Theology Everywhere

by Neil Richardson.

The New Testament has been criticized for its alleged antisemitism, its worst ‘offenders’ Paul and the author of John’s gospel. Yet Romans 9-11 shows conclusively that Paul continued to be an ‘Israelite’ (11.1); how could he not be? As for John, we have to be honest about John’s possible effect on us.[1] The Faith and Order Committee, perhaps wisely, omitted sections of John 8 from the Lectionary – see especially v.44.

However, a kind of antisemitism has long been preached from our pulpits: the charge that Judaism is legalistic, teaching salvation by works. But the law in the Old Testament doesn’t make the Jewish faith legalistic; the first five books of the Bible set God’s demands in the context of God’s gifts. As for the Pharisees and scribes in the gospels, we have to be careful of generalizing, caricaturing and trivializing; we have been guilty of all three. Bonhoeffer warned against trivializing the encounters of Jesus with the Pharisees.  The gospel accounts have probably been sharpened by later church-synagogue differences. Judaism was not ‘legalistic’, even though today, in Tel Aviv and on the West Bank, there are some ugly distortions of the Jewish faith – as there are ugly expressions of Christian faith elsewhere, especially, it would seem, around the person of Donald Trump.

What we need to see is that most of the failures Jesus and Paul attribute to the Jewish people are also ours. ‘Because of you the name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles’ (Romans 2.24), is a verdict which the Christian Churches and Christians have merited over and over again. Churches continue to close doors, literally and in attitudes, to people we should be welcoming, and what Paul calls ‘the righteousness of God’ is overlaid or distorted by our own. Church and churchgoing become the ‘law’ which distinguishes us from ‘outsiders’. Hopefully, generosity and compassion are increasingly the hallmarks of Christians. But we have a long way to go. Keeping the church going – especially by fund-raising – can make it harder to live a God-centred and Christ-centred life, rather than a church-centred one.

St Paul’s letters here are key – especially Romans. Romans 10.1-4 contrasts God’s righteousness, not with Judaism itself, but with a human distortion of religion, a human ‘righteousness’, (compare Philippians 3.4-11). It involved a human distortion of the Old Testament gospel, as Paul’s language in Galatians 3.8 implies. St Augustine wrote that the New lies hidden in the Old, not that the New was absent from the Old.

Another misinterpretation we Methodists have made: Paul was not a failed Pharisee the way that John Wesley was a failing Christian. Whatever the Greek proverb attributed by Luke to Jesus (!) in the third version of Paul’s conversion meant, it didn’t mean ‘pricks of conscience’ (Acts 26. 14).

Paul tells us the heart of his gospel: ‘the righteousness of God…. beginning in faith and ending in faith’ (Romans 1.17). ‘Righteousness’, of course, needs interpreting. Unfortunately, most modern paraphrases hardly do justice to the original Hebrew and Greek: ‘God’s saving goodness’, ‘God’s saving power’, ‘God’s justice’ etc –. The Message, for all its brilliant paraphrasing, reflects at times the Christian caricatures of Judaism.

‘The righteousness of God’ is Paul’s equivalent of ‘the Kingdom of God’ in the life and teaching of Jesus: not a standard God sets, but God’s way of doing things and God’s astonishing, totally undeserved love for all – as many Old Testament psalms testify.

Paul is best interpreted by reference to what Jesus said and did, and above all by his cross and the resurrection which reveals the meaning of the cross. For example, Jesus’ reply to John the Baptist:

‘Go tell John what you have seen and heard: blind people see, lame people walk, lepers are cleansed, deaf people hear, the dead are raised, and poor people hear the good news…’

Luke 7.22-3, Matthew 11.5-6

Other ‘miracles’ (signs) also demonstrate God’s righteousness and kingdom: the stilling of the storm, the feedings of the 5,000 and the 4,000, and the changing of water into wine. There is both a challenge and an invitation in the conclusion of what Jesus said to John: ‘Happy is the person who is not offended in me’ – i.e. God’s way of doing things won’t please everyone.

 The parables provide more examples. The generous vineyard owner of Matthew 20.1-16, the welcoming father of Luke 15.11-31, and, above all (as, again,  St Augustine saw) the Good Samaritan of Luke 10.26-38 – all illustrate what Paul meant by ‘the righteousness of God’. Not all the characters in the parables perfectly mirror ‘the Heavenly Father’, although the generous and then angry king of Matthew 22.18-35 makes an important point: if you don’t forgive others, God simply can’t forgive you.

Congregations need to hear the gospel again and again, in ways that not only challenge, but also gladden hearts, lifts the burdens from their souls and makes their faces shine. Let them know what faith really is: stretching out our hand to grasp the outstretched hand of God.

The life, teaching and ministry of Jesus were summed up in their climax: the crucifixion and resurrection; challenge, offence and extraordinary invitation; ‘…we proclaim Christ nailed to the cross… an offence to the religious and foolishness to the outsider alike…. Yet he is the power of God and the wisdom of God’ (1 Corinthians 1.23-4).

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[1] See my John for Today, (SCM 2010), especially pp.84-90

by Josie Smith.

There are many good things about being very old.    One develops a recognition of one’s own weakness, of the need for help, and (if one relaxes into it and stops being frustrated because things are not as they used to be) one is prepared not only to accept such help but to ask for it where appropriate.  

There is a certain wry enjoyment, too, to be had when during a telephone call to some organisation one is asked for date of birth, as often happens.   Supplying this, together with name, address, NHS number, hospital number and all the other necessary details, is no problem.    (But never bank details, and I have my own polite but firm way of dealing with cold callers, who inevitably ring at mealtimes.)   Reaction from the other end is usually incredulity that one is still compos mentis, living independently with no domestic help, and in charge of one’s own financial affairs and general decision-making.    Not to mention using a computer, though certainly with less skill than my older great-grandchildren who seem to have been born hard-wired into their Devices.

I recognise that I am extremely fortunate in that my brain appears not to be as old as some of the rest of me.    I gave up driving a year ago in the month of my 93rd birthday while awaiting serious surgery, and am effectively housebound.   But inside, I am still ME.    A friend in his forties said recently ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to be in your nineties!’  There I have the advantage.   All the people I have ever been, at whatever age, are still in there as part of the ‘me’ I am now, as are all the people whose influence has contributed to what I have become, and I know well how it feels to be fortyish.    

 I have been an ecumenist ‘from my youth up’, realising that whatever my Wesleyan Circuit Steward grandpa had to say, my lovely Roman Catholic next door neighbours were not dangerous!     I also recall incurring the displeasure of my Methodist Local Preacher and Son of the Manse husband once, by attending an interfaith service.    This was many decades ago, and I insisted that we all needed to follow our own consciences, not that of others however dear.   Not quite as long ago I had the privilege of presenting a series of radio programmes in which I explored the beliefs and practice of local faith groups with their leaders and lay members.   None of us has a monopoly of truth.   I have felt closer to some open-minded friends of other faiths than I have ever felt to some fellow-Methodists who have closed minds.    We can listen to those who experience life within different traditions, and we might learn from them – God’s thoughts are always higher than our thoughts.

I now attend (when a friend takes me) an Ecumenical Partnership which delivers both comfort and challenge, both learning and loving.   We also have a close relationship, and, sometimes, shared worship with the Quakers along the road.     An hour of mostly silence is a very different sort of worship from our usual pattern, as ours is for them, and both are appreciated.

And I believe increasingly in the unity of all things and all people.     I still have a tattered cutting from the Guardian from the then science writer from many years ago, observing that as quantum physics had revealed the inseparability of all matter however far apart it has become geographically, this could be a profound revelation for theology too.  

Over the years I have come to understand (and the more I ponder it the more obvious it seems) that as God created all things ‘from nothing’, then all things come from the ‘God substance’, and we are all – trees, grass, whales, people, slugs and wasps and the very earth we walk on and eventually return to – not just made in God’s image, as we are assured, but eternally part of that very God who is our Father and Who is in us, whether we accept that or not, and however far we have moved away from the original pattern.    And we can never ‘flee from God’s presence.’

So though I find world news unbearable, and weep with and for all those who suffer for whatever reason, I know in my bones that we remain children of God, not by adoption but because we are born in the image of God.    Those who find God in nature are partly right too.    But ‘partly right’ is all any of us can ever be.

And may we, like our friends the Quakers, look for and find ‘that which is of God in everyone.’

by Nicola Price-Tebbutt.

Fantasy isn’t my preferred reading genre, but it is popular and recently I was grateful for an opportunity to read and review The Atlas Complex[1], the final instalment of the bestselling ‘Atlas Six’ trilogy. Set in an alternative earth, six distinctive, magical, and all too human characters come to terms with their own power, and gradually recognise the ways in which they are also caught and shaped by the power inherent in societal structures. As their power grows, so do the number and kinds of choices they have available, and the reverberations of any decisions they make escalate. (We only need to consider Gaza, or the stories of the Post Office scandal, for example, to see plenty of evidence of the ways in which the decisions and actions of those with power can devastatingly impact on the lives of others.)

Within the narrative of The Atlas Complex, there is an exploration of the fluidity and complexity of power and power relationships (the clue is in the title!). Similarly, in recent years there has been much reflection on power in the Church and society alike: how we understand it, use it, and express it within our personal and collective relationships. There is increased recognition that power is not something that some ‘have’ and others do not, nor is it something intrinsically good or bad, but power is fluid and dynamic, demanding recognition and respectful, reflective use.[2] It is not just the abuse and misuse of power that causes harm, since failing to acknowledge or responsibly to exercise power can also be damaging. The fluidity of power and the number of different ways in which power is exercised and expressed within communities, families, churches and cultures, means that conversations around power can be equally fluid and multi-faceted; and thus deeply challenging, not least when navigating our own power and vulnerabilities in our relating to others.

Despite their extraordinary powers, the Atlas Six are also vulnerable, as they have to be constantly watchful for those hired to kill them. There are different forms of human vulnerability. Much theological anthropology recognises that being both powerful and vulnerable is a part of being human. Identifying and reflecting on where power and vulnerability lie, however, can often be difficult and multifaceted. Boundaries can be blurred, not least because people, contexts and cultures are different, and agreement about acceptable behaviours may vary. The Bible itself shows us this, even before there is consideration of how it has been interpreted in different places and situations across the years. In contemporary British society, the different narratives and perspectives around gender justice are one example of this complexity. It is a subject also topical in current literature. For example the thriller, One of the Good Guys, deliberately plays with shifting sympathies as it uses unreliable narrators and a mix of written media (news articles, chat forums, texts) to incorporate a range of views on women’s rights, gender relationships, and issues of consent. The reader is unsure who or what to trust, and is left with mixed and sometimes paradoxical views of the characters and their actions.  

As I read both of these novels, I was also preparing for a Methodist Covenant service[3], aware of the ways in which the language used in the covenant prayer can be difficult. Reflections on how power is used and misused prompts theological questions about God’s power and human autonomy, and ecclesiological questions about the nature and expression of authority within and by the Body of Christ. The emphasis of the Covenant service, though, is on God’s love and grace. Love and grace: these are the heart and character of the covenant relationship. We are called to bear witness to God’s steadfast love and promised new life in Christ. If grappling with issues of power can be tough, complex and sometimes overwhelming, perhaps love and grace might be touchstones to help in both our personal and communal discernment and decision-making. Seeking signs of God’s love and grace may help to reveal, and enable us to navigate, a path through.

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[1] Blake, O. (2024) The Atlas Complex. London: PanMacmillan

[2] For further reflection see the 2021 Theology of Safeguarding report, section 7(Conference 2021 Agenda Volume 2 (methodist.org.uk) and the 2023 A Justice Seeking Church: Walking with Micah Project report, section 3 (Conference 2023 Agenda Volume 1 (methodist.org.uk)).

[3] The Covenant Service (methodist.org.uk)

by Jan Berry.

Hymns and songs can have great power and are often important to us, and are the church’s most resonant and expressive form of worship. They are often linked with certain memories and associations, but many other factors are at play. Hymns are rich in their use of language, are poetic in form, and use symbol and metaphor to convey meaning. When such language is vivid and vital, it works not only at a cerebral level, but appeals to our imaginations and emotions to reach the depths of heart and mind. Rhyme, rhythm and repetition are used to intensify the experience.

Hymns are written to be sung, usually corporately, and as such, hymn-singing is participatory, a communal act. Embodied-singing engages the whole of our bodies, and so hymns can become living performances of faith and worship. This aspect of rehearsal and performance gives hymns the capacity even to shape faith. What is initiated as an expression of faith becomes, as well, a method of faith development. I’m sure there are times in our churches when all of us say or sing things we’re not really sure we believe; but nonetheless the constant repetition of statements must have its effect.

All liturgy is performative, but particularly when it is embodied in symbol or symbolic action. The act of singing a hymn will often bring about the state of mind that is expressed or desired — for example, a sense of joy and wonder, or of guilt and unworthiness. Hymns have the power to shape the faith of individuals and the community.

All rituals need to maintain honesty and integrity, and given the emotive power of hymns, this is especially the case. Ritual honesty demands that a full range of emotions should be expressed in hymns; they need to be able to express anger and lament as well as joy and praise. Ritual honesty also demands that the way these emotions are included in hymns must have meaning and resonance with the culture and experience of the singers.

As part of my work at Holy Rood House I set up a three-year project entitled Hymns for Healing. Many of the hymns currently in use associated with healing came from a different era, before the recent advances in medical science and technology, when the causes of illness and disease were less well-known. Perhaps we need new words and imagery to express our current theological understandings? A grant from the Pratt Green Trust enabled the project to develop theological reflection and research into hymnody and healing. 

The project was designed for participation by hymnwriters and composers, musicians and those who just loved singing hymns. The Hymns for Healing project led to the publication of a book Hymns of Hope and Healing, published by Stainer and Bell. Our hope was that the book would articulate the needs of a contemporary ministry of healing and be used to refresh and renew the church’s ministry of healing.

New hymn writing, as exemplified by this project, is of vital importance. If we are to aim for an honest expression and shaping of faith for our contemporary world, then we need hymns which express that. We need hymns which are inclusive, and which speak of the transitions of human experience — including traditional rites of passage as well as those transitions often overlooked or forgotten. We also need hymns that are appropriate for secular or interfaith occasions.

Music in some form or another has been part of religious worship since the time of the Psalmists. Hymns, with their rhyme and rhythm, their poetic imagery, their memories and associations, are embedded in our individual thinking and our communal worship — they are an integral part of heartfelt worship!  So let the people sing!!

For consideration:

• For you, what is the relationship between hymn singing and faith.

• It was said that Methodist hymn books in the past expressed Methodist theology. How true is that in the latest modern books?

• What are your favourite hymns and why? Are there any hymns we should no longer sing?

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

by George Bailey.

The book which has inspired me most in 2023 has been Theology in the Capitalocene by Joerg Reiger.[1] I am not fully sure yet to what extent I agree with various conclusions, but I am grateful for questions it has opened. Here are some of the significant ideas (amongst several others) and a few comments on them. I wonder if any of you are working along similar lines as 2024 begins?

The ‘Anthropocene’ is a term used over recent years to describe an era of geological time which future scientists will be able to identify by evidence for human activity preserved in the rocks, the results of pollution and climate change having long term affects. The earliest reference that Reiger cites for the alternative term ‘Capitalocene’ is from 2016.[2] To think in terms of the ‘Anthropocene’ implies that all humanity is responsible for the activity which produces climate crisis. However, it is clear that the majority of change is the result of the activity of only a minority;

‘…not all of humanity, and not even the majority of humanity, is driving the exploitation of the nonhuman environment and benefiting from it —just like the majority of humanity is hardly benefiting from the exploitation of human labor or from the largely uncontrolled CO2 emissions produced by neoliberal capitalism.’[3]

To use the term Capitalocene focuses critical attention on the economic injustice which lies behind the climate crisis, and how response must be forged by the majority reshaping the economic model within which humans interact with each other and with the nonhuman environment.

Reiger argues against ‘ecological modernization’, which is the attitude of many theological responses to climate change, because it aims to adapt the capitalist economic system, leaving power in the hands of the wealthy minority, attempting only to change the way that the majority consume the products of capitalism. The alternative he proposes sees the problem as the ‘treadmill of production’ upon which capitalist wealth generation relies. Challenging the way that human and nonhuman production is exploited by a wealthy minority is the way to address the global crisis. Reiger’s tracing of the roots of both these views is helpful. So far, I find theologians who combine the two approaches to be most convincing. Reiger does point out though that we are only at the early stages of theologians addressing these issues[4] – and his own account, which leans more towards changing the relationships governing production, is an important contribution to the debate.

Enhanced attention to the processes of production challenges theologies which propose a sharp distinction between a transcendent God and the material world. Reiger connects his account of production to the ‘new materialisms’, developed through scientific appreciation of the complexity of matter, its communications and even its agency, from atomic to biological to astronomic levels. Such materialism is helpful in theologies that are intentionally contextualized from the perspective of humans who are marginalized, oppressed and exploited, and also of the nonhuman world (e.g. liberation, feminist, and ecological theologies). These new materialisms differ from previous versions, which were defined in pure opposition to theological accounts of transcendent authority and power, because they do not deny divinity or theological language, but instead locate God and divine action in the material; ‘Transcendence, we might conclude, is not the otherworldly or the supernatural but the alternative immanence that totally reshapes dominant immanence.’[5] God is revealed in the struggle for justice and in reconciled relationships, and this is not limited to humanity, for the material of the nonhuman world is intertwined with human complexity and agency. Indeed, many new materialists would argue that nonhuman material can be the (only) context for divine salvation: ‘no bit of matter can any longer be purged of ethical meaning or indeed of revolutionary possibility.’[6]

I am finding that with more radical theological versions of new materialism, it is difficult to relate Christian language to a solely material outlook. On the other hand, there are resources to develop from within Christianity to avoid a detached transcendent God, primarily the incarnation, along with helpful strands of panentheism found in various theological traditions.

It is transformative for both new materialism and Christian theology when materialist accounts of the human and nonhuman world are brought into dialogue with the language of Scripture and Christian doctrine. Over Christmas, a church with which I minister gave away a thousand knitted angels, and so angels were a running theme. On Christmas Day I was struck by how angels bring good news to the Shepherds, who go to see the baby, God incarnate as matter, but then it is the Shepherds who share the news with others… not angels. Why does God not send more angels? Now God is with the people, in the world, and encountered through material bodies, shepherds, and in their new relationships with the people around them. And so, the gospel narrative unfolds with signs of salvation in renewed relationships between humans, formed by the Son of Man, God with us, but also with the nonhuman world, wind and waves, loaves and fishes. I am grateful to Joerg Reiger for helping me make connections between this insight and the response we must make to the ecological crisis of our age. There is much more to be explored, and I look forward to digging further in 2024, seeking ways to live differently in relation to capitalist culture, pursuing solidarity amongst and with the world’s non-wealthy majority. A last word, for now, from Reiger:

‘The solidarity among working people that emerges from this is not without its complexities, but it is so powerful because it is built on shared interests, and it extends to solidarity with the nonhuman environment as well. For theology in the Capitalocene, this means that its work is rooted not primarily in morality but in reconstructed relationships, which are inseparable from a reconstructed relationship with God from which new ethical inspiration can eventually emerge.’[7]

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[1] Joerg Reiger (2022). Theology in the Capitalocene: Ecology, Identity, Class, and Solidarity. Fortress Press, Minneapolis.

[2] ibid., p.1

[3] ibid., p.29

[4] ibid., p.33

[5] ibid., p.81

[6] Keller, Catherine and Rubenstein,Mary-Jane (2017). ‘Introduction: Tangled Matters’ in Entangled Worlds: Religion, Science, and New Materialisms. Fordham University Press, New York. p.8

[7] Reiger, p.212

by John Howard.

‘The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.’ (John 1:5 NRSV.) In most churches this verse, from the prologue of John’s Gospel, will be read during the Christmas period. Light and darkness features across the birth narrative. The shepherds are out in their fields in the darkness of night and suddenly with the angelic appearance the darkness is overcome (Luke 2:8-14). The Maji (or Wise Men) are led to the birth of Jesus by a star shining in the sky. (Matthew 2 :1, 9 & 10).

Most clear of all is the witness of John the Baptist in his testimony about Jesus, quoting again from the prologue of John’s Gospel ‘He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” (John 1 :7-8).

How do we view these images of light and dark in the context of the killings on October 7th and the subsequent slaughter of Palestinians in Gaza. Even more is the wider question of the multiple conflicts across the world of today, the ongoing threat of nuclear war and the climate crisis. We live in dark days. Where can we see the light of the Christ Child?

I recently came across a quote which I have not been able to source, but during recent months found helpful. It is “it is on the darkest nights that the stars shine brightest.” This is of course very true. Living in the Pennine countryside I am able to admire the dark sky and appreciate the many stars because I am away from the lights of the city. Taking the theological ideas of light and darkness I can identify that it can be equally true of theological light and dark. In places of violence and where terrible deeds are being done, we often seem to find the most saintly of people. The darkness of evil is convicted by the star shining out in the person of the individual showing compassion and mercy in the face of tyrany. I saw this first for myself when I visited Rwanda less than ten years after the genocide. The scars of that most terrible war were still very evident all around, but the wonderful peace building efforts of many individual and organisations were inspiring. The quality of their loving amid poverty and loss shone out and I have never forgotten it.

Is that true also of the land we call Holy, today? My two periods of service as a human rights observer, my two years living there serving in the Jerusalem Liaison Office, my continuing relationship with that land makes me suggest, even amid the fog of war, that the light will be shining out. I have met so many people, Palestinian and Israeli, who despite the years of unjust occupation, of the abuse of power, of injustice and blatant descrimination, have exemplified a different way, bringing people together across the divide, despite the walls being erected. I have seen seen Jewish Israelis abused by the Israeli Army for their willingness to stand by Palestinians as they attempt to gather harvest from their own trees. Yet these Jewish Israelis have stood by and not abandoned their Palestinian brothers and sisters. I have seen Palestinians steadfast despite huge intimidation showing a calm dignity. I have no doubt that in Gaza this Christmas this kind of light will be shining amid the darkness of the war.

The question is asked where is God in this slaughter? Where is the Christ Child born this Christmas? The light that shines amid the darkness cries out that he is under the rubble of the bombed out city streets of Gaza with the 7,000 Palestinians missing and believed to be under the rubble.

The dust and dirt of the conflict create a fog of war in which it is often difficult to see any light amidst the darkness, however, the tiny spark of the starlight light that led the maji to the birth, is lighting up the way for us today. The darkness of Hamas won’t triumph in the end. The darkness of Israel’s revenge won’t be the end of the story, the darkness of ethnic cleansing won’t be history’s conclusion about the war. At present we cannot see it for there in the darkness there is very dark. However, a star will shine out, I do believe that, for that is what our faith is all about.

by Barbara Glasson.

In the current international climate we may despair of there ever being such a thing as peace. The destruction that so swiftly happens when violence erupts destroys relationships, treaties, and intentions. Hopes for living peacefully are bomb-blasted into smithereens, anger breeds anger, grief breeds grievance, cycles of destruction seem impossible to challenge. We want to rage, to shout into the abyss of human suffering. How is it ever possible pick up these splinters and restore a place of flourishing and hope? Who will heal the traumas of the children who have witnessed atrocities, whose young lives are scarred and broken? We think peace is good and desirable but it’s hard to define. It can feel like wishful thinking rather than a real hope.

Saul was a violent man. His passionate beliefs led him to actively seek the persecution of Christians. And yet, after his experience on the Damascus road he not only turned and walked the other way, he changed his outlook in order to restore communities of love and justice. Paul’s re-building of relationships was his true conversion, not just seeing the light of faith but the transformation of his identity and demeanour. Peace is not simply the state of being when there is no war, violence, hatred or destruction. Peace is rather a presence of something different, a reverse of something or maybe we could say, a ‘conversion’. Conversion of life, both for individuals and communities means the risk of walking in a different direction altogether and being totally changed.

A man brings a shoe box into the Repair Shop. Inside are a hundred pieces of broken pottery and viewers across the nation shout from their sofas, ‘Put it in the bin!’. But the story told is not just about a broken bowl but about people fleeing from persecution, who rescued this family treasure from the home that was being bombed, who travelled across Europe and made a new life. Each piece will be cleaned and glued and placed back together, the cracks will be smoothed and the paintwork painstakingly restored. It will always be a bowl that was broken, seemingly worthless but somehow this process will transform the story and bring healing and hope.

Peace is like this belief that the story can be redeemed, that the patient, painstaking commitment of humans to humanity can prevail, not by wishful thinking but by conversion, by hard work and perseverance actively piecing things together again, time and again, repeatedly and relentlessly being prepared to walk away from justifying conflict and choosing a harder way.

We have so often used the rhetoric of war to denote Christian strength, as ‘soldiers of Christ’ we have sung that we are called to ‘put our armour on, strong in the strength that God supplies through his eternal son’. Although we can assume that Wesley was referring to the heavenly battle against sin envisioned in Ephesians, we can so easily slip into a justification for fighting battles with those who disagree with us, assuming the moral high ground. How often we miss the point that our strength is not might but perseverance, humility, love. These things may be ridiculed as weakness but they are in fact stronger than all the powers of hatred and destruction.  There is hope here, like yeast in an unpromising lump of dough, like a seed in the parched and arid earth.

Faith gives us a new kind of strength. But it also calls us to embody this in ways that may look pointless. We need to weather the ridicule and claim the strength we have within this sense of powerlessness. Our strength is a call to action, to call out violence wherever we see or hear it, to challenge the vocabulary of warfare, to resist the rhetoric that defines others as alien or enemies and to notice those who risk themselves to bring restoration and healing. Faith calls us to say that war is never a way to attain peace, that conflict may be inevitable, but hatred needn’t be. Faith calls us to continually build community, to welcome ‘the other’, to feed the stranger, to walk the extra mile – not in pious ways but with our sleeves rolled up and our brains in gear. Faith is about conversion of life, not so that we can hit someone else over the head with a sledgehammer of certainties, but rather so we can take the broken bowl of humanity and believe it is beautiful, and envision that beauty even when the bowl is shattered.

We are often already doing this in ways that are hard to measure in a society that is driven by quantifiable results. Community development work is peace building by another name and the result of its piecing together of communities is often reduction in violence, mental breakdown or civil unrest, and these things are hard to measure. The church can often collude with this, wanting measurable outcomes from investment in communities, rather than seeing the painstaking need to build trustworthy relationships that can be called upon in times of trouble. Peace is only built in this on-going way, through the cohesion of fragile pieces that will hold together within a shared story, and this means investing long-term in projects with few quantifiable results. Peace is this hard work of holding communities together, relentlessly, faithfully and sometimes despite all odds.

Our conversion of life is to be people of hope in the hardest of places. We are called to embody non-violent resistance to all the forces that shatter our society and the integrity of the world.  Ultimately war will not make peace and violence will never answer conflict. When we feel as though we are helpless in the wake of this logic, we are not. Faith, hope, love abide as strong and active verbs and peace can be pieced together in their action.

by Sheryl Anderson.

If, like me, you follow the Lectionary Sunday by Sunday then I wonder if you found the 25^th Chapter of Mathew’s Gospel a bit of a challenge. For three Sundays in a row we were presented with a series of parables that were laced with retribution, punishment and damnation. The parables of the Ten Bridesmaids, the Talents, and the Judgement of the Nations each end badly for the poor individuals who do not quite come up to scratch; respectively resulting in exclusion from the wedding feast, being thrown into the outer darkness, or sent away to eternal punishment. On this account, individuals who fail to be properly prepared for Christ’s coming, or misuse God’s gifts, or neglect to meet the practical needs of the poor get what is coming to them, and many commentaries and sermons are based on emphasising what God requires of us to ensure we do not meet the same fate.

But… this interpretation relies on the assumption that the character with the power (the bridegroom, the slave owner, the king) in each parable is God, which leads me to ask, what image of God are we using here?

There is a South African philosophical theologian of whom I am rather fond. Vincent Brümmer worked for most of his career in the Netherlands and from 1967 to 1997 was the Professor of Philosophy of Religion at the University of Utrecht in the Netherlands. Among other things he was very interested in the nature of the relationship between God and human beings and developed a way of thinking about this that I have found very helpful. Brümmer[1] suggests that there are three basic types of relationship between people: manipulative relations, contractual relations, and fellowship relations.

Manipulative relations occur when humans try to gain control over each other, such relations are inherently unequal.

‘…only A is a personal agent, whereas B has become an object of A’s manipulative power.’[1]

Furthermore, as A has power over B only A has the power to bring about, change, or end the relationship; B cannot do these things. In this sense the relationship becomes impersonal, for only one of the partners is a personal agent: the other has become an object. This describes abusive relationships, or the master / slave relationship.

Personal relationships, on the other hand are much more symmetrical: either party is able to end the relationship by withdrawing from it, but neither is able to establish or maintain the relationship alone. This applies to both the remaining models, contractual and mutual fellowship relationships. In contractual relationships two parties agree certain rights and duties toward each other, for example between an employer and an employee where wages are agreed to be given for work and work agreed to be undertaken for wages. Brümmer points out that:

‘…in contractual agreements my partner as well as the relationship have an instrumental value for me as means for furthering my own interests.’[3]

However, in relationships of mutual fellowship each party chooses to serve the interests of the other and not primarily their own: or rather, each party identifies with the partner to the extent of treating the partner’s interests as if they were their own. This distinction is crucial, as Brümmer explains:

‘…where I identify with you and your interests, your value and the value of our relationship become intrinsic for me. As such neither you nor our relationship can be replaced by another.’[4]

Other relationships may be as important or as rewarding but they are not the same relationship. Brümmer argues that relations of fellowship play a vital part in human existence, since personal value and identity are conferred on an individual by virtue of the fact that others consider them irreplaceable. He then states:

‘For religious believers this applies especially to fellowship with God. The ultimate value of my existence is bestowed on it by the fact that God loves me and not merely my services apart from me.’[5]

In the parables, if we consider the character with the power (the bridegroom, the slave owner, the king) as God then we have an image of God that is vengeful and punishing. That is, God’s relationship to human beings must be on either a manipulative or a contractual basis. However, could it not be the case that God seeks a fellowship relationship with human beings? In fact, that God identifies so strongly with humanity and humanity’s interests that they are God’s own interests? Which would make the incarnation not only reasonable, but necessary.

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[1] Brümmer, Vincent, Atonement and Reconciliation, in Religious Studies, vol 28. 1992, pp435-452

[2] Brümmer, ibid. p436

[3] Brümmer, ibid. p437

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid. p438

by Inderjit Bhogal.

Loving, compassionate and welcoming responses to refugees arriving in the UK across the English Channel are lighting up ways to challenge hostility with protective hospitality. These include small and large church congregations, like Brighton and Hove Methodist Circuit, Nailsea Methodist Church and Chester Cathedral, that have in 2023 received the recognition of Church of Sanctuary. Their prophetic responses help to unpack a little of what may be defined as a “more excellent way” of love and compassion. Challenging hostility with hospitality.

The Church of Sanctuary award recognises proven commitments to learning about sanctuary issues, embedding practices of hospitality and inclusion, and encouraging others to do the same. The purpose is to do all we can to ensure that people seeking sanctuary among us have the protective hospitality in communities and cultures of welcome and safety.

This is a constructive example of standing up to racist rhetoric and behaviour around refugees, a faith-based response to the declared intention of our government to build a hostile environment here to deter refugees from coming to the UK.

An environment of hostility: stop the boats

The hostile environment includes the vilification of refugees crossing the English Channel in small boats, and the threat to send “illegal immigrants” to Rwanda.

Boats are not only prominent in politics. They are a metaphor of human life and struggles.

The logo of the World Council of Churches, and Churches Together in England, portrays the Church as a boat afloat on the ocean of the world with a mast in the form of a cross, symbolising faith and unity and the message of the ecumenical movement.

Sadly, many of the boats in the news and media currently are unseaworthy or capsized, broken or overturned, symbols of broken institutions that fail to protect people, life savers they claim to be but moral wrecks.

An overturned boat is a tragic image, but it also has a shape of a dome or a roof.

How can people have safe routes of travel, how can a boat become a symbol of safety again, being rescued, being saved? What part can churches play in this?

Churches have not always been the sanctuary they enshrine. How can they pay more attention to their motif, and uphold the sacredness of movement, safety, building sanctuary?

After all the word ecumenical has its roots in the Greek word oikumene meaning the whole inhabited earth, and embraces, shelters, protects all people. Roof and room for all.

There are different strategies being held before us in relation to boats carrying refugees seeking sanctuary across turbulent waters.

Scripture points to “a more excellent way” (1 Corinthians 12:31).

What does “a more excellent way” mean?

These words introduce 1 Corinthians 13, a beautiful Biblical poem. Its wisdom should not be confined to wedding ceremonies.

Its original intention was to give direction to small congregations struggling to discern their best gifts and their calling, how to use their gifts in situations of opposing views and deep conflicts, and prioritises love.

It asserts that without love all gifts are a sham, a show. Words – however angelic and well meaning – without love are hollow rhetoric, like “noisy gongs or clanging symbols” (verses 1-3).

It insists that love has to be incarnated, made real and visible. We have to express love. Love is revealed and recognised in kindness, patience, humility, self-giving, truthfulness, bearing with one another, keeping hope alive, faces up to all things in life (verses 4-7).

It affirms that love is eternal, not a short-term expression, it endures, never ends. Love outlasts. The Greek word used here is pipto meaning that love never stumbles and never trips up. No other gift is “complete”, no other gift lasts as love does, no other gift compares to love (verses 8-13).

We aim at love, grow towards it, however imperfect our efforts are. It is an ongoing, never-ending pathway. We aim at perfection, complete love into eternity (1 Corinthains 13:9-12).   

Love is the “more excellent way”.

So, “pursue love” (1 Corinthians 14:1).

Wouldn’t it be great if social and political strategy was rooted in love, and that the wisdom of all people was used to work towards a more excellent way?

I offer a symbol of love, Church of Sanctuary.

Churches take pride in welcoming all. Many churches go beyond welcome and are thoroughly engaged with supporting refugees and people seeking sanctuary.

Acts of love are never erased, they strengthen the foundations and the pathways of love, for us and others – a lasting legacy.

by Raj Bharat Patta.

For ‘Christ the King’, a week before Advent, the lectionary gospel this year was Matt 25:31-46, with the Son of Man as the king judging the nations. This text offers alternative and even reverse kingship, radically different from the Roman emperors and today’s political kings and kingmakers. This is the last speech of Jesus Christ before his passion, about sheep and goats, before, ultimately, he becomes the scapegoat of the empire, for preaching the kingdom of God against the kingdom of Rome.

Christ the king reverses kingship by offering the kingdom of God to people of his choice. Those who have addressed the needs of the ‘others,’ who have been quenching thirst and feeding the hungry with food and justice suddenly became the inheritors of Christ’s kingdom. Christ the king invites all those who served the weak and vulnerable: ‘come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world’ (v.34). Christ the king offers his kingdom based on God’s grace to people who challenged the structures and offered hope by sharing food, water, clothing, shelter and care. It is important to recognise that it is God’s grace that chooses people to inherit the kingdom of God, and it is God’s grace that helps them to serve the vulnerable in society. No one can serve the ‘other’ by their own strength and merit.

Christ the king reverses kingship by choosing the vulnerable, the least in society, the outsiders as his family members: anything done to such people is done unto him (v.40). By reversing the norms of power and status, Christ the king chooses people who are hungry, thirsty, poor, sick, foreigners and strangers, and in prison, those who are supposedly the ‘invalids’ in society, as his family members. It takes courage to choose such vulnerable people as valuable, and even to make them a family. This is Christ the king’s radical reversal from the norm of power.

All that matters in this life, according to Christ the king is this: it is only love that thrives. Particularly love for the ‘other’, the outsiders, powerless and vulnerable is the yardstick to demonstrate the grace of God in our lives and communities. Three particular points for us as a Church can be drawn from this text.

Firstly, does our church’s mission mandate match this message, that love for the ‘other’ in actions thrives? Feeding the hungry, giving a drink to the thirsty, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, caring for the sick and visiting the imprisoned; these six representative acts of love in action to vulnerable people should be the activity of our churches. When our mission is such, we are truly serving Christ the king. Church is all about serving our community in love, outside the walls of our church building, and particularly the most vulnerable people.

Secondly, Christ the king chose not to be with the powers but consciously chose the powerless as his family members. In aligning with Christ, we are called to give up pride, positions, and power and seek to identify with the weak and vulnerable in our communities. The call is clear and loud; to give up our privilege and supremacy. It is time to relocate our churches to the margins of society, away from the centres of power, for among such people does Christ pitch his tent. As a church, if we want to encounter Christ today, we must pitch our tents with Jesus on such sites of margins and vulnerability.

Thirdly, Christ the king distinguishes those that demonstrate love in action to the ‘outsiders’ from those who don’t demonstrate love in action to the ‘outsiders.’ The calling from this text is to move from not demonstrating love in action to demonstrating love in action, for Christ the king is a God of love and justice, and would not want anyone to be lost. This text is a challenge and encouragement to submit ourselves to the grace of God who receives anyone and everyone into her fold.

In most versions of the Bible this text is titled ‘judgement of the nations’, but I propose two better titles. First is ‘Christ the king’s reverse kingship from power to love,’ and second is ‘Love alone thrives, for love to the “outsider” is all that matters.’ This text thus serves as a curtain-raiser to the story of Christmas, where God in Jesus Christ reverses kingship by pitching his tent with the margins, being born as a baby in Bethlehem. To demonstrate love in action to this world, God comes down as a child born of Mary, identifying with the weak, the vulnerable and the outsiders. The whole story of Christmas is a celebration of the reverse kingship of God, for God did not come to discipline the world with a cane in his hand, nor as a rich guy enjoying all the privileges and comforts of life. Rather, God came down as a baby, born in a manger, in a corner of the Roman empire, to give life in all its fullness to the entire creation. If I need a Biblical advert for Christmas, I will choose this text as my plot to convey the message that ‘love alone thrives, for God in Jesus was born for love, offering love as a way forward for any life situation.’

As we begin the season of Advent, let us strive in keeping Christ the reason for this season, and if Christ is the reason, then his family members, the vulnerable, weak, powerless and the outsiders should be at the heart of our mission and ministry of love.