”.  Through the Psalms, we can be honest with God about the pain of life because we know God loves us, welcomes hearing our struggles and cries, and will reach out to us in mercy.

Whilst some of the psalms are challenging, many of them are reassuring.  Psalm 62 is one of the reassuring ones.  Try and find time today to say Psalm 62 (or another Psalm) as a prayer.

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[1] Brueggemann, W. The Message of the Psalms. Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984.

[2] Laytner, A. Arguing with God: A Jewish Tradition. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Inc., 2004, p. 27

[3] Card, M. A Sacred Sorrow, Reaching Out to God in the Lost Language of Lament. Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2005.

by Tim Baker.

How present are you?
Right now. Are you fully present to this blog, or are you skimming it while trying to do something else?
Are you reading it whilst you really should put your phone / tablet / computer down and be present to something – or someone – else? Should you be listening to the conversation happening over there? Or noticing the flower poking through the pavement? Or spotting the goldfinch hopping along the fence? If so, feel free to put it away, right now…

We live in a world littered with distractions. It is difficult to be present, to be alert to the people around us, the people we are connected to all over the world, the natural world, to the Spirit of God, flowing through all things. When our phones are designed to draw our attention elsewhere, when our TVs, billboards, radios and podcasts are always filling our ears and eyes with content, when there is always another email to read, and the inbox is piling up behind you: how do you stay connected, stay present?

It might be difficult, but my sense is that presence is at the beating heart of the gospel. Jesus is so good at presence – at being aware of the people around him. We see that when he notices the woman touching his cloak in a crowd, how he always seems to know the question to ask, how he comforts the suffering and challenges the comfortable. Jesus is with people. It’s the great miracle we celebrate at Christmas, but it’s also the most exciting part of the Jesus story – that God is here, God is close, God is with us. And God invites us to ‘withness’. To practice what it means to be with people.

Withness isn’t a word and my phone – thinking it knows everything –tries to autocorrect it to ‘witness’, but that’s probably another blog… It’s not a word, but it is an important principle in Jesus’ ministry: Sam Wells uses Jesus’ words in the synagogue in Nazareth to demonstrate that Jesus is interested in being ‘with’ people.[1] With those in poverty, with those experiencing challenge and oppression and, ultimately, with us all.

At All We Can, where I work, we talk a lot about this gospel idea of ‘withness’. It is at the heart of the way we are seeking to tackle poverty in places like Zimbabwe, Malawi, Ethiopia, Uganda and Sierra Leone.[2] In these – and other countries – All We Can’s speciality is listening: listening to the stories and ideas of people who live in communities affected by poverty.  All We Can doesn’t provide miracle cures, or white-saviour ideas exported from the West, but works alongside local people and enables them to fulfil their potential, to become all that they can. That’s about staying with people, over the long-term (not simply running a ‘project’ for a year or three, but committing to partnership) and about working hard to overcome the power imbalances where those who have the money get to make the decisions.

To close, here is a poem about this idea of withness – which I hope you will see as an invitation to practice presence in your own life, and in how you play your part in addressing injustice, in Jesus name.

Withness is not a word, not really,
And yet it ever-so-nearly does sum up
The feeling
Of following Jesus,
The one who sees us, who frees us,
And who is right here with us.

O come, o come Immanuel, we sing
But the thing is, he’s already here,
O so near, whispering ‘do not fear’.

Sometimes, you just have to sit with the nearness,
Enjoying the nearness of feeling the love.
But it’s kind of perverse to just sit in neutral,
Or put yourself in reverse,
When others have got it much worse.

So, although withness is not a word, not properly,
It’s an invitation to do something about poverty
And injustice, to step up and step out,
Into a new way of being,
A new way of seeing,
Where we are kind of guaranteeing
That we want to get past all this colonialism,
All this structural racism,
All this charity tourism,
Where we have the answers and the big chequebooks.

Withness says no,
Go slow, but together,
Whether it’s hard or it’s easy,
Partnership is what matters.
So, when it seems like the world is in tatters,
And voices of division get louder and louder,
The borders and boundaries stand prouder and prouder,
When the narrative is turning even more hateful,
We’ll still be here, and we’ll still be grateful
That withness is a word,
Yes really: the kind of word that can – ideally –
Help us to see more clearly
That when we love each other sincerely,
Withness can change us,
And change ‘I’ and ‘them’ and ‘over there’
To us, and us, and here, right here.

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[1] Sam Wells, A Nazareth Manifesto: Being With God (Chichester: John Wiley and Sons, 2015)

[2] allwecan.org.uk/what-we-do

by Simon Sutcliffe.

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 writen by Prof Anthony Reddie and Rev’d Simon Sutcliffe on the theme ‘Being the Salt of the Earth (A look at some peace and justice issues)’. This is the first of six coming through the year…

Salt in the world, not of the world.

Matthew 5:13 -16 & Matthew 13 vs 33

Jesus says that salt that loses its saltiness is of no use and should be discarded, trampled underfoot. It is also true that salt is not much use in a bag of salt, and, for that matter, yeast does not do much in a batch of yeast and light is pretty useless in a lit room.

These metaphors of salt, light and yeast assume one thing – that they exist in a larger system, a greater community. This has some interesting consequences for the church when it begins to think about mission, and particularly about its ministry of justice. It begs the question – what is the telos, the end game, of mission? What are we aiming for? Do we want the whole world to be Christian? Or does salt, light and yeast suggest that Christianity should always exist in a larger world that is not Christian?

As for justice, does that mean there will always be injustice to be challenged? Is the hope of a utopian future that we might call the Kingdom impossible? Is that what Jesus meant when he said, ‘you will always have the poor among you’ (John 12 vs 8)?

These are difficult questions for us to ponder, but are worth reflecting on when the church, be it local or national, considers its motivation for mission and ministry. Why are we doing this? And, how will we know we have done it well? are important questions for any church leadership team with which to grapple.

But it also asks another question of us, it asks us to consider where we are located? Mission doesn’t happen everywhere it always happens somewhere. Christianity is not everywhere or nowhere it is always somewhere. Knowing that we are located somewhere might seem obvious, but it’s a helpful reminder to notice our positionality, the place(s) we find ourselves. Noticing the larger spaces where we can be salt, light and yeast draws our attention to the world beyond the church – and that is always a good thing!

Positionality, of course, isn’t just about geography. It is also the space you hold in the world due to all those things that make you, you. Paying attention to the power dynamics at play due to our colour, wealth, education etc. helps to ensure we are the right kind of salt, light and yeast in the world. This, again, is a tough line of questioning for the church that often wants to do, or at least be seen to do, but to do appropriately is a fine line the church can sometimes step over, often unwittingly.

There are a number of ways to help a congregation or fellowship group think about their locatedness and positionality. One way is to draw a map of your local community. It does not need to be accurate, it just needs to show where the church or group is in relation to other key aspects of the area. For instance, where are the local schools, shops, pubs, health services and how do they relate to you? Are you en route to any of them? Do you share similar people? Which of them are you in relationship with? Another way to see where, as a congregation or group, individuals might develop their vocation as salt, light and yeast is to do a diary check with everyone. Draw a grid with each day of the week in it and ask people where they are on different days of the week. Are they in work? At the school gate? At the post office? In the park? This can often affirm where people see their vocation outside of the church, or can open up possibilities for new ministries and vocation.

Questions:

1.  What do you think the telos of mission is?

2. How would you describe your positionality, where are you located and what makes you, you?

3. Where, in the life of the church, do you get to reflect on these questions corporately?

by Gill Dascombe.

As a local preacher, I was initially dismayed when the Methodist Conference of 2022 voted to revoke the Standing Order, in place since Methodist Union in 1932, that requires that candidates for the presbyteral ministry should first be fully accredited local preachers.¹

This seemed to me to represent the end, or the beginning of the end, of the symbiotic relationship between lay and ordained ministries, which is so characteristic of Methodism, by diminishing and dismissing the lay calling in favour of promoting and facilitating access to its more celebrated ordained counterpart.

Preaching is integral to Methodism, which actually began as a movement of lay preachers within the Church of England. John Wesley, though at first hesitant about their non-ordained status, nevertheless eventually admitted that ‘I do tolerate lay preaching, because I conceive that there is an absolute necessity for it; inasmuch as, were it not, thousands of souls would perish everlastingly.’ ²

From the earliest days Mr Wesley’s preachers fell into two related categories: ‘exhorters’, who preached in their own locality, supporting themselves by their daily occupation, and itinerant preachers, who were identified from amongst the body of exhorters, and employed and paid by Wesley.³ Over the course of time itinerant preachers became presbyters and exhorters became local preachers.

The 2022 decision will no doubt have a long-term effect on the nature of ordained ministry in Methodism, but what will be the effect on the ministry of local preachers? On reflection, I came to the realisation that it could in fact be a new and potentially exciting opportunity; local preaching, freed from being but a steppingstone to greater things, could now develop and grow as a vocation in its own right.

It was a couple of phrases in the Conference report which sparked off this train of thought: ‘…the preaching of a presbyter is not the same as that of a local preacher. The presbyter …..preaches from a different place.’’⁴

The corollary of this, of course, is that the preaching of a local preacher is not the same as that of a presbyter, and that it too comes from its own distinctive place.

I was recently at a training event for new circuit stewards. In our buzz groups we were invited to discuss with each other what it was that we most valued about being Methodists. My group was in unison: it was local preachers, for the breadth, accessibility and variety of their preaching, and the way they weave together circuit relationships via their appointments on the plan.

Local preachers occupy a large proportion Methodist pulpits every Sunday.⁵ Thus they represent the public face of the church to many congregations. Unlike their ordained colleagues, they are not ’set apart’, and stationed to a circuit appointment, but ‘set within’ their home faith communities, serving sometimes for several decades in the same circuit. This can and does result in the establishing and maintaining of long-lasting relationships between preachers and the people they serve.

Like the worshippers sitting before them local preachers are, and have always been, a very diverse body, drawn from a wide range of educational, occupational and social backgrounds; the first women were admitted as preachers as early as the 1780’s,⁶ and there is no official retirement age! Their preaching establishes the link between theology and everyday life by testifying to the gospel as it is experienced in the factory, kitchen, laboratory, supermarket, university, nursery, boardroom and bus stop (and so on), and bears witness to the important fact that the Kingdom of God extends far beyond the confines of the institutional Church.

These things form the ‘place’⁴ from which the ministry of local preaching comes. The pastoral and missional possibilities are many and obvious…..

John Wesley conceded that lay preachers were essential to the spiritual wellbeing of the people of his time and place. Let us do the same for ours.

1. Methodist Conference Agenda 2022, p178
2. The Letters of John Wesley, Epworth Press 1931, p186
3. Batty, M., in Workaday Preachers: the Story of Methodist Local Preaching, Methodist Publishing House, 1995, p14
4. Methodist Conference Agenda 2022, p178
5. Ministry in the Methodist Church, Methodist Conference 2020, Report 33, 7.3.1
6. Graham, E., in Workaday Preachers: the Story of Methodist Local Preaching, Methodist Publishing House, 1995, p165

by Jennie Hurd.

Like far too many people, I had Covid in April. Having tested negative on the Saturday, I was positive by Palm Sunday evening and not feeling good. It took another nineteen days to test negative again. For the first time since going On Note as a Local Preacher in 1984, I had to tell a congregation that I was not well enough to take their service the next Sunday – Easter Day! If I’d had enough energy, I’d have felt guilty, but I hadn’t, so I didn’t.

A fortnight later, once my voluntary self-isolation had ended, I was driven to Synod to chair it, and to church on the Sunday to lead worship. Both days I returned immediately to bed. I know I wasn’t nearly as poorly as many, but I felt rough, and I’m still not quite right. As I flopped about, I remembered something my mother used to say, an old nurse who trained in the very early years of the NHS, finishing to bring up her children just as disposables were coming in (she says): “The body wants to heal itself.” Obviously, the body can’t always heal itself in the sense of full restoration, however much help it is given, but I can see the sense: the human body, made in the image of God, whose will is health and wholeness, always wants to heal itself, even to what some refer to as the ultimate healing of death. With no medication to take but paracetamol, I reckoned it was only the wisdom of these words, coupled with rest and time, that was going to get me back up to full speed after Covid.

Since then, I’ve revisited a book called God’s Hotel: A Doctor, a Hospital and a Pilgrimage to the Heart of Medicine by Dr Victoria Sweet[i].  It’s the remarkable story of Laguna Honda Hospital in San Francisco, the last of America’s almshouses, modelled on the medieval monastic ‘Hôtel-Dieux’. In the narrative, the patients include those that no other ‘health care facility’ in the city will admit – people with long-term conditions and terminal illnesses, difficult or challenging patients, people with addictions, very poor people and patients with no one else to care for them. Inspired by the work of Hildegard of Bingen, the twelfth century German abbess, mystic, musician, theologian and healer, Victoria Sweet used some of her time working at the hospital to develop a project termed “ecomedicine”. Drawing on the understanding that the body is more like a garden than a machine in terms of its needs for its flourishing, Sweet writes about seeking to demonstrate her hypothesis of “Slow Medicine”, positing that time, minimal medication, care and “the little things” provide as effective a result as modern, scientific healthcare in such cases, while being more economical and “satisfying” for all involved[ii]. More recently, sitting in the waiting room at a local surgery, I noticed two quotations on display. The first, attributed to the American actress Mariska Hargitay, declares, “Healing takes time and asking for help is a courageous step.” The second quotes Hippocrates: “Healing is a matter of time but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.” I was struck by the resonances from two such contrasting sources.

I find myself, then, trying to reach towards a theological understanding of all this, rooted in my own experience of Covid and ongoing recovery, the medieval theories of Hildegard of Bingen, the more recent experience of Victoria Sweet and the ancient wisdom of Hippocrates. I think it speaks of rest, working in harmony with nature and, above all, with God’s time, not ours. That is challenging, given that time for many people today is a luxury: how can you take time off to recover if you are trying to hold down two or more part-time jobs and feed a growing family? I wonder also about the possible relevance of this for Christ’s body, the church, hard-hit by Covid (as is the whole of society) and seeking to recover. Should we be resting, taking time, allowing God’s healing power to work in us? If so, how? We’re familiar with timetabled periods of rest in the practice of our faith – Sabbath, sabbatical, Jubilee, even – but what about the unstructured, sudden need for rest that can come upon us without notice? How should we respond? I sense the Methodist Covenant Prayer may have some relevance here, and invite comments, contradictions, criticisms and conversation!

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[i] Riverhead Books, NY: 2012

[ii] Page 351

by George Bailey.

‘The Methodist Church affirms both understandings and makes provision in its Standing Orders for them.’

The Constitutional Practice and Discipline of the Methodist Church, Standing Order 011A (1)

As a Methodist presbyteral minister, I have been both excited and challenged by this addition to Methodist Standing Orders in 2021. I do not want here to invite debate on the questions of marriage, human relationships and sexuality. I am not saying that talking about the main issues should not continue – indeed I am arguing precisely the opposite – but I have been reflecting on what it might mean for the Church to ‘affirm both understandings.’

I am in relationship with local churches that have differing attitudes to marriage and are in differing states with regard to decisions they have taken or will take – some registering to hold same sex marriages, and some not. The conversation in these congregations varies due to local context, theological convictions, cultural traditions, ecumenical relationships, and many other factors. It is also true, of course, that this diversity between and within congregations is apparent on many other aspects of Christian faith and practice. On this particular issue, we have stated an affirmation of two understandings (though in reality I perceive that there are at least several varied understandings), and I hope that our subsequent exploration of what that means might help us to better have integrity with regards to many other diverse attitudes.

For some years I have been influenced by two models for how scripture, doctrine and practice interact – the cultural-linguistic model of George Lindbeck[i] and the canonical-linguistic model of Kevin Vanhoozer.[ii] Vanhoozer critiques Lindbeck’s post-liberal model from a more evangelical perspective, but does acknowledge his indebtedness to Lindbeck’s core idea: the church embodies theology by learning a language and practices which are developed in response to the narrative of scripture, and church doctrines act as grammatical rules to structure this. Put simply, and somewhat hyperbolically, for Lindbeck the church is the culture which is the primary interpretative context for scripture, whereas, for Vanhoozer it is scripture which is the primary interpretative context for the performative theology of the church. However, Vanhoozer notes that Lindbeck actually ‘vacillates’ on this issue, and later in his career adopted a more open attitude to the sense of the text having priority over the interpreting community.[iii] Although it might be tempting to see these two sides of the debate as related to the two understandings affirmed by the Methodist Church, I hope that, what we could more helpfully strive for would be to keep them in tension (a healthy vacillation? or, better, a reciprocity?) and to explore a multiplicity of shapes for discipleship and congregational life.

Vanhoozer’s performance metaphor does recognise denominational diversity and invites extension to include diversity within a denomination. This is only a very brief sketch of the metaphor from his summary chapter, and I realise that our conceptions of possible range of diversity within the Christian Church may differ, but I still think the idea is helpful. He proposes different levels of performance in theatres of Christian theology. ‘While the Holy Spirit is the primary director who oversees the global production, it is the ‘pastor’ who bears the primary responsibility for overseeing local performances.’[iv] The pastor is supported by ‘creedal theology’ (i.e. based on the recognized early creeds, primarily the Nicene Creed) which acts like ‘masterpiece theatre’ – it seems he has in mind the idea of acclaimed directors and actors interpreting the script in different contexts across time – ‘to direct the local church into the way of the Scriptures and to relate the local church to previous great performances.’[v] Confessional theology is conceived as ‘regional theatre’, and several varieties may exist side by side. This may be seen as a divisive hindrance, but Vanhoozer insists that it helps ‘by mediating between the universal (catholic) and particular (local):[vi] ‘The confessional traditions are performance traditions, bearers of theo-dramatical rationality that combine elements of stabilization with elements of innovation.’[vii] This ‘unity-in-diversity’ is a strength ‘not only because it is the condition of theology’s being able to address different kinds of situations but also because it is the enabling condition of creative theological understanding.’[viii]

Are pastors (including in this term ministers and preachers) being called to ‘direct’ and support several congregations with distinctively different interpretations of the same script, and which relate in different ways to their contexts? Within the world of theatre this could be an exciting project with the potential to enhance everyone’s understanding of the one script as well as the varied contexts in which it is interpreted. So, might it be like that in the church? There is an even further level of unity-in-diversity to be added, which is within each congregation. Vanhoozer’s metaphor is based on an idealised single congregation with one pastor. Diverse congregations with diverse congregational characteristics, but served by the same minister, is a more realistic model in the British Methodist context. Rather than diversity leading to division, can we strive for unity-in-diversity, with mutual critical appreciation of, and mutual learning from, our multiple performances of the gospel?

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[i] George Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1984.

[ii] Kevin J. Vanhoozer, The Drama of Doctrine: A Canonical-Linguistic Approach to Christian Theology, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005.

[iii] Vanhoozer, p.166

[iv] ibid., p.449

[v] ibid., p.451

[vi] ibid., p.452

[vii] ibid., p.453

[viii] ibid.

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[i] George Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1984.

[ii] Kevin J. Vanhoozer, The Drama of Doctrine: A Canonical-Linguistic Approach to Christian Theology, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005.

[iii] Vanhoozer, p.166

[iv] ibid., p.449

[v] ibid., p.451

[vi] ibid., p.452

[vii] ibid., p.453

[viii] ibid.

by James Blackhall.

One of the sessions we lead at the St Philip’s Centre for Methodist Churches is ‘Hospitality, Service and Proclamation’. The title is taken from Revd Dr Tom Wilson’s book of the same name.[i] This session raises interesting questions about what we do when we do interfaith work that also has wider application for everything else we do as Christians. One question I particularly enjoy exploring as I lead this session is around when proclamation is appropriate. This to me is not just a question of good interfaith relations, although in the context in which I work that is the primary discussion, but it is also a discussion about the core of the Christian faith. We are called to make disciples and to spread the message- yet there are times when direct proclamation is not appropriate. One of the questions that often comes up as people think about this is about the ethical implications of proclamation in settings of providing service such as “is it appropriate to share our faith when running a foodbank?”

The Methodist Church is committed to being a ‘a growing, evangelistic, justice-seeking, inclusive Church of gospel people who speak of, listen for, and live out the goodness of God so that more people become disciples of Jesus Christ, and already committed Methodists experience a deepening of their faith’[ii]. This gives a broad definition of evangelism that includes social action, hearing others as well as directly proclaiming the faith. Yet, without proclaiming the faith we could end up answering Paul’s questions,  ‘how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him?’ (Romans 10:14)… with a blank look.

Whatever our view of interfaith relations and whether we should call people to believe in Jesus or celebrate their own faith we can all agree that ‘Christianity is a faith that has a message of good news to share, which includes speaking out the good news of Jesus Christ, sharing what he has done in our lives’[iii] This is something I am passionate about- this is why I am a Local Preacher. I believe that ‘The Lord has done great things for us,  and we rejoiced’ (Psalm 126:3) and I want to share that with others. Yet, when I’m in an interfaith setting learning about others’ faith, and celebrating what can be seen of God in their lives, it can be very inappropriate to proclaim a message in any great detail.

I do believe that we are constantly proclaiming when we speak of our faith. When I join dialogues with people of other faiths, just as they proclaim what is good from their faith, so too I naturally proclaim my faith that Jesus is Lord. I also naturally proclaim what my faith means to me and why being a Christian is such an important part of my life- just as their faith is an important part of theirs. Yet true Christian proclamation should never come from a place of ‘superiority’[iv] as it is important that there is mutual respect and sharing which is foundational to being able to share faith together. For the Christian this proclamation will always point to Jesus.[v]

I often ask groups if proclamation in an interfaith setting is acceptable and many will often say no. This is because of a wish to avoid offence, wanting to show respect and a reluctance. When I discuss what proclamation is to me, and how we can share our faith in a way that is mutual, then some groups review their response and agree that we do often proclaim even if we would not consider ourselves evangelising. Perhaps that is why Nkuna concludes that ‘evangelism and interfaith dialogue are distinct but interrelated as authentic evangelism takes place within the context of the dialogue of life’[vi]. This evangelism is recognised to include words and proclamation.

I wonder whether as Methodists we are good at hospitality and service but perhaps not always as good at confidently proclaiming our faith? As our God for All strategy takes its place it is hoped that we will become more confident at sharing our faith and what that means for us- whatever our theological positions. Sometimes we will need to think seriously about the appropriateness – interfaith dialogue has taught me to think about when it is right to make certain truth claims and when it is right to listen; thinking about foodbanks has helped me to think through when it is right to serve and when is it right to speak. Thinking about hospitality, and especially being a guest, has made me think about when is it rude and counterproductive to proclaim. Yet, we do ‘have a gospel to proclaim’ as the hymn said and I hope that all Christians will feel confident enough in their identity to be able to share it.

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[i] Wilson, T., 2019. Hospitality, Service, Proclamation. Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd.

[ii] The God for All Strategy found at https://www.methodist.org.uk/media/19181/conf-2020-4-evangelism-and-growth.pdf

[iii] Wilson, T., 2019. Hospitality, Service, Proclamation. Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd. Pg 2

[iv] Nkuna, V G. ” Convergence of Evangelism and Interfaith Dialogue:A Missional Refection.” E-Journal of Religious and Theological Studies (ERATS) 7, 10 October 2010: pp178-179, available at https://www.academia.edu/67664475/Convergence_of_Evangelism_and_Interfaith_Dialogue_A_Missional_Reflection, pg182

[v] Ibid pg182

[vi] Ibid pg 187

by Graham Edwards.

About ten years ago, I led an assembly in a Primary school; the theme I was given for this assembly was “rules”.  After I had done my bit, the Headteacher stood at the front of the hall and said, “remember, rules hold our community together”.  There are, of course, rules in the life of the church – rules that govern all Methodist churches, and rules that are particular to local churches.  In my experience, those local rules can range (at least pre-covid) from how the offering is taken (am I supposed to hold the big plate to collect the bags?), to who bakes the Victoria Sponge or the Scones for a church event, to how we express the Good News of God where we are placed.

The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu talks about these kinds of rules, which he calls Habitus (1977, p. 95).  Habitus is a social process in which groups of people construct a set of ‘rules’ which govern their practice.  These ‘rules’ become internalised enabling members of a cultural group or community to know how to act within that context.  Habitus is produced by experience, which Bourdieu suggests gives a ‘feel for the game’, that is the life of the community, and gives – a meaning and a raison d’etre, but also a direction: an orientation which enables an individual to know how to act within their community (1990, p. 66).  Bourdieu understands Habitus as an unconscious second nature or “enacted belief” (1990, p. 66), where the unconscious habitus becomes the way the community is structured and shaped.  When an individual enters a particular social field, for instance, the scientific, political, artistic, or religious fields, says Bourdieu, they must learn the appropriate habitus (1991, p. 176).  This helps members of such groups to know which practices are correct and which are not, the habitus in a community becomes an “embodied history” (Bourdieu, 1990, p. 57). 

Habitus as described by Bourdieu is not without criticism, some suggest it is too restrictive and does not allow for the possibility of growth, or that it creates endless structures which create the same kinds of community (Alexander, 1995; Jenkins, 1982).  In my experience, however, Habitus can allow for creativity and change.  A few years ago, I did some research which asked people to reflect on their church life.  Lots of memories were shared about change.  In one church, members talked about candles; Rebecca remembered, “we wanted to use candles…and Mr. James [the Steward] went absolutely ballistic…we weren’t having candles in our church…he was absolutely beside himself, and there was no way would we have dared to light a candle after that”, but, since then, candles have become important in their worship.  Another member talked about bringing her son to church, “he would be about eighteen months [old], and he used to go in the back pew…I used to bring his slippers, and a book, and we used to sit there at the back…[we] used to get all these tuts and people looking”.  This memory led Irene to explain how much that experience made her enjoy the noise and busyness of children in her church now.  In both memories, something had happened; something had changed.  The Habitus had not kept things precisely as they had always been, rather the lived experience of community had shaped the Habitus.

The shared, lived experience of a church community is a powerful thing; it can encourage us, challenge us, rebuke us, liberate us, and everything in between.  A church can be transformed by that shared experience, as it is enriched by all that various members of the church community bring, by the world outside the church, of course by study and prayer – and more.  Habitus helps us hold on to the crucial things in the life of our community and explore new ways of living them in the world; a church grows and changes with its members.  The question is, I think, for the church to ask, both nationally and locally, how do we work with all the lived experience and wisdom we have, to allow our shared life to shape and reshape the church, as we seek more and more to be a growing, evangelistic, inclusive, justice-seeking Church?^[1]  Our Habitus – our rules, help us not to throw everything away and start again, but to hold on to the core of who we are, as our shared life shapes us.

Alexander, J. C. (1995). Fin de Siecle Social Theory: Relativism, Reduction, and the Problem of Reason. Verso.

Bourdieu, P. (1977). Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge University Press.

Bourdieu, P. (1990). The Logic of Practice. Polity Press.

Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and Symbolic Power (G. Raymond & M. Adamson, Trans.). Polity Press. Jenkins, R. (1982). Pierre Bourdieu and the Reproduction of Determinism Sociology, 16(2), 270 – 281.

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^[1] https://www.methodist.org.uk/our-work/our-work-in-britain/evangelism-growth/

by Karen Turner.

You may have seen in the news last week the sobering results of a study showing that almost a quarter of University students feel lonely most or all of the time.    Of course, isolation can affect all age groups and demographics but it seems particularly acute among young adults at the moment, and this is despite there being hundreds of shared-interest groups and societies on most campuses, as well as countless on-line opportunities to connect.  What are people looking for?

Today, out of the blue, a student asked me what it felt like to be part of a Christian community.  She said, ‘I assume that you all feel an individual connection to God and that you all have that in common with one another and that must be quite nice.’ 

I replied that it was, but that it wasn’t the whole of the experience.  What I tried to explain was that when when church is at its best there is a sense of being part of a ‘found family’ more than a group of people with something in common.  In that context of difference there is a sense of something more bubbling up amongst us that is hard to explain:  creativity, deeper understanding, profound love, prayer.  A sense of God with us.

In A Nazareth Manifesto^[i], Sam Wells explores in depth the idea of God with us, and how we are called to be ‘with’ one another.  We can so easily get caught in a pattern of doing things for other people that we forget that being with them is really what love is about, as the ministry of Jesus shows us in encounter after encounter.  

As part of his exploration, Sam Wells puts forward a minority reading of the story of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10.  One way of understanding Jesus’ story is to see it directed at Israel.   It is Israel who has been robbed, beaten and is lying in a desperate state in the gutter.  Who will help it?  Will the priests and the teachers of the law?  It is Jesus, as the despised Samaritan in the story, who offers practical assistance, healing and hope and takes Israel into the city, at considerable risk to himself, promising to return at a later time.

The way that we normally read this story and teach it to our children is about being a good neighbour and being kind to strangers, putting our faith into action, unlike the priest and the Levite. It is this reading that gives me a nudge every time I walk past someone begging, and plagues me the times I see myself ‘just walking by’.

Before coming across this reading, I don’t think I’d ever considered putting myself in the story as the person desperate and vulnerable, lying on the side of the road.  That changes things  considerably.  Although in global terms, we may be rich, we are also needy; longing for relationship, forgiveness, reconciliation, life.

“…we would be happy to accept these things from the priest or the Levite…  They have security.  They have social esteem.  They have resources.  But the story is telling us those people cannot help us. They cannot give us what we so desperately need.” ^[ii]

The person walking down the road to help us is the last person we would expect; and not someone we would ever have anything to do with.  The answer to the  question of ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ is not a moralistic story about avoiding hypocrisy, but instead a recognition that we are desperate.

“Open your eyes to the form Jesus takes in coming to save you. Swallow your pride and accept that your salvation comes from the ones you have despised.  And let your heart be converted and your life be newly shaped to receiving the grace that can only come from them.” ^[iii]

If what people are most looking for is the knowledge that they are not alone, it is in God’s ‘found family’ of real relationships, shared meals and honest conversation that they might have the courage to reach out and  take Jesus’ hand.  This isn’t a community that has chosen one another.  It isn’t a a shared-interest society (or assumed-ideology) group. It’s just people who know they’re desperate enough to be ‘with’ one another, believing that God is with them too.

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^[i] Samuel Wells  A Nazareth Manifesto (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, 2015). See a previous Theology Everywhere article also including comment on Wells’ interpretaion of the parable – Who is the Good Samritan?

^[ii] p. 93

^[iii] p.97