Author: Theology Everywhere

by Sandra Brower.

I’ve just returned from a week teaching at Wesley State University in Ondo, Nigeria – about a five-hour drive northeast of Lagos. It was a fresh reminder that theology is, indeed, everywhere. I always jump at the chance to leave my desk, and its associated duties, in order to visit and engage with sisters and brothers in Christ around the world. It’s so good to hear stories which are so different from mine, yet aligned to the story that we share. As soon as we arrived on campus, we were greeted by many different individuals, who had come from various districts to participate in their first week of a Doctor of Ministry programme. One minister shared his desire that we would take away the good and positive stories about his country, as a foil to the negative press we were likely to get on our newsfeeds.

Storytelling is at the forefront of my mind. Back home now, I’ve been madly trying to meet a deadline for the Postgraduate Certificate of Higher Education programme I’m enrolled on this year. My allocated small group has to submit material this week on the topic of ‘storytelling as a learning tool’. It’s been fascinating to look at storytelling as a learning theory; much research supports the claim that ‘whatever we learn, we’re learning it through someone else’s story and through their eyes’ (Ashton & Stone, 2018, p. 147). My week in Nigeria was no exception.

I was invited to deliver lectures on liturgical worship. The Church has long proclaimed the motto lex orandi, lex credendi: as we pray, so we believe. In other words our liturgy leads to and informs our theology. During our week together, the students and I considered the proposition that in corporate worship, we gather together as a community of faith to be guided by the God who seeks after us.  The scattered community brings its various stories that have developed in the time apart, gathering once again to have these stories shaped by and oriented to God’s story. At the end of my teaching week, I asked each student to answer the question, ‘what was the most significant learning point this week?’ A common response was the concept that Christian worship starts and ends in community. It doesn’t start with each of us, individually, or even corporately; it starts with the Triune God, a community in his very being, who calls us to worship, gathering us to himself. By his Son and his Spirit, the Father draws us in to participate in the life of God.

One of the PowerPoint slides for my PGCHE group’s presentation on storytelling defines storytelling as ‘a learning tool to make sense of experience’ and a ‘way of knowing that is socially constructed.’ I can’t help but think how this relates to theology and corporate worship. Stated as simply as possible, theology is ‘God-talk’ – talking about God. It is the conviction of many that we can’t engage in this task in any meaningful way unless the God of whom we speak reveals himself to us. If he doesn’t, how on earth can we know what to say? But where is God revealed to us?

When I lecture on worship, I often come back to David Peterson’s (1992, p. 20) definition of worship as ‘an engagement with [God], on the terms that he proposes, and in a way that he alone makes possible.’ In worship, we don’t simply gather to talk about God, we meet with him. The Latin motto begins to make sense. Worship is the fount of theology, because it is where we meet with God, and come to know him. And in coming to know God, we come to know and understand ourselves. It is in this engagement, then, that our stories become meaningful and we are, indeed, able to make sense of our experience.

I find it frustrating when worship leaders assume that we call ourselves to corporate worship (the latest fashion being ‘countdowns’ to worship). It turns the framework of Christian worship on its head – we gather ourselves to call on God, often expressed in an initial time of songs of praise and adoration. Certainly corporate worship must incorporate our adoration and praise, but these must always be understood in the context of response. Worship leaders (and planners) are instrumental in determining whether or not our worship, from the outset, expresses a gospel of grace. If whatever we learn is indeed through someone else’s story and through their eyes, let it be God’s story and through God’s eyes. Then, and only then, will we have eyes to see and ears to hear the good and positive stories my Nigerian brother challenged us to bear witness to.

Peterson, David (1992), Engaging With God: A Biblical Theology of Worship (Downers Grove:  Inter Varsity Press)

by Graham Edwards.

When I was a child in a church service, I remember one preacher holding up two pictures for us to look at, a picture of the building we were in and a picture of a group of people. “Now,” he said, “which one of these is the church?” after a bit of back and forth we decided that the picture of the people was the church.  “That’s right,” he exclaimed, “the people are the church,” and then with a remarkably booming voice, “we are the church!”   I encountered that same phrase when I was doing my own research, I asked a group of people “what is the church?”  and after a slight thoughtful pause, one member said, “well … we are the church!”   I don’t disagree with the notion that church is primarily about people and not buildings, but as I reflect, I find the phrase “we are the church” riddled with gaps.

The “gaps” I’m talking about are the kind that Wolfgang Iser (1978) argues exist when we read a piece of literature.  He claims that texts are not all-sufficient, because as we read, there are unwritten implications, blanks or gaps that we have to bridge.  As I read (or hear) the phrase “we are the church” I find that the gaps take the form of questions.  “We”- who do we mean?  Those we are with now?  Those who are like us?  Those who agree with us?  Those of different ethnicity, or sexuality, or gender?  “Are” – do we mean that we are church at this moment?  Are there times when our actions or words mean we are not church?  How do we judge when we are and when we are not church? “The” – do we mean we are part of a larger whole, or is our local church really where it begins and ends? “Church” – what do we think claiming to be church demands of us? Merely turning up on a Sunday? Or something more?  We probably won’t agree on the answers to all these questions, some may be contentious and some potentially divisive.  In the Methodist church there are other issues we are considering – the nature of ministry, supervision, marriage and relationships and so on, these too may be difficult for us to agree upon.

Our disagreements are not simply intellectual opinions but are often deeply rooted in our lived experience which provides us with a different hermeneutic, a different starting point for our reflections on the life of faith.  Yet we know that we are not Christians in isolation, we learn from each other and our different experiences, which help to make “transparent the truth for which we seek” (Farley, 2002, p. 67).   With all that in mind, what, then, do we do?  Perhaps we need the grace of self-doubt.  Margaret Farley (p. 68) calls this “one of the least recognised gifts of the Spirit”. It is not about doubting our value before God and spiralling into hopelessness and despair. She writes:

“This is not a grace for calling into question every fundamental conviction we have achieved … it allows us to listen to the experience of others, take seriously reasons that are alternate to our own [and] rethink our own last word” (p. 69).

This grace calls us to see differently, to understand the position of others, and face the sometimes-uncomfortable truth that our position – on whatever issue we reflect on – may not be the end of the debate.   Fundamentally, I think, the grace of self-doubt bids us to see again that the grace of God is not only ours, it is also spread across the world, indeed as Paul Lakeland (2012, p. 17) notes there is “a worldly grace that the church does not control or even know”.   The grace of self-doubt is for those who struggle to make sense of the world and the challenges of faith in an ever-changing context.  It allows us to begin to work with the complexity of living in a church where people sometimes hold diametrically opposed positions, by asking each of us – in grace – to consider whether our last claim is all there is to say.  In doing this, we may find new ways to value each other and honour the image of God within each of us.   Without this grace, we may miss our part in God’s great work.

“We are the church” – yes, we are, all of us, when we agree and when we do not, so perhaps we need the grace of self-doubt as we live our faith in the church and in the world.

Farley, M. A. (2002). Ethics, Ecclesiology, and the Grace of Self Doubt. In J. J. Walter, T. E. O’Connell, & T. A. Shannon (Eds.), A Call to Fidelity (pp. 55 – 76). Washington DC: Georgetown University Press.

Iser, W. (1978). The Act of Reading. Baltimore: John Hopkins.

Lakeland, P. (2012). Reflections on the Grace of Self-Doubt. In D. M. Doyle, T. J. Furry, & P. D. Bazzell (Eds.), Ecclesiology and Exclusion (pp. 13 -17). New York: Orbis.

by Julie Lunn.

In my last post for this blog, I talked about spiritual writing and described the project I am engaged in at present – which is to look at how women in the Wesleyan tradition articulate faith; both women who wrote their conversion testimonies to Charles Wesley, and how contemporary Wesleyan women articulate their faith today.  A few women got in touch as a result of that blog and contributed a text to the project – thank you!  Others also contributed from Methodist, Nazarene, and Free Methodist traditions, and I am now in the process of analysing and writing up the data received.  So this article is a first indication of how the project is unfolding.

The ultimate aim is to compare similarities and differences in women’s writing from the two periods and examine how theology, faith and spirituality have changed or remained the same within a Wesleyan expression of faith.  In addition, indications of significant factors which nurture, strengthen, and promote faith development will be noted and offered to encourage those of us on a journey of faith today.

In response to the request for contributions to the project I received thirty-four submissions, which together amounted to eighty-three pages of text.  Being entrusted with this material was a sacred privilege.  One participant spoke of trusting me with the work.  The material is personal, expressive of intimate relationship with God, and in many cases not originally intended for public view.  The submissions which were blogs or written for a magazine had a different voice, deliberately written for an audience, but the majority of texts were not; this was holy ground.

Of the thirty-four participants fifteen submitted extracts from existing spiritual writing – eleven from spiritual journals, two blogs, one letter to a spiritual friend and one from a magazine article.  Fourteen submitted one-off accounts written for the project, eight of which were of a specific spiritual experience.  Three submitted accounts of their conversion experience and two submitted testimonies.  Of the thirty-four participants twenty one keep a spiritual journal as part of their response to faith – ten of whom journal occasionally.  Fourteen participants have a spiritual companion, mentor or spiritual director.  Seven have a prayer partner or partners.  Twenty-six participants have another relationship which assists their spiritual journey – these include friends, a partner, a group e.g. housegroup or Bible Study group, a minister, books or podcasts, and the body of Christ or other Christians.

There were several surprises for me as I read and analysed the texts.  One was that I had not expected such a high number of participants to practice the discipline of journaling or to have a spiritual companion or relationship which assists the spiritual journey; but this is deeply encouraging.

Similarly encouraging were the number of contemporary texts which referenced scripture (twenty-two texts) and prayer – twenty-one texts either talked about prayer or included prayer in the text – these features were very similar to the texts from the 18^th century women.

The experience of Jesus or another spiritual experience also featured significantly in both sets of texts.  The experiences of Jesus received by the 18^th century women included a sense of the love of God, peace, and sins forgiven.  A number of experiences are visual, with Christ’s sufferings presented, frequently in the context of the service of Holy Communion; or visual experiences of Jesus in glory.  The contemporary experiences of Jesus similarly recorded a sense of love, peace, joy, warmth and a sense of presence, and some verge on the physical- ‘seeing’ Jesus’ eyes of love, ‘feeling’ Jesus’ breath on the neck.

Two texts indicate struggle with experiencing Jesus.  One is challenged by Jesus’ maleness for her as a woman, drawn instead to the presence of the Spirit.  Another speaks being eager to know and please God as a young person, but unable to experience Jesus, ‘I felt like the apostle Peter that I couldn’t go anywhere else-as much as I didn’t get this Christianity life or have any felt experience of Jesus, I felt that He alone held the key…I just didn’t know how to get to Him.’

These texts, in themselves, encourage faith.  Their honesty, openness, wisdom, and depth of faith is moving and humbling.  As the project continues the process of discovery will I am sure, continue to be one of delight, challenge, and insight for the living of faith today.  At this early stage of analysis there are however three key thoughts for reflection:

• What do we actively do to support our spiritual life and growth? Do we make a note of our experiences of God – so we can see over time how God is working with us and within us?
• Who are our companions, encouragers, challengers?
• Do we express ourselves to God in prayer and root our reflections in the text of Scripture?

If we do not do these things yet – why not start?

by Richard Clutterbuck.

Methodist theology and spirituality would be enriched if only we could overcome our collective hang-up about Mary the mother of Jesus. Almost fifty years ago, in his classic book on the rosary, Neville Ward[i] pointed to the deafening silence about Mary within his own Methodist church. Since then there have been some small developments in our attitude (a few references in the Methodist Worship Book and the annual Prayer Handbook) but it is still true that while the great majority of Catholic and Orthodox Christians place Mary at the heart of their spirituality and faith, most Protestants, Methodists included, keep her at arm’s length. Yet the art of western Europe is shot through with images of the Blessed Virgin Mary while its music has countless settings of Marian texts. My own music collection has several settings of the Stabat Mater (picturing Mary’s suffering at the foot of the cross) written by contemporary composers, among them Sir James Macmillan. At the level of popular spirituality statues, icons and shrines continue to be the focus for prayer in places (like Ireland or Italy) with a strong Catholic tradition. You cannot engage with our cultural and religious history[ii] without some appreciation of the place of Mary.

Of course, there are some good reasons for our wariness. Marian devotion has sometimes eclipsed the figure of Jesus Christ, who must always be the centre of Christian prayer and thought. Methodists would not naturally identify with the language of some of the Marian dogmas, for instance the immaculate conception and the bodily assumption of Mary. And it is true that the depiction of Mary has sometimes been associated with negative and unhealthy attitudes to female sexuality. But there are signs that a growing number of Protestants want to learn from the tradition of Marian devotion and theology[iii]. If the Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches are genuine expressions of the Christian life – and we believe they are – then it is likely that our own tradition can be enriched by a critical attention to the beliefs and spiritual practices that sustain them. That is what the phrase ‘receptive ecumenism’ means.

I’m writing this on the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25^th and shortly after my return from an ecumenical Marian pilgrimage to Walsingham.  That pilgrimage was remarkable for the way in which fifty Christians from a wide range of denominations came together in shared worship and thinking. Two of our most significant inputs came from the Methodist Frances Young and the Orthodox Metropolitan Kallistos. The event confirmed my personal commitment to a project of bringing the Methodist theological and spiritual tradition into critical dialogue with the Marian doctrine and devotion of the Catholic tradition. I have already done work on how the dogma of the immaculate conception of Mary might relate to the Wesleyan doctrine of Christian perfection, finding points of convergence and tension. But there is potential for much more. Here is a brief ‘shopping list’ for Marian dialogue:

• Annunciation and election.
  Methodists have tended to fight shy of the doctrine of election, fearing the ‘horrible decree’ of double predestination. The figure of Mary challenges us to think though what it means to be both eternally chosen and free to offer or withhold consent.

• Grace and cooperation.
  Salvation is entirely the work of God’s grace in Christ – yet God takes that project dependent on human cooperation. One of my fellow pilgrims asked Frances Young whether she could go along with the term ‘co-redemptrix’ for Mary. Metropolitan Kallistos interrupted by saying that – in a sense – all Christians are co-redemptrix. Perhaps Methodists could start by using the term Theotokos (God-bearer) to describe Mary. It affirms both the truth of the incarnation and also Mary’s key role in the story of its unfolding.

• Christian solidarity and prayer.
  While Methodists may affirm, with Wesley, that the Bible knows nothing of solitary religion, we have been notoriously better at speaking of personal salvation and holiness than of the holiness and solidarity of the Church. Contemporary Catholic Marian theology has, since Vatican II, been seen as part of ecclesiology: Mary is understood in terms of the community of those who are ‘in Christ’. If it is true that ‘one family we dwell in him, one church above, beneath’ then inviting Mary to pray for us is both natural and right.

• Liberation and Reversal
  The Magnificat moves us beyond the submissive piety of so much traditional Marian devotion. Methodists will find their own tradition of the social gospel enriched by what Catholic theologian Elizabeth Johnson, calls ‘the dangerous memory of Mary’, the Mary who is ‘friend of God and prophet.'[i]

[i] Elizabeth Johnson, Truly our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion of Saints, Continuum, New York, 2004.

[i] J. Neville Ward, Five for Sorrow, Ten for Joy: A Consideration of the Rosary, London, Epworth, 1971.

[ii] There is a scholarly and vivid account of this in Jaroslav Pelikan, Mary Through the Centuries: Her Place in the History of Culture, Yale University Press, 1996.

[iii] Examples include the short document, Mary, Mother of the Lord, sign of grace and holiness, produced by the British Methodist/Roman Catholic Committee and the Les Dombes Group report: Mary in the Plan of God and in the Communion of Saints.

[iv] Elizabeth Johnson, Truly our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion of Saints, Continuum, New York, 2004.

by John Lampard.

‘The way we treat the dead is an indication of the way we treat the living’. You may have seen, on television, on the web and even on the London Underground, advertisements for ‘Direct Cremation’. It is what it says on the coffin. Your relation’s or friend’s body is collected from a hospital or morgue, cremated without ceremony, and a few days later you either receive their ashes in a cardboard box, or they are anonymously scattered somewhere at the crem. There is no preparation of the body, no viewing, no contact (apart from phone or email) with the cremation arranger, no viewing, no hearse, no service. What you do with the ashes, if you elect to receive them, is up to you. You can arrange a funeral service, or not. You can dispose of them any way you wish within the law and your own level of ‘taste’. In the USA this service is known as ‘Cash and Ash’.

An increasing number of established funeral directors are offering this service, but there are now at least twenty new ‘disruptors’ who have entered the market. They can operate from home, making all the arrangements on line or on the phone, with no storage facilities, using any vehicle to transport the body.  Costs for this service vary, but it can be half the cost of a modest funeral, so it is attractive to people who cannot or do not want to pay ever-increasing funeral costs.

These are many social implications of this new trend, but there are also ethical and theological issues for Christians. Unfortunately the Christian churches have never faced up to the fact that the standard ‘choices’ burial and cremation are not alternatives. With burial there is no remainder; with cremation there are several kilos of undisposed of remains which need to be disposed in one way or another. Should the ashes be treated with the same respect as the body? Is cremation a religious act, requiring liturgy and the presence of a minister? Are there Christian and non-Christian ways of disposal? What routes are there for pastoral care for the bereaved from funeral directors, officiants, or those to whom the bereaved might be directed?

The Catholic Church has recently issued instructions that following cremation ashes should not be scattered but buried, and also should not be used to make jewellery etc, or kept in an urn on the mantelpiece, or divided among members of the family.[i] It argues that Christians should be buried (as a body or as ashes) as Christ was buried. This has been a distinctive Christian practice and understanding over the entire history of the Church. As an aside, it is worth noting that Greece will shortly have its first crematorium, the last western country to begin to adopt cremation, albeit still in the face of fierce opposition from the Orthodox Church.

If cremation is viewed as a non-religious act, but simply as a method of preparation of the body for final disposal, are there any Christian objections to the growing practice? Is there pastoral value in the common practice today of a ‘private’ cremation followed by a church service? Is the ‘committal’ at the crematorium a false parallel to burial? Could a new Christian model for a funeral be prior ‘direct cremation’, a church service with the ashes, immediate burial of the ashes, and a communal coming together?

The shape of my own funeral service is still uncertain in my mind. Much depends on the age I reach and family circumstances. I cannot see any Christian objections if there is cremation first and no coffin in church. This could mean ‘direct cremation’ followed by a service I know that I want a forward looking funeral service and not a backward looking service of thanksgiving. The one certainty I hold to is that I want my ashes be buried in ‘holy ground’. The one hope I hold is that within the ultimate mystery I may rise with Christ.

[i] (2016) ‘Ad resurgendum cum Christo’ (To rise with Christ)

by Sally Coleman.

The Church of Christ in every age,
Beset by change, but Spirit led,
Must claim and test its heritage
And keep on rising from the dead
(Fred Pratt-Green) 

Times of change are challenging and difficult, producing all kinds of resistance and anxieties within us, and yet, we all know they are quite simply a part of life. Over the last decades we have become more and more aware of a change in the life of the church; numbers have fallen, churches have ceased to meet, and the demands of church life and ministry have become too much for some.

Recently one of our Church Stewards returned from holiday with news for the local congregation, “it seems to be the same everywhere” he said, “churches are struggling with questions about their future. Even if they go into stationing for a minister it seems unlikely that they will get one. We are going to have to start thinking differently.”

Could this then be the time for us to begin to ask and imagine what rising from the dead might look like in the myriad of local contexts that we inhabit? This demands that we might be willing to let go, and to die to the way that things have been; “anyone who holds on to life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you’ll have it forever, real and eternal” (John 12: 24 The Message).

Change is always happening; people come and go, people die, others are born. Life is a constant reminder of the cycle of birth and death, and this is normal, yet so often when it comes to our institutions we look for constancy and security, something to keep us fixed and sure, a stronghold in times of trouble. Do we look to the church for our security, substituting it for God? Does our desire to cling on to what is, hinder us from becoming, and even desiring what might be? Are we missing the move and call of the Spirit, who longs to lead us through the desert of loss and lament to a new place where life begins again, where we literally rise from the dead?

Again and again the Psalmist finds hope in the darkness; consolation and help from God when he (sic) gets to the end of himself. Or to put it another way:

You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope.
With less of you there is more of God and his rule.
(Matthew 5:3 The Message) 

Lament has the power to release and re-orientate ourselves. While many see the gift of lament in the context of exile and return, it can also relate to the situation between the Crucifixion and Pentecost. Can we place ourselves into the shoes of the early followers whose world has been turned upside down; the shock of Good Friday and Holy Saturday, the confusion and slow dawning of Easter day and all that lay between those days and the total change that Pentecost brought?

Not much happened in those days. The disciples met with Jesus on and off between Easter Day and Ascension Day, but even then, they were in a space of waiting, watching and praying, preparing for something they could not name, and for a future they couldn’t anticipate. It takes serious commitment to sit with such discomfort, and two things marked out this waiting time: firstly they met together and, secondly, they committed themselves to prayer. In days such as these the underpinning of basic spiritual disciplines is essential. They will help us through the storming times and prepare us for what is to come. To quote the popular C.S. Lewis mis-quote, “Prayer does not change God it changes me.”

We know prayer can change and re-orientate us, and yet we often feel that it is nothing. How many times have you heard somebody say, “I can’t do anything but pray,” as if prayer is our last resort and not the first option? Prayer releases in us new possibilities and potentials, and even more remarkably frees us from fear as it connects us to the perfect love of God.

So we are called to set out upon an uncertain road. As with any journey what we want is a map and clear directions, a destination in sight, but that is often not the pattern for the people of God. From Abraham to the disciples the call was to move and to follow, and yet no immediate destination was made clear.

Elaine Heath writes an open letter to the church:

“Change happens all the time so that every generation, every community, every person can experience God in their world, their context, their time. And what about the wave of change that is upon us… that looks different from the church that we grew up in? These are from God… Beloved church, can we agree to let God have our anxiety? God knows how hard it is for us to let go. We simply have to be willing to be made willing. Just a tiny degree of openness allows God to work with us…”[1]

[1] Elaine Heath, God Unbound  Upper Room Books 2016  pg. 98

by Jennie Hurd.

I realised recently that it is thirty years since I candidated for the ordained ministry of the Methodist Church. How did that happen? It’s more than half my lifetime ago, yet elements of the experience are as fresh to me as yesterday, if not fresher, given the effects of muddle (sorry – middle) age.

It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to work out that my initial ministerial training took place in the early 1990s. This was at what was then still Queen’s College, Birmingham.  I’m more than prepared to stand corrected, but I believe the cohort of which I was part was among the first to be intentionally trained as reflective practitioners. I think I’m also right in saying that such an approach was pretty much still in its infancy. Although South American liberation theologians such as Gustavo Gutiérez and Leonardo Boff had already introduced us to the hermeneutical or pastoral cycle as a reflective theological method, Duncan B Forrester ‘s edited collection of essays, Theology and Practice[1], had only just been published, as had Laurie Green’s Let’s Do Theology[2]. We were still years away from Graham, Walton and Ward’s Theological Reflection: Methods[3] and Theological Reflection: Sources[4], never mind the SCM Studyguide to Theological Reflection[5]. As students in the early 90s, we were assigned to Theological Reflection Groups and encouraged to reflect. I’ll be honest with you that there were some of us who were never really sure what we were being asked to do. However, something must have happened as I now can’t imagine any other approach to life, faith or ministry apart from a theologically reflective one. It’s part of who I am. I seek to make it my praxis.

I was reminded of this not long ago by chance in conversation with a contemporary from Queen’s. We were reflecting (yes!) on how one ‘r’ word – ‘reflection’ – seems to have been supplemented (or maybe even supplanted, we wondered?) in ministerial formation and practice by another ‘r’ word, namely ‘resilience’.  Has over-emphasis on reflection led to the need for a new focus on resilience, or is it lack of reflection on our practice that means we need to work on our resilience for ministry in the twenty first century?  I cannot believe it’s only the same first letter that links reflection and resilience in pastoral practice, and while these thoughts are only very tentative, I thought I’d share them in the hope of receiving some wisdom in return (or at risk of being told all the thinking’s been done already, and I need to “Get with it, Grandma”…)

Reflecting on experience, I now appreciate the value of those groups at Queen’s. Our reflection is most beneficial for our practice when it’s enfolded in prayer and carried out with others. Part of the genius of early Methodism was the Class Meeting, and you are fortunate indeed if you belong to such a group today. For ordained people, Ministerial Development Review and pastoral supervision offer the opportunity for sharing in reflection on practice. Spiritual direction or accompaniment offers the possibility of something similar for all. Often, books and their authors become our conversation partners in reflective practice, as well as conversations with colleagues, where that is possible. Good reflection which strengthens our resilience in life and ministry is for me, by definition, carried out in conjunction with others, to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the context. The corollary to this, then, is that reflection can become detrimental to our resilience, undermining it or perhaps even damaging it, when it is carried out in isolation. I wonder if this tendency has sometimes been allowed to take hold. Reflection is not necessarily the enemy of resilience – it’s not an either/or (and I doubt anyone ever suggested it was) – but it follows that reflection which comes from too individualistic a focus may be more likely to lead to distorted thinking and harmful self-criticism. When carried out as a collaborative exercise, as through this website, theological reflection is intended to build resilience and strengthen our practice. It is a tool for our flourishing, and we need both, inextricably linked.

[1] Forrester, Duncan B (ed) 1990, Theology and Practice, London: Epworth Press

[2] Green, Laurie 1990, Let’s Do Theology: A Pastoral Cycle Resource Book, London: Mowbray

[3] Graham, Elaine, Walton, Heather and Ward, Frances 2005, Theological Reflection: Methods, London: SCM Press

[4] _______ 2007, Theological Reflection: Sources, London: SCM Press

[5] Thompson, Judith, Pattison, Stephen, Thompson, Ross 2008, SCM Studyguide to Theological Reflection, London: SCM Press

by Frances Young.

Back in the autumn I was asked to join a panel on the topic ‘Inspiring Service’, the audience being University students. As I reflected on what to offer, I found myself tackling a question both personal and vocational – why had I, a theologian and ordained minister, got involved in the governance and management of large public sector institutions?

I ended my presentation with some pretty standard statements:

The theological undergirding of public service is surely commitment to the fact that this is God’s world, despite the way things seem. Sin (meaning not simply sex, nor individual misdemeanours, but rather the way human affairs in general have gone somewhat pearshaped) – sin in that sense, it’s been said, is the only empirically grounded doctrine! Christian faith proclaims that God has taken action in Jesus Christ to put things to rights, and calls us to play our part in the process. That’s why commitment to making the world a better place lies at the heart of Christian service.

But if I’m honest, such statements were hardly what ‘inspired’ the course that my career took, nor my principal current retirement activity. So I began in a very different place, telling the story of my father, and my dawning recognition that it was his example of Christian commitment to public service which explains some of the odd decisions I made in the latter stages of my career:

Head of Department, Dean of Faculty, Pro-Vice-Chancellor?  What were those years about? Was it just ambition, nothing to do with – perhaps indeed contrary to – my Christian commitment? It certainly was a response to the moral pressure of being the first woman to hold those positions: if one wasn’t prepared to do it, how would things ever change? But how did all this relate to ministry? In an overtly secular University how could Christian commitment be expressed? What was I doing struggling with the frustrations of University politics? Practically everything I managed to achieve back then has by now been overtaken … There’s no permanent legacy in running things day to day…

I was honest in articulating those recurring questions. I confessed that by tradition Methodists are activists, and I’ve spent much of my life feeling guilty that I’ve done so little good in world – I’ve not fed the hungry, healed the sick, welcomed the homeless, visited those in prison, etc. But now, I affirmed, I could reclaim the importance of public service to secular institutions, and grasp more of its theological grounding.

Reading the earliest Christian documents, both in and beyond the New Testament, what is striking is the claim of this little underground, sometimes persecuted, group that their God is the God of the whole created order, and that everybody is accountable to this God, who actually sees into the heart, knows the secrets of inner motivations, and expects everyone to do good, to be generous, to live honourable lives, accepting the authority of human institutions: the pagan Emperor himself was appointed by this one and only God to ensure justice and peace.

At this point in history such subservience appears highly problematical. But, for all our current individualism, we are social animals; we need each other, and society still requires well-run institutions to govern competing interests, to ensure peace and justice,  to foster human flourishing in body, mind and spirit.  And with right discernment you find that God is there ahead of you, and that service involves not top down control,  but humility and counting others more worthy than oneself. We need people who are open to others to be the servants of all in our public life.

Now, in my retirement, my previous institutional experience is feeding into another such commitment. I’m an elected public Governor of the Birmingham Community Healthcare NHS Foundation Trust. The object is to be a constructive and critical friend, enabling responsiveness to patient needs, whilst also fulfilling statutory duties on behalf of the public and the taxpayer. Basically those duties are appointing the non-executive Directors, and then making sure they do their job. The Council of Governors, all unpaid volunteers, becomes the body to which the management Board is locally accountable. And yes – it’s frustratingly difficult to see what difference we make, and the endless papers and quantities of data and meetings to go to do not always thrill me. But the work of the Trust really matters – my own family has been, and doubtless will continue to be, beneficiaries of the services provided.

by David Easton.

The language that people use can sometimes be quite indicative. For example, in the endless Brexit debate whether people say ‘them’ when referring to Europe, or ‘us’ probably says something about where they see our nation’s place and, indeed their own, in relation to the other twenty-seven countries.

If I ask someone about their church, I notice whether they say ‘them’ or ‘we’. And in Scotland, where I live, does ‘the Parliament’ refer to what goes on in Westminster or in Holyrood? In one sense it doesn’t matter very much maybe, beyond being sometimes quite irritating as in when someone refers to ‘England’ when you know perfectly well that they should be saying the United Kingdom or Great Britain – and it’s amazing how many people don’t seem to grasp the difference between these last two titles.

As I, this year, approach retirement from active ministry, I sometimes find myself in reflective mood and one of the things I have been reflecting on is the changing use of language in and about the Church. I hope the following isn’t going to sound too much like an old man’s rant.

The default term that is now used across the Church when referring to one another – especially when ministers speak of each other – seems to be ‘colleague’. I even use it myself sometimes. Looking back, I couldn’t say when this term first became common and then usual. I do know that when I entered circuit ministry thirty-eight years ago that I could not have imagined any minister referring to another in such a way. The usual term would have been ‘sister’ or ‘brother’.

Is this all part of the Church simply getting more professional and on the ball:

our buildings now have to have professionally conducted quinquennial inspections – this never used to be the case;

our circuits are encouraged to have ‘mission statements’ – an interesting example of religious language being requisitioned by the business world and then reclaimed by the Church. You will be able to think of other examples.

So what about the use of ‘colleague’? As I have confessed, I use it myself sometimes but when I do and when I realise I have and when I stop to think about it, I feel that I have been less than true to the nature of the Church and our relationship within it. We are in essence, surely, the body of Christ and children of God, something we affirm every time we say the Lord’s Prayer. In one way it doesn’t matter much if I call another Christian ‘colleague’ but in another I do feel that I have in some way demeaned them. It’s a bit like the story of Martha and Mary where the former refers to ‘my sister’ not warmly but as a way of expressing how she feels about her supposed laziness. You, dear reader, whether I’ve met you or not, are my sister or brother in Christ. And, if I am to be true to my ecclesiology and theological understanding of the nature of our relationship to God then surely my language should begin to reflect that.

I have a sense that increasingly we are keen to rediscover our Methodist roots and essence. One of the marks that we have is in the call to be in fellowship one with another. The early class meetings weren’t just about collecting the penny for the work of God, they could also be occasions of a brotherly/sisterly bonding. Some asked to be buried with their class tickets, so deeply did they value this ‘fellowship below’ and which they believed would find its full expression ‘when round his throne’ they met.

In a society where there is often a sense of ‘unbelonging’ and disconnectedness, is it not possible that those of us in the Methodist tradition with our belief in a loving and affirming fellowship may have, by this means and, yes, in the language we use, a possibility of making what we believe, real for those for whom it is often just a meaningless stream of words.

by Aaron Edwards.

Something has happened to the thing we called theology. It no longer seems to matter. And not only do most people not care that it no longer seems to matter, but they don’t even know they were ever supposed to have cared in the first place. When doing my PhD in Aberdeen a few years ago, I was often asked what my subject was. When I replied, ‘theology’, more than ninety percent of the time the person thought I was studying something to do with rocks. After a while I got into a habit of pre-empting this response by pointing my finger from the ground towards the heavens: “Think up, not down…” I began to wonder about what the frequency of this kind of exchange demonstrated and that it probably owed less to the ignorance of the average person than to the innocuously irrelevant work of much contemporary academic theology.

Despite having been the primary reason for which most premodern universities were founded, today many theological departments across the academy find themselves hopelessly doggy-paddling to keep up with a ginormous mercantile liner that has long since sailed on without them. ‘Why on earth are you lot still here? What do you actually do…?’ is a common thought insinuated in awkward inter-departmental meetings in many institutions. Some within academic theology manage this identity crisis more effectively than others, justifying their existence by pointing to the ‘social impact’ of the Church (which they might otherwise prefer to ignore), or by merging with other departments to showcase their ‘interdisciplinary value’. But wherever short-term survival has been achieved it has usually not come without some form of essential compromise. We migrate to talking about society, or geo-politics, or religion, but only because these things are really about what humans do; and humans seem far more interesting than God.

The result of this great attempt to save academic face ends up not only making theology a fairly pointless add-on to other ethically-minded disciplines which could say roughly the same things anyway, but renders it evermore inaudible to the Church. And the proof of theology is in the hearing, just as the proof of hearing is in the doing (Jam. 1:19-27). For an accurate gauge, just ask the average pastor or minister how many new journal articles they’ve read in the last year (or perhaps the last decade…). One way or another, the Church grows deaf to the voices of strangers (John 10:4-5).

Having all but lost the ears of the Church, then, the former ‘queen of the sciences’ may even still be politely ushered to the exit doors of the academy. If this ever does happen, it will not be because the theologians were making too much of a disturbance to the show, but more because the seats are becoming ever-pricier and theologians can no longer afford to sit in them. Even those few who seem to bridge the church-academy divide unusually well rarely make any actually significant difference to the academic or societal world. Theologians who might be seen as luminaries at academic conferences are usually little-known beyond their own specialist fields, let alone other disciplines altogether. It is quite literally the case that the work of a geologist is far more likely to reach the front pages of a newspaper than the work of a theologian.

To put this in perspective, a century-and-a-half ago the University of Zürich attempted to appoint the famously heterodox theologian David Friedrich Strauss to a chair in theology, and the news caused a public riot in the streets. Just stop and ponder that for a moment. I am not suggesting that public riots on doctrinal issues would be a necessarily welcome reality, but the fact that such an event would seem so utterly absurd today is not because theology is doing something right. It might also be remembered that the first theologians of the Church literally did cause street riots based upon the content of their theology (Acts 19:23-41). These theologians did so few of the things their academic equivalents spend their time doing today; and yet somehow their theology seemed to turn the world upside down (Acts 17:6). It mattered. And in a very real sense, their theology ultimately led – through centuries of steadfast mission and witness – to the founding of scores of major universities around the world. These are the same universities which, centuries later, gasp that such an apparently matterless subject as theology still has a home within their de-hallowed walls.

Things are supposed to happen because of theology: nations changed, lives transformed, societies challenged, peoples enriched, wonderful things built, terrible things hauled down. And all of it done not in the name of human progress or achievement, but in thankful worship to the One who first gave theology its voice, and its place. Indeed if theology is the speech of God in the mouth of the Church, then it ought to matter – to everyone – that theology no longer seems to matter.