Theology Everywhere

by Philp Turner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

^[6] See Mark 1.13.

^[7] Hebrews 4.15

^[8] Matthew 4.1-11

^[9] Luke 4.1-13

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

by Richard Clutterbuck.

Theology Everywhere is an intriguing and ambiguous title.  Both words can carry a variety of meaning. Let me try and tease this out a little through my own story. Forty-five years ago, in January 1979, I flew out of Heathrow, on my first ever flight, to begin my  presbyteral ministry as a mission partner in the South Pacific islands of Tonga. Suddenly I found myself on the other side of the world, a stranger in a (to me) strange land. It’s almost impossible for me to convey just how disorientating it was. Climate, language, culture, geography: everything was unfamiliar and difficult to adjust to. And yet I was still within the wider family of the Christian Church and, more specifically, the Methodist family. Day by day, in college chapel, we sang in Tongan translation the great Wesleyan hymns. On Sunday mornings we prayed through Wesleyan Morning Prayer, translated by Victorian missionaries. I can still sing the first verse of Love Divine in Tongan, and make a stab at reciting the opening  preface to Morning Prayer. My job was teaching theology in the college of the Free Wesleyan Church of Tonga, an autonomous church that took on the role of supervising my probation and, the following year, ordaining me to the ministry of word and sacrament. In those days, little was heard of contextual theology and so most of my teaching was based on textbooks imported from Western Europe and North America. Unsurprisingly, many of them were totally unsuitable for the situation in Oceania.

One way of reading my story would be in terms of the history of colonialism, in which the arrival of European missionaries in the Pacific islands was part and parcel of the economic, cultural and religious domination of indigenous people by powerful outsiders. My own ministry would then be a late flourish in an intellectual colonialism, an anachronistic attempt to maintain an influence that had lost its relevance. This perspective is deeply suspicious of a Theology Everywhere that might imply one (white, European) theology serving each and every situation. That post-colonial theological perspective has been at the forefront in recent decades, with authors such as  the Sri Lankan, R S Sugirtharajah (see, for example, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation, OUP, 2002) arguing for a theology that dethrones Western norms and replaces them with contextual theologies from the margins. More recently, Tongan theologian Jione Havea ( e.g. his Reading Ruth in the Pacific, SCM, 2021)  has worked on post-colonial theology in an Oceanic setting, developing grass-roots perspectives that challenge both European norms and local authority structures.

There is a need to take on board this post-colonial challenge. There has been something deeply wrong about a ‘one-size fits all’ theology – especially when it is our theology and based on our size. Contrasting and competing theological voices need to be heard. That is true in the Everywhere of the world-wide Church; it is also true of the Church in each place, so that feminist, black, gay and other perspectives are properly recognised.

And yet – this, at least, is my belief – there is more to Theology Everywhere than the sum total of all local, contextual and identity theologies. So, here’s how I would begin to explain it:

• The Everywhere of theology is the whole inhabited earth, in all its richness and diversity, and it is the wholeness of each particular context. It is an Everywhere that is both global and locally contextual.
  
  
• Furthermore, this Everywhere has a temporal dimension alongside the dimensions of geographical and cultural identity. It embraces the Hebrew and Christian scriptures (with their multitude of voices), together with the many voices that have sounded in the history of Christian theology.
  
  
• The Theology that is Everywhere is both the multitude of different contextual and identity theologies and   a shared theology that links together the many theological elsewheres and makes them an Everywhere.
  
  
• The shared Theology that is Everywhere needs to be negotiated, confessionally and ecumenically. The Faith and Order movement within the World Council of Churches may not be glamorous, but its projects (like Baptism, Eucharist and Ministry and the more recent The Church, Towards a Common Vision) provide a mechanism for the many local churches of the world to have a voice in the shared theology that belongs everywhere.
  
  
• This will mean a chastened role for Christian doctrine (the shared theology of Christians everywhere), but an important role nonetheless. Theology needs to be both something that holds us together as well as something that marks out our distinctions. It is, after all, the same God who meets us here, there and everywhere.

by Carolyn Lawrence.

During February we mark Valentine’s Day, an occasion to celebrate relationships, and also for some retailers to make a lot of money!   Relationships of all kinds are vitally important and they all take working at – whether that be in a marriage, a parent/child bond, a friendship, with a neighbour, work colleague or relationships within a church. 

Relationships can be difficult and cause a lot of worry and stress in our lives.  Not everyone is easy to get on with – especially in our families!   A woman testified to the transformation in her life since she had been a Christian.  She declared, ‘I’m so glad I’m a Christian now.  I have an uncle I used to hate so much that I vowed I would never go to his funeral.  But now, why, I’d be happy to go to his funeral any time!’

As we draw closer to Jesus we should find that it has an impact on our relationships with others. 

Every one of us is wronged at some point in different ways and all of us will have done something to upset someone else and it is important to learn how to deal with these offences as they arise so that they don’t destroy us and our relationships. 

There are of course different levels of offence and they often need to be dealt with in different ways.  Some minor offences such as when someone cuts in front of us in a queue or forgets to respond to one of our messages can easily be shrugged off, but other offences are harder to deal with.  Indeed some injustices, which thankfully may be rarer, are so life shattering that we may need support through prayer and counselling over time to come to terms with what has happened.

However, most of the legitimate hurts we experience can be resolved if we have a will to bring healing and peace in our relationships.  Unresolved relational rifts and breakdowns can make life complicated.   I grew up in a family that was always arguing and falling out with each other and it was very stressful trying to remember who was talking to who and who we were meant to be avoiding!

Dealing with issues can be hard but in the long run it makes life simpler and brings us peace.   Jesus, as always, gives good advice about how to act when someone has wronged us in Matthew 18: 15-17 (NIV). 

‘If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over. But if they will not listen, take one or two others along, so that ‘every matter may be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.’If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church; and if they refuse to listen even to the church, treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector.’

We learn from this passage that if we have an issue with someone we should do five things:

1. Go (don’t ignore it)
2. Go alone (don’t gossip)
3. Go to reconcile (in love and peace not to vent anger)
4. Go now (as soon as possible)
5. Let it go (Romans 12:18 (NIV) ‘If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone’. If the person refuses to be reconciled, give it to God)

So much hearsay, gossip and bad feelings within relationships, families and churches could be avoided if this wise advice was followed and some of the issues between us were resolved face to face. 

I wonder if there is there someone you need to go and talk to today about a legitimate hurt?   Maybe God is calling you to be reconciled to someone who has hurt you or maybe you need to go to someone to apologise for a hurt you have caused to them?

Building good relationships takes commitment from each one of us to refrain from negative speaking (in person or on social media), to refuse to listen to negative speaking from others, to refuse to be easily offended by things others may say or do that we don’t like and to work together to be gracious, merciful and tolerant of each other. 

My prayer is that, with God’s help, we will each do everything in our power to live at peace with one another and to be peacemakers amongst our friends, families, communities and churches.  As the saying goes, ‘May there be peace on earth, and may it begin with me.’

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.