Theology Everywhere

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.

by Ruth Gee.

At the end of October I visited Rome with my daughter, as she had never been to the city we did much as possible in the few days we were there. On the final day of our visit we joined a guided tour of the Forum and the Colosseum. The guide introduced himself as an archaeologist who had worked for ten years on the Palatine Hill. He was clearly knowledgeable about the history and archaeology of the site. Inside the Colosseum he described in some detail the pageant and brutality of the events that had taken place, designed to glorify individuals, to pull people together in times of disagreement, or to make a political point. As the three-hour tour was ending he drew our attention to the cross which stands at the site of the emperor’s box. He then told the group about the annual Via Crucis or Way of the Cross ceremony, traditionally led by the Pope on Good Friday, when thousands gather with lighted candles outside the Colosseum and prayers are said at four stations of the cross. Our guide described this as Christians praying to their God and forgetting or covering up the brutal history of the place. He did not approve and it seemed that many in the group agreed with him.

As I listened to our guide I wanted to say that, far from wiping out the memory of brutality and suffering, Good Friday is the time when we recognise that Christ stands among those who suffer, stands against injustice and offers the hope of transformation. This year, at each of the four stations, accounts of suffering of migrants and refugees from war, civil warfare or hunger, were read aloud. The theme of the procession was “voices of peace in a time of war.”

Sadly, the Christian message was not communicated to at least one person because it was concealed by ceremony and symbolism that was not understood. While Christians were remembering the transformational and restorative love of God in Christ, our guide felt that the symbolism of the Colosseum as a place of violence and death was being forgotten and devalued.

A few weeks later, I stood in the cold and rain alongside my colleague from the Church in Wales and civic representatives. We were at the war memorial in the centre of the town where we led prayers, kept silence together and sang hymns. I reflected that my shivering in the rain and cold was little in comparison with those fleeing in terror from bombarded homes, or those who had spent months in the horror of the trenches.

Wreaths were laid by representatives from the armed forces and many community organisations. We spoke of the love of God in Christ, prayed for all those affected by war and remembered the conflicts of today as well as those of the past.

One of the standard bearers from the forces was a chaplain, her presence embodied something of what it means to stand alongside those who experience extreme conflict and trauma. Through readings, prayers and hymns we were trying to share the truth that Christ stands among those who suffer, stands against injustice and offers the hope of transformation.

Among Methodists and others there is a range of differing views about the commemorations that take place on Remembrance Sunday. For some in this range of views they are occasions that celebrate or even glorify war and warriors; for some they are an opportunity to remember lives lost, to lament and to commit to working for peace. The symbolism of poppies, processions, bands and marches is powerful and evokes a variety of responses and memories.

In the report to the 2023 Methodist Conference, “A Justice-seeking Church: the report of the Walking with Micah project” we are reminded of the rootedness in our tradition of the commitment to seeking justice. We are also reminded that this commitment to justice and to peace is a gospel imperative, shaping all our relationships, because we know and experience a God who is just.[1]

As I reflect on my recent experiences in Rome and in North Wales alongside our commitment to be a justice seeking church, proclaiming the good news and working for justice and peace, I am left with (at least) two questions:

• How might we better communicate the gospel message of the transforming love of God in Christ and of commitment to justice and peace, when we participate in public events?

• How can we ensure that the symbols we use are contextually appropriate?
  

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[1] A Justice-seeking Church: the report of the Walking with Micah project, 2023 para 6

by Leslie Newton.

Arguably the most influential driver for the remarkable growth of early Methodism was Wesley’s creation of a dynamic network of ‘spaces for grace.’  As Wesley’s own life was shaped by God’s amazing grace, so he discovered that receiving and responding to grace is foundational to everyone’s growing in faith and, crucially, something best done together.

Grace, of course, is a cherished treasure at the heart of Christianity in general, but for Methodists it has historically held a particularly rich and distinctive place. “For the ‘people called Methodists’ grace is nothing less than the defining, shaping and underpinning energy that flows at the very heart of the movement.”[1] It embraces the Wesley-an ‘waves of grace’[2]: ‘prevenient grace’, ‘justifying grace’ and ‘sanctifying grace.’[3]  Alongside these ‘waves of grace’ we also have the ‘means of grace’ (such as prayer, scripture, communion, fasting, and conferring). Devoting ourselves to the ‘means of grace’ is vital if God’s transforming grace is going to continue to help us grow. As Randy Maddox so helpfully puts it, it’s about “responsible grace”[4]: we have our part to play, responsibly, in continuing to grow in grace. 

So, here’s some challenge for us. 

• Is there not a danger that we have lost confidence in the power of God’s grace to transform us, our communities and the world? 
• Have we instead too often settled for a church that runs more on guilt than grace, more out of anxiety than assurance?
• Is it not high time that we once again yield our lives, and our life together, to the transformative potential of God’s grace?

As I began, part of John Wesley’s genius lay in creating a network of ‘spaces for grace.’ These included the field, bands, classes and societies, where ‘waves of grace’ flowed as people attended to the ‘means of grace’ together.  Through this lens our discipleship is first and foremost forged by our intentional, risky-but-committed participation in this network of ‘spaces of grace.’  Out of this is shaped our response: in vocation, service and generous gracious living. 

What does this all mean for us as the Methodist Church today? My hunch is that we need to focus our best imagination and energy in recreating and developing a rich tapestry of purposeful ‘spaces for grace.’  

With space-limited bluntness, I point to two radical reorientations I think are essential:

1. Away from attaching too much expectation about the Sunday congregational gathering being able to achieve all that is so often implied.  These times can indeed be a ‘space for grace’ but they should not be seen as the primary building block of a movement seeking to be fashioned and empowered by ‘waves of grace’ and through ‘means of grace.’  

Towards, a greater commitment to smaller, committed groups focussed around an openness to God’s unexpected activity, mutual accountability, and deeper sharing.  All with an expectant longing for more of Jesus’ gracious presence.

• Away from too easy a satisfaction, all too often, with ‘just’ providing opportunities for people to be gathered together.  Of course, there is often enormous benefit and Christian service in such times (coffee mornings, warm spaces, speaker-led fellowship gatherings etc.)  They are good: they can be wonderful ‘spaces for grace,’ particularly of prevenient grace.  But without them being part of a fuller network of ‘spaces for grace’ we are so limited and limiting in what we are offering.

Towards, alongside such gatherings, a more courageous, Jesus-centred offering of other spaces; spaces of grace with huge contextual variety and shade, but with an intentionality to share the Jesus story, to invite people to grow in grace, to discover the Good News of the gospel personally – that Jesus really is Emmanuel – God with us – that he really has moved into every neighbourhood, full of grace and truth.

Wesley quickly learned that a network and flow of ‘spaces of grace’ was vital for the ‘people called Methodists’ to continue to grow in grace and for new people to enter into, and grow in, a life of faith. [5]  What was true then is true now.

So, at a time when the church is prone to be almost paralyzingly anxious that it is running low on resources of money, energy and even time, let’s celebrate that the resource we most need – grace – is inexhaustible and in constant supply!  Might we then set about developing a richer, more diverse and creative network of ‘spaces of grace’ that once again offer us – and the world – the hope of spiritual and social transformation?

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[1] From my book, Revive Us Again, page 52. Available here –https://amzn.eu/d/6cj8eow
More information at: https://www.publishu.com/books/revive-us-again

[2] Beck, M, A Field Guide to Methodist Fresh Expressions, page 40

[3] Prevenient grace, meaning the grace that ‘comes before,’ bridges the gap between God and humanity. It makes possible our response to God’s forgiving and reconciling grace. Justifying grace assures us of the forgiveness and acceptance of God, aligning us with God’s gracious gift of new life. Sanctifying grace, the grace that perfects, shapes the restoring of humanity into the image of God and the conforming of all creation into the image of Christ.

[4] Maddox, R, Responsible Grace: John Wesley’s Practical Theology page 41

[5] Indeed, as Wesley himself put it so bluntly in his journal: “I was more convinced than ever, that the preaching like an Apostle, without joining together those that are awakened, and training them up in the ways of God, is only begetting children of the murderer…. [with]…. no regular societies, no discipline, no order of connection…. the consequence is that nine in ten of the once-awakened are now faster asleep than ever.’

by Ben Pugh.

On 17^th October this year, I gave the annual Samuel Chadwick Lecture at Cliff College. My theme was ‘The Gospel in a Material World.’ My talk developed ideas I explored in my earlier post for Theology Everywhere. What had changed since that earlier post was that, by the time I gave the Samuel Chadwick Lecture, I had had a bit of a eureka moment. I now felt I had a clarifying lens for modern secularity: Epicureanism. It captures all the facets of secularism: especially the recurring Western cultural traits of philosophical materialism, religious indifference, and individualism. Not only that, but Epicureanism, a hugely popular philosophy in the Roman world, connects us to a significant aspect of the context in which Christianity first arose. This means that there is the exciting possibility of discovering that Paul, for instance, is already addressing Epicureanism in his letters and thereby supplying those of us who preach and teach today with some made-to-measure ways of putting things that might connect with the recovering Epicureans who sit in our pews. The dampener, of course, is that Epicureans get only one explicit mention throughout the entire New Testament (Acts 17:18). This is a sobering warning to me. Indeed, a certain Norman Wentworth De Witt, in 1954 produced the perfect example of an over-cooked, over-confident reading-in of Epicurean ideas in Paul’s writings.[1] De Witt seemed to believe that most of Paul has been mistranslated and if we only understand all the places where Paul is as anonymously ridiculing Epicurus, we will get Paul’s drift. The book stands as a shining example to me of how not to go about this. However, in this short post I’ll not be attempting much by way of New Testament study. For now, I just want to try on this Epicurean lens to see what becomes clearer about our culture.  

Epicureans were followers of Epicurus (341-270BC) and subscribed to a materialist dogma. De Witt was probably right about that at least: it was the only Greek Philosophy with a fixed dogma. The Epicureans believed in atoms, like we do. They were devout empiricists, believing emphatically that certain knowledge of the universe was to be gained via sense perceptions. Ethically, they were utilitarian like we mostly are, always asking the question: what can promote the greatest amount of happiness and the least amount of pain for the greatest number of people? They were ruggedly self-reliant and individualist, adamantly rejecting anything such as fate or divine providence that might unseat their unbridled self-determination. And they were not religious. Indeed, they saw religion as part of the problem. They were castigated by Philo for being atheists, as well for being hedonistic and holding to a view of the cosmos that was too mechanistic.

Sounds familiar! But the most prized doctrine they held to, which emerged logically from their materialistic atomism, was the rejection of the idea of an afterlife. They felt strongly that ideas about facing judgment after we die were among the most troubling things we entertain and the quicker we get rid of such thoughts the sooner we can enjoy an untroubled and happy life. So, they opted for the belief that people’s souls were made of atoms, just like their bodies, and hence disintegrate after death. Epicurus himself stridently asserted: ‘Death is nothing to us; for the body, when it has been resolved into its elements, has no feeling; and that which has no feeling is nothing to us.’[2] Epicureans, then as now, believed they had hamstrung religion’s most persuasive claims simply by disposing of the afterlife. A very common inscription on tombs was the Latin Non fui, fui, non sum, non desidero: ‘I was not; I was; I am not; I do not care.’

Despite its immense popularity among the middle classes of the ancient world, Epicurean materialism did not manage to keep its hold over the popular imagination and does not reappear until the early modern era. Many of the early Enlightenment thinkers were enamoured with Epicurus’ atomism. Inspired by him, Thomas Hobbes offered his famously desolate pronouncement: ‘. . . every part of the universe is body, and that which is not body is no part of the universe. And because the universe is all, that which is no part of it, is nothing (and consequently, nowhere).^[3]

The rediscovery of Epicureanism in the early modern period has had a lasting effect upon our culture. Today, the very idea of having a faith is problematic: we don’t understand what it is or why it’s necessary. But there is another blind spot too. It is this: we can’t understand what it looks and feels like to be in union with Christ. Our entrenched individualism gets in the way, and our materialism for that matter.

When teaching the Gentiles Paul learned, perhaps the hard way, to foreground the wonderful ‘in Christ’ life that had come to mean so much to him: a fullness of life enjoyed in the here and now. We too need our eyes opening afresh to what it means to be ‘joined to the Lord,’ and ‘one spirit with him’ (1Cor.6:17); coordinated in thought, feeling, will, speech and action with the crucified and glorified Christ; our seeing, hearing, feelings and tastes occupied and sanctified by Christ in us, the hope of glory.

Watch the 2023 Samuel Chadwick Lecture here

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[1]St Paul and Epicurus (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1954).

[2] Diogenes Laertius, X. 139

[3] Hobbes, Leviathan, 46.15.

by Elaine Lindridge.

The challenging title of the book ‘Do I Stay A Christian?[1]’ caught my eye in the bookshop and even as I bought it I knew it would not be an easy read.

I’ve read several books by the author (Brian McLaren) and have found that he often addresses questions I have been trying to verbalise. This book states that it is ‘a guide for the doubters, the disappointed and the disillusioned’. Part One; entitled ‘No’ gives reasons why not to remain a Christian, whilst Part Two ‘Yes’ gives reasons to remain. It was the final Part 3 that I found the most helpful as McLaren addresses the question of ’How?’.

As I journeyed slowly through the book I found it almost excruciating to recall our chequered Christian history of colonialism, violence, failure and toxicity. There was nothing new to me in these chapters but to have them all together literally in black and white before me was incredibly sobering.

The chapters giving reasons to stay a Christian managed to avoid a saccharin like hope that is not build on any realism.  One chapter boldly states that leaving defiantly or staying compliantly are not our only options. I like that!

‘Renounce and Announce’ is the title of one of the final chapters that addresses the question of ‘how’ to remain a Christian.  McLaren talks of ‘coming out’ as being one of the many gifts our LGBTQ siblings have given us[2]. In ‘coming out’ an individual announces that ‘you have thought of me one way, but I have come to understand myself in a different way, and I want to let you know’. He then goes on to encourage the reader to consider how they might ‘come out’ as one who decides to leave Christianity or remain a Christian in a constructive way.

So here is my ‘coming out’ announcement.

I have changed. Those who know me personally may have thought of me in one way, but I have come to understand myself in a different way. For me the term ‘Christian’ carries as many negative as positive connotations and at times I’m not keen to own it. Orthodoxy has become a fluid term, as I’m not sure what I believe anymore – but I’m content with that.

 This all has the danger of sounding like negative introspection and of endorsing an unhelpful individuality, all of which I would certainly want to avoid.  

Some might find it shocking that as a Presbyter in the Methodist Church I could ever have even entertained the idea of not remaining a Christian but let me tell you – I’m not the only one. I am regularly finding myself in conversations with others who are (as the book says) doubters, disappointed and disillusioned, although to be fair that is often aimed at the church and not at God. Yet in the midst of that they are meeting God in deeper ways as they seek to make sense of their new reality. In a sense, new communities of god-seekers are emerging. Let me assure you that whilst I might at times struggle with the title ‘Christian’ and all the baggage that goes with it, it does not equate that I am not still deeply attracted to the life of Jesus. I seek to encounter God in my daily life and look for ways to share this universal love with others.  I feel like I have been born again…again. Some of the old me has died and something new has come to life. Prayer, meditation, contemplation has become more accessible and I sense God more profoundly and abundantly than ever.

The purpose of this blog is to raise a flag that says ‘I’m here’. If you have been experiencing something similar, please know that you are not alone. My hope and prayer is that the Methodist Church (and the wider church) can keep its arms of love and acceptance boldly open to those who are seeking to remain Christian.  We might not fit quite as neatly into the Christian box or into the Church’s idea of what it means to be a Jesus follower, but we’re still here.

I hand back over to Brian McLaren for the final word,

‘If others reject us or prefer that we leave, so be it. In the long run, we will find it better to be rejected for who we are than accepted for who we aren’t. Whether we have shifted out of Christianity entirely or into a new kind of Christianity, we have to be courageous enough to come out of our closets and go public, not minimising the change, not feeling embarrassed about who we are becoming, not hiding our light under a bushel of polite ambiguity’. [3]

May God’s blessing be upon each reader.

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[1] Do I Stay A Christian? Brian McLaren. Hodder & Stoughton 2022

[2] p.280

[3] p.284