Life in all its fullness – faith and chronic illness

by Christine Odell.

At the Pool of Bethesda, among the great number of sick people, ‘One person who was there had been disabled for 38 years.  Jesus saw him lying there. He knew that the man had been in that condition for a long time. So he asked him, “Do you want to get well?”’ (Jn 5:5,6 NrIV).  The man reacted by making an excuse for his inability to get into the healing waters. Perhaps, rather than being accusatory, Jesus’s question was seeking consent to touch, agreement to be healed.  But this story speaks of the marginalisation and disabling of those who are ill, as well as raising questions about the search for, and nature of, health.

Our daughter, now in her early thirties, is disabled by three chronic illnesses and also has to spend most of her time lying down.  The relatively recent rise of the incidence of chronic illness in younger people is little understood. My mother suffered from a disabling chronic illness for the last 23 years of her life.  In the United Kingdom almost half of the population is recorded as having chronic illness – of varying degrees of intensity, and often age related.  Most families will be touched by this.  The wholeness of health, mobility, ability to ‘do’ is perceived as ‘normal life’ but, because it is so often experienced as fleeting, this is a perception to be challenged, ‘…any difference is simply between disabled and temporarily able bodied.’[1]

So what can ‘life in all its fullness’ (Jn 10;10b) mean for the Christian with chronic illness? How can they live the life of faith when much that society (and church) sees as ‘normal’, essential and desirable is denied them?  Are they heard when they say ‘I am not trying to be recovered, I am claiming my self-worth’.[2]

In their helpful book, Your Companion through Chronic Illness,[3] Shadbolt and Long set out the myths about chronic illness that Christians should dispel:

  1. ‘It’s a sign of God’s displeasure.’ – Suffering is a fact of nature (Matt 5:45).
  2. ‘Illness is your fault.’ ‘Who sinned, this man or his parents?’ (Jn 9:2).
  3. ‘It is all in your head.’ But it’s your mind and body, you know them best.  Accusations like this have been made against those with ME/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but sufferers know better and medical science is slowly catching up.
  4. ‘There’s a simple solution that you’re missing.’ (!)
  5. ‘Life will never be good again.’
  6. ‘Nobody will want to be with you now.’

All of these myths are destructive of a sense of self-worth, of experiencing the life in all its fullness that Jesus offers.

Modern society worships ‘doing’ and success, health, and self-fulfilment, living ‘our best lives’.  But the lifestyle this society prizes is beyond the reach of those with chronic illness.  Even within the church there is a tendency to expect that Christians will be busy and happy.  ‘Keep busy, Jesus is coming!’ ‘Smile, Jesus loves you!’ The question ‘How can one suffering from chronic illness be a ‘real’ Christian, if the effort required just to live precludes worship and service?’ gets ignored.

Luan Huska writes ‘While there is much about your disease you cannot control, you can control your attitude and approach to it.’[4] Those with chronic illness are forced to find a new way of living and thinking that incorporates and values who they are now.  God coming to us in Christ encourages us to ‘be’ in our bodies, however broken and disloyal.  This is who we are and this is how we experience God with us, and whatever we can offer in return, in loving faith, is acceptable to God. Jesus said ‘Come to me, all who are weary and whose load is heavy; I will give you rest… for my yoke is easy to wear, my load is light.’ (Matt 11:26, 30)- a challenge to our Christian life/work or being/doing balance!

The values of society and our own weakness in bearing one another’s burdens have made the church community a difficult place for some Christians with chronic illness.  There is a perceived need to hide suffering, both physical and spiritual, to wear a ‘shining Sunday’ face. But in churches where we see the Suffering Christ on the Cross, we are reminded that God is with us in suffering, that this is the place to come, to lament as well as to praise.  God does not ‘turn His face away’ (MP 988). The crucifix foreshadows the empty Cross of the Resurrection that gives us hope in the victory of love, the promise of New Life.

And the gift of life in all its fullness, the gift of wholeness is offered freely to all, is to be experienced even in the brokenness, the limitations and the frustrations of our own incarnate lives.

How the church community can help those with chronic illness experience that gift is for another article!

[1] Deborah Beth Creamer, Disability and Christian Theology – Embodied Limits and Constructive Possibilities (New York: OUP, 2008) quoted by Liuan Huska in Hurting Yet Whole (see fn 4)

[2] Alice Hattrick, Ill Feelings, (Fitzcarraldo, 2021)

[3] Elaine Shadbolt and Nancy Long Your Companion through Chronic Illness (Abingdon Press, 2019)

[4] Liuan Huska, Hurting Yet Whole (IVP, 2020)

The Only Way is Up?

by Paul Bridges.

Back in 1998 Yazz and the Plastic population sang to us that “the only way is up”. Other than fondly remembering the days of such delightfully named pop groups, I have been wondering if that is true. And more specifically if it is true in our theological thinking. Now I don’t mean that all our theological thinking is heavenward, because heaven may not be a place in that sense and it certainly does not appear to be hiding in the stars. Rather I am wondering if our theological thoughts and understanding has to progress in an linear fashion, where the more we do it the closer we get to “The Truth”.

In many aspects of life there is a hidden assumption that this is the case. The harder the athlete trains and the better they execute their skills, then the faster, higher or longer they will go. The maths or history we learn at infant school is superseded by that which we learn at junior school and this process is repeated once again at high school and even again at university if we reach this level.

Our economy, at least in the West, is predicated on the idea that we need to grow and this is the only definition of success – bigger is better. In so many aspects of our lives progress is seen as only having one direction.

During a recent house group conversation, we were asked to share a Bible passage that had significant meaning to us, and another passage that troubled us. As I reflected on my choices I realised that the meaningful passage (Isaiah 43:1-7), whilst still having real meaning for me, I now understand in a very different way than I first did 30+ years ago. Thinking more about this, I realised that the value and meaning that I have found in this passage has changed multiple times over those years. At the time, when I first felt this passage speaking to me it had a very personal meaning. I can see now that at times it has spoken to me not as an individual but as part of a community, and again at other times I have found meaning in the historical legacy and tradition that this passage is part of.

Each way the passage has spoken to me reflects something of how I understand God, but with the benefit of hindsight I can also see it reflects where I was in my life at that particular time. My theology has not developed incrementally but thematically as my life experienced, joy and grief, health and illness, youth and experience.

Many of us through our lives can see how our understanding of the Divine has changed and developed over the years and it is tempting to assume that our understanding has got better. The problem is that as a collection of God’s people our deepening understanding a s we go through life is not always in the same direction.

This assumption also affect how we understand the faith of others, now and of people of faith down the years. This quote from John Dominic Crossan illustrates, I think, the meaning and understanding that we can miss if we assume that theological development only happens in one direction.

“My point, once again, is not that those ancient people told literal stories and we are now smart enough to take them symbolically, but that they told them symbolically and we are now dumb enough to take them literally.”[1]

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator® (MBTI) is generally considered to be the most researched and validated psychological tool in existence. It is noteworthy for its use by many Christian communities and the way that it can help people to understand themselves, others and their relationship with God. (If you can find a copy, I recommend Pray Your Way: Your Personality and God, by Bruce Duncan)

MBTI is not a personality test – there is no right or wrong answer, nor does it tell you how you behave, rather it shows what your natural preferences are. But importantly, we can, all when necessary, act in other ways. As we grow older, many of us start to slowly become more confident to behave in new ways. We might discover delight in trying new things and whilst they may never become as fluent as our natural preferences, MBTI practitioners believe that we often find real value and meaning in these later life developments. In his book Bruce Duncan shows how this can be true for the development of spirituality especially in mid and later life. By using part of our personality that are not our go to approach we can open up new understanding of God. The development of mid and older life spirituality is just one example of how we can find God by going backwards or even sideways.

The “Only Way is Up” may not be true after all! 

[1] John Dominic Crossan and Richard G Watts (1996), Who is Jesus?: answers to your questions about the historical Jesus, Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, p.79

“There’s always the Our Father.”

by Jennie Hurd.

My first Spiritual Director was a wonderful, older, Poor Clare nun called Mother Paula. Heaven knows what she made of the young Methodist probationer presbyter who came to visit her, but she listened patiently and offered words of wisdom that I treasure to this day. During one conversation on prayer and the challenge of praying, she floored me with the profundity and simplicity of her advice: “There’s always the Our Father.”

Until then, I had considered the Lord’s Prayer to be predominantly for corporate worship and not for personal devotion. The clue was in its grammar, surely – “Our,” “us” – and I had been taught from childhood that God wanted to hear from me personally, in my own words. Mother Paula’s wisdom transformed my attitude to the Lord’s Prayer. It became an essential part of my daily devotions, but it is especially precious now as a mindful meditation when I find myself on ‘Planet 3 a.m.’ and, over the years, in those pastoral situations and difficult meetings where other words simply fail. As Mother Paula said, “There’s always the Our Father.” As followers of Jesus, it unites us. As an expression of our relationship with God, it brings us into relationship with all who have prayed similarly in very varied circumstances over the centuries.

I am not a Greek scholar, and so my understanding of the Lord’s Prayer has been expanded by the nuances of other different translations and versions that are available to us. Always, however, the pattern remains the same: it begins with God – “Our Father…”; it moves to we who pray – “Give us today…”; it returns to God – “For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours…” For me, it gives a pattern for living, with God as our beginning and end, our context, the one in whom “we live and move and have our being”.[1] In spite of these three apparent movements through the pattern of the prayer, I perceive a pivot point which comes when we move from “Your kingdom come, Your will be done” to “Give us today…” – a kind of shift, if you like, as the prayer becomes a more of a conversation, a dialogue, and so the blueprint for all our prayers.

Two words from the traditional version of the Lord’s Prayer have recently repaid further reflection: “trespasses” and “temptation.” According to Nick Hayes, “’Trespass’ is one of the most charged words in the English language.”[2]  Even in its legal context, it still carries a “moral stigma.”[3] He points out the irony that it was the freethinking Bible translator William Tyndale who incorporated it into the Lord’s Prayer and therefore deeply into the English language. Contemporary versions use the word “sins” or “debts,” drawing on the gospels of Luke and Matthew respectively, and William Barclay commends the former for its simplicity[4]. I sense Mother Paula would approve.

Having worked in Wales for much of my ministry, I have learnt that the Welsh word used for “temptation” in the Lord’s Prayer is “profedigaeth.” It carries the sense of an experience of testing (“profi” means to test, to prove), but it is also the word commonly used for bereavement. A woman once told me after a bilingual service that she had never prayed the Lord’s Prayer in English before and that doing this had a given her a new understanding. She realized that she was not actually asking for God to keep her from bereavement, an experience which, as she rightly said, is impossible, but rather asking for a different kind of help: “Save us from the time of trial,” as one version puts it. For me, the Welsh expresses this better than the English, leading to my interpretation that our prayer is for resistance to temptation and strength not to yield in the trying times. There are occasions when I cling to this like a lifebelt.

I offer a question in conclusion: What would be your ‘Desert Island’ word or phrase from the Lord’s Prayer? To put it another way, what word or words distil the essence of the Lord’s Prayer for you? For me, it is “Your will be done,” but the Prayer is so rich, it will be different for all of us. Thank God for that.

[1] Acts 17: 28

[2] Hayes, N: The Book of Trespass: Crossing the Lines that Divide Us (Bloomsbury: 2020), p17

[3] Ibid, p18

[4] Barclay, W: The Lord’s Prayer (Arthur James: 1998), p87

Be Less Intentional

by Catrin Harland-Davies.

From ‘intentional community’ to ‘intentional presence’, the idea of ‘being intentional’ about something has become key to Christian mission in the last decade or so. It often carries an important emphasis on the kind of witness which remains consciously aware of God’s presence and of God’s love for all creation, though I suspect that, as with all such words, it has rather too often become just a piece of jargon, sounding ‘right’, but without meaning anything very specific.

So, in an attempt to reclaim its significance for myself, I have found myself reflecting on what it means to do something intentionally, but also wondering whether there might be an equal and opposite emphasis that is every bit as important? What does ‘accidental mission’ look like? Or, for that matter, ‘accidental presence’ or ‘accidental community’?

To state the obvious for a moment, if I act intentionally, it distinguishes that action from something I didn’t mean to do. It’s not an inadvertent benefit of a main action, nor is it something that I would have chosen to avoid but failed to anticipate. I might intentionally engage in conversation with someone, which is very different from getting buttonholed as I’m trying to sneak past!

The related nouns – intention and intent – are subtly and interestingly different, I think. Intention speaks perhaps of hope or expectation – it is my intention to visit my parents next week, or to get more exercise. It implies planning and expectation, but stops just a little short of the more definite “I will visit my parents.” Intent, on the other hand, feels more to do with the motive behind specific actions. In law, hurting someone with intent to do so is distinguished from the same hurt caused by carelessness or accident. A ‘ministry of presence’ is often (slightly tongue-in-cheek) referred to as ‘loitering with intent’. It is, in other words, intentional presence. There is a purpose behind my loitering; I am not just short of things to fill my time. The intent may be to be available for conversation if needed, or it may be explicitly to share the Gospel. It is not the actual action, but it’s the reason for it.

All of this is good and important. But I am very acutely aware that some of the most important and profound encounters that I have had, which have been transformative and God-filled, have not been done with intent. It’s often when I’m off-guard, off-duty, loitering with no intent at all, that God creeps into my interactions. For that matter, some of the best expressions of community that I have met with have been entirely unplanned and unintentional. When I worked in a university, students would spend Freshers’ Week going to various events to meet like-minded friends, but the deep and lasting friendships were just as often formed in the registration queue, or trying to operate the driers in the laundry.

And, for that matter, those of us who preach will know that some of the most important things that are heard in a sermon, which give most comfort or challenge to someone who needs it, are precisely not what we have planned on saying, or even thought we had said. Because sometimes, God doesn’t work through our careful plans or our intent, but in the unexpected and unintended. Sometimes, God may actually work through us despite our intent.

Or just look at the ministry of Jesus, as portrayed in the Gospels, or that of his earliest followers, in the book of Acts. Sometimes, there is a very clear intent to be available, to minister, to teach, to offer time. At other times, things just happen. A woman touches Jesus’ cloak, while he’s hurrying to a dying child; people hunt him out while he’s praying; his disciples wake him up from a well-earned nap to ask for help in a storm. The richness of Jesus’ ministry comes, in part, from the mixture of his divinely intentional presence in the world and his availability to those who surprise him.

And similarly with his followers. We read in Acts how Saul, on his way to Damascus, found that his own intention might not be the key driver of events, and Peter, summoned by Cornelius, allowed his best intentions to be overridden by the prompting of the Spirit. But we also read how, much later in his ministry, Saul / Paul went to Jerusalem, knowing that it would likely lead to his arrest, in an act of quite intentional witness – as, of course, had Jesus done when his ‘time had come’.

Sometimes, our intent matters. But what matters more is God’s intent. We should be seeking to witness intentionally, and intentionally to live as disciples of Jesus, but our own intentions must not and cannot direct the intent of God for us and for all creation. We need to be open to surprises – to the overthrowing of our best intentions. I would like to suggest that, in the midst of our intentional following of Jesus, we need to ensure that – just sometimes – we are a little less intentional.

Discipleship as Dialogue

by James Blackhall.

When I lead sessions for Christians, I often start by asking them how much interfaith engagement is a part of their Christian discipleship and whether they are happy with that or would like it to be a bigger part of their following of Jesus. Many people have informal interfaith encounters without thinking about it – living in a city like Leicester I have those encounters every time I go into a shop or use public transport. However, deeper engagement may be harder to find. I’d argue that for many of us this is not an add on to our Christian discipleship but an essential part of it. It can help us to understand the world as Christian disciples and move beyond our preconceived ideas as to what it is to live as people of faith in the world today. In a previous post I talked about what Interfaith Dialogue meant to me and what I had gained and want to explore that further in how we think about the relationship between interfaith engagement and our discipleship.

Interfaith engagement is a response to God’s invitation to each of us to live in dialogue. As ‘the life of Christian discipleship is a matter of engaging both self and the world in the quest for deeper knowledge of God and living out the life which goes with that quest and knowledge.’[1] Pratt goes on to talk about the fact that dialogue in various forms is an essential part of our discipleship and that interfaith dialogue can be part of that. We are constantly called to ‘love our neighbour’ and to do that we have to get to know one another.

Methodist presbyter and theologian Israel Selvanayagam reminds us that the Bible ‘is distinctively a book of dialogue and it contains many dialogues within. We can misread its passages if we miss the dialogical context’[2] We see in scripture people of various groups having dialogue. I am always drawn in by the story of the Syrophoenician woman who appears to lead Jesus to have a change of heart. We may not always change our mind on fundamental issues when we engage with people who are different to us, but I would argue that we are always changed. I am richer for the conversations I have had with people of other faiths and have learnt a great deal from them. Seeing the dedication of Muslim friends to prayer, for example, made me reexamine my own rather ad hoc prayer practices and turn that into something that was more committed and regular. This enhanced my discipleship precisely because I saw that.


However, dialogue can lead us into difficult conversations. At the St Philip’s Centre, we talk about ‘learning to live well together’ and that means being able to have open and honest conversations about areas that are difficult. As Methodists we have agreed to live with contradictory convictions on the definition of marriage. We have agreed to listen and walk with one another even when our views are radically different in what many see as a fundamental area of life. This is not without cost for anyone involved but by journeying together we can find what it truly means to live as community and to love our neighbour as ourselves. This is the same sort of living with difference we can encounter as we talk with friends of other faiths and develop trust. If we are invited to ‘love our neighbour’ then how can we do that unless we try to understand the world from their perspective? Perhaps this can also help us to avoid bearing false witness in a world where much of what is said about people of some faiths in the media is derogatory and unfair.

If part of our discipline is about living with difference and reconciliation then being able to have difficult conversations is surely part of that. It is in conversations that are difficult that we begin to be able to understand one another. This is where we can fulfil the command to love our neighbour as we walk together in a spirit of openness and trust.

[1] Pratt, D. (2009). Christian discipleship and interfaith engagement. Pacifica, 22(3), 317-333. Accessed at researchcommons.waikato.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10289/5557/Christian.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y  Pg 333

[2] Israel Selvanayagam (2004), Relating to People of Other  Faiths: Insights from the Bible, Tiruvalla and Bangalore: CSS Books Pg 30, as quoted in researchcommons.waikato.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10289/5557/Christian.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y

Does God intervene?

by Angie Allport.

“I don’t believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you”

So go the opening words to the song ‘Into My Arms’ by Nick Cave.[1]

The passive versus interventionist views of God are both valid viewpoints at either end of a spectrum for those who believe in God.

The Bible presents God as active. God is seen as shaping the lives of individuals, like Moses and the prophets, and nations, like Israel and Egypt. Saint Paul clearly believed in an interventionist God. He was absolutely convinced that God had intervened to raise Jesus from death and that he himself had met the risen Jesus.

A number of religious thinkers, however, have given up on the idea that God acts in particular ways to affect the course of events in the world. Some think that a God who takes sides, as sometimes portrayed in the Hebrew Scriptures, is unethical, and, therefore, reject the idea of God intervening in any way. Nations and empires seem to have their time.  Is that God or just how statecraft works?

It is perhaps hard to believe in an interventionist God when we see a God who seems to answer some prayers and not others; a God who rescues some people and allows others to perish. In terms of God and nature, I don’t believe that God sends earthquakes and the like, but when a severe hurricane is forecast for the Caribbean, for example, I do pray that it might lose its force before making landfall. When that happens, is it answered prayer or just coincidence? If it is answered prayer, why aren’t similar prayers also answered? Does it have anything to do with how many are praying for the same thing?

We have all heard of large prayer gatherings where people claim they have been healed. I can be a bit sceptical about those. You have perhaps also heard of cases where, for example, people have been praying for a tumour to be shrunk and it has, in defiance of all medical explanation. On the other hand, and this may be your experience, I have prayed intensely for someone to be healed and it didn’t happen. That said, I don’t believe that unanswered prayer has anything to do with the faith or lack thereof of the person praying or the person being prayed for, and I do still pray for healing.

A few years ago, though, I was forced to reflect upon what it was I thought I was doing when I pray for healing. I had stopped to talk to someone begging and noticed that he had a large growth on one hand. I woke up during the night thinking that I should have prayed for healing for him when I’d said my prayers. That made me ponder on what would my healing prayer for the man look like.  I concluded that it would be a prayer for him to receive the right medical attention, rather than for the growth miraculously to disappear. Was God intervening through the beggar to get me to reflect on my attitude to prayers for healing?

Today’s church is hopefully large enough and mature enough to hold in tension different views on issues. After all, we currently see in a mirror dimly[2], and no mortal has all the answers. God is immense and multi-faceted; beyond our comprehension as we often say. I think God is big enough to take our speculations and sometimes wonder if God is metaphorically slapping God’s forehead in exasperation or having a quiet chuckle at our antics, probably a bit of both.

Although it can be a struggle sometimes, I do believe in an interventionist God.  I think God wants us to seek God’s guidance in our lives, but I don’t mean every little detail. God certainly isn’t interested in helping us decide whether to have toast or cereal for breakfast. Many Christians and people from some other faith traditions see themselves as having a role in helping God’s kingdom come here on earth. On that basis, there’s possibly a case to see God as passive because God’s agents have perhaps become passive. Maybe God has more faith in humankind than we have in God!

[1] Cave, N. (1997). Into My Arms. London: RTM.

[2] The Holy Bible. 1 Corinthians 13:12. New Revised Standard Version: Anglicized Edition (2007). London: Harper Collins.

Beginning to Think about Theology and Disability

by Mo Onyett, on behalf of the pilot Solidarity Circle for Disability.

In May, the pilot Solidarity Circle for Disability discussed the issue of theology and disability. The discussion was based around reports produced by the Methodist Church relating to disability, drawing on the gospel of John and the two most well-known models of disability.

Two Models of Disability

  • The medical model suggests that disability is caused by impairment, illness and neurodivergence, and that those need to be corrected for a person to be able to play a full part in society.
  • The social model suggests that it is society which causes disability, rather than something from within an individual. A person becomes disabled and excluded by an environment or attitudes which are exclusive and inaccessible, and/or where medical and social care systems do not provide the support an individual requires to play a full part in society.

A Theological Basis for Inclusion

The practical matter of accessibility and inclusion in the church, is rooted in theology, in addition to legal requirements and moves toward inclusion in wider society. The way each person understands disability in relation to their faith may influence how they respond to calls for better access.

While the answers to questions of why disability and illness exist may seem unattainable, the removal of barriers that lead to exclusion is very much attainable. There are some key theological affirmations which underpin inclusion generally, which are welcomed, but these are not specific to the inclusion of disabled people.[1]

Reports which concern disability and theology, tend to be focused on healing, rather than accessibility and inclusion. Sadly, this does seem to reinforce some older thinking about disability and the need to be judged, cured, or even pitied. In the past a lack of healing has been linked to personal responsibility, particularly to a lack of faith or sinfulness. In a 1977 report, healing was still very much linked to proof of salvation, with the report suggesting salvation may mean finding a ‘subtle balance’ between healing and rising above illness or impairment if complete healing didn’t occur.[2] 

More recently, the tendency of medical professionals to link wellbeing with prevention of chronic illness and disability has been echoed in church reports. A report produced in 2020 suggests increasing the promotion of ‘healthy lifestyles, so that the need to pray for healing when people become ill is reduced.’[3] There are many illnesses and impairments, congenital or acquired, which cannot be prevented. Wellbeing support and medical care can support inclusion and accessibility for some disabled people, but not all. There is a need to take a more holistic view.

An important consideration for Christians is that the risen Christ, the source of our salvation, still bore scars and remained disfigured when meeting with Thomas (Jn 20.24-27). Healing does not necessarily mean an absence of disability or illness.  In 2022 the Methodist Conference considered whether prayer for the healing of specific conditions, particularly neurodivergent conditions, should be prohibited. While this is being considered, the conference urged Methodists ‘to continue to offer prayers for those living with any condition that impacts on their wellbeing’, rather than specifically for healing.[4] A Christian model of disability may combine both medical and social models, with an emphasis on a holistic approach to enable inclusion.

At the time of Jesus, those who were disabled had limited or no access to employment, family life, care, or spiritual support as part of a worshipping community.  If the healings carried out in the New Testament are viewed through the lens of the social model of disability, or the more nuanced one suggested above, many seem to serve the purpose of removing barriers to inclusion and accessibility. The healing of the unnamed man born blind in John 9, is one such example. Jesus explicitly says the man was born blind that ‘the works of God might be displayed in him’ (Jn 9.3). This seems to confirm that the disabled person is made in the image of God and that removing barriers to access helps reveal the glory of God.

It seems the inclusion of people who are disabled, ill, or neurodivergent is something Jesus compels us to do to ensure life in all its fullness is available to all. As a justice seeking church this is something we need to communicate and to commit to. Making worship and church buildings accessible benefits everyone, because when each member of a congregation is included, we increase our knowledge of God and strengthen our church community.

The Solidarity Circle for Disability has been running as a pilot group for approximately two years. A new group is due to begin in September 2023. More information www.methodist.org.uk/about-us/the-methodist-church/the-inclusive-methodist-church/solidarity-circles/

[1]https://www.methodist.org.uk/about-us/the-methodist-church/the-inclusive-methodist-church/strategy-for-justice-dignity-and-solidarity/theological-underpinning-for-edi/ 

[2] https://www.methodist.org.uk/downloads/pi_healingministry_77.pdf   p3.

[3] https://www.yorkshirenemethodist.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/Encircled-in-care.pdf  p64

[4] https://www.methodist.org.uk/media/26261/conf-2022-noms-yellow-new-204-206.pdf 

Perceptions of God

by Philip Sudworth.

When you pray, do you have a picture in your mind of the one to whom the prayers are directed? If so, what does that picture look like? Does it change according to the situation in which you are praying? Or do you just focus on the words and feelings you are expressing?

People have shared with me prayer images as different from one another as William Holman Hunt’s Light of the World, an indistinct figure clothed in light, and a sea of faces. When “Yours”, a magazine for older readers, carried out a survey of its readers’ spiritual lives in 2000, it included a question on how they saw God.  The most frequent view was of a kindly father figure or similar human form but nearly half could not think of him in that way.  Other images included colour, music, light, beauty and a stream of limitless love.  A BBC poll in the same year for the programme, Soul of Britain, showed that, of the 70% who believed in God, only 40% had a traditional Christian view of God while 60% thought in terms of a spirit or life force.

The God portrayed in most churches remains one with human characteristics and emotions, who is creator, king, judge and father.  The throne room imagery of Revelation looms large.  God is presented as the ‘King of Love’, reigning over the universe, and showing infinite mercy to those who respond to him, but also as the just judge sentencing unrepentant sinners to eternal punishment.  Yet intertwined with the view of an eternal being with power and wisdom beyond our imagination is the vision of one with whom it is possible to enjoy a close intimate relationship.

Our understanding of God is only partial and our spiritual experiences and thoughts are very personal. That’s why we shouldn’t try to impose our vision of God on others but encourage them to develop an image that is most helpful to them. Frequent use is made of metaphorical language or symbolism in talking about God.  Christian liturgy talks of shepherd, king, judge, servant, bridegroom, brother and sacrificial lamb – all attempts to express the indescribable, a divine mystery, in terms that finite minds can grasp.

Definitions of God by theologians can only be working hypotheses. Many questions about God cannot be resolved, despite answers in catechisms. In practice most believers do not allow their thinking about God to be limited by concerns about apparently conflicting statements on the basis that God is not limited by human logic and can be and do anything.  Many believe that God is involved with us inside time and simultaneously is outside time, looking across past and future centuries; that he gives us free will but knows before we are born the circumstances in which we will make decisions and how we will choose; that he is both perfectly good in all his actions and unchanging, yet responds to prayer.  Karen Armstrong has pointed out that: ‘It is far more important for a particular idea of God to work than for it to be logically and scientifically sound.’[1]

When Blaise Pascal died, a piece of paper was found sewn into the lining of his jacket containing the following note: ‘God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, not of the philosophers and scholars.  Certainty.  Certainty.  Feeling.  Joy.  Peace.’[2]  What was important to him was the God of living faith, the God we personally experience, not the abstract theories of theologians.  In this view, it is the quality of our relationship with God that is crucial; our beliefs only matter in so much as they affect that relationship. 

Images of God reflect the knowledge and understanding of the world and cosmos found in the areas and times in which they were first developed.  Traditional phrases in liturgy can perpetuate these images even when they are outdated. Although God is often proclaimed to be unchanging, perceptions of God do change as societies and cultures develop or – put another way – God reveals himself anew. 

In the 1952, J.B. Phillips suggested that the God many people were rejecting was ‘too small a God’[3] – an image from childhood of an over-protective parent, a policeman or a headteacher who sets impossible standards.  If our view of God is such that we have to keep our religious thinking separate from our day-to-day understanding of technological advances and awareness of scientific expansion, our spiritual growth becomes stunted and our faith becomes divorced from reality. 

[1] Armstrong K. (1993), A History of God. William Heinemann

[2] Pascal B. (1654), Unpublished note

[3] Phillips J.B. (1952), Your God is too small. Epworth Press

Soft not Hard Superiority

by Tom Wilson.

In the world of religious studies, we sometimes talk about “supercessionism,” that is, the belief that a newer faith supersedes an antecedent one, rendering the older faith obsolete. Christians can hold such an attitude towards Jewish people, Muslims can hold it towards Christians and so on. I find it easier to talk about different understandings of superiority. Superiority can be hardwired into every and any faith position. I follow my faith in the way that seems right to me, living out my beliefs as I believe God wants me to. How can I hold my faith to be true without displaying a “hard superior” attitude? That is, an attitude that says I am right, you are wrong, and for you to be a “proper” person, a “complete” person you must accept my point of view. “Hard superiority” is arrogant and offensive and difficult to live with. Recognising, acknowledging, and experiencing “hard superiority” will help us understand what a problem it is and hopefully begin us walking down the path towards change.

I am not talking about what might be termed “epistemological exclusivism.” That is a technical way of saying if I believe something to be true then I believe something else to not be true. I might believe that one must make a public proclamation of personal faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour. Or I might believe that all religions are equally valid paths up the mountain to God. Both of those belief positions are epistemologically exclusive; believing one necessarily excludes the other from being true. It cannot be the case that both every religion is an equally valid path up the mountain to God and at the same time every person must make a public, personal, verbal, proclamation of Jesus as their personal Lord and Saviour. I am not adjudicating as to which is right, merely pointing out that the two positions contradict each other. You could hold either of those attitudes in different ways. You might be gracious and loving and compassionate in how you express your view, or you might be arrogant and dismissive of everyone who disagreed with you. Both those views are open to a “hard superior” attitude.

There is of course the possibility of a “soft superiority,” an attitude that says I sincerely believe what I hold to be true. But I am open to being wrong, and I am open to learning from those who see the world differently from me. I see “soft superiority” in Krister Stendahl’s three rules for dialogue. First, when learning about another religion, ask its adherents not its enemies. Second, do not compare your best with their worst. Third, leave room for “holy envy.”

The first rule is arguably a development of Jesus’ teaching in the golden rule, to want for your neighbour what you want for yourself. I get tired of people with little or no knowledge of Christianity trying to explain it to me. The same must be true of people of every faith and belief position. Even if I think I am right and the person I am talking with is wrong, I should still respect them enough to hear them out and try to understand their worldview.

Second, it is very easy to hold a superior attitude that says, “Look at all the good things about my faith and look at all the bad things about yours.” But this is a false comparison. There are plenty of problems with how Christians treat other people and the natural world. It is unfair and immoral to compare the good in my faith with the bad in someone else’s. Any comparison must be honest and balanced.

Third, I may still think my faith is superior but at the same time be envious of certain aspects of another person’s faith. I am convinced that Christianity is true in a way other religions are not, but I envy the discipline of Muslims fasting during Ramadan, the intimacy of relationship with God that many of my Jewish friends have, the exuberance and selflessness of worship I see in some Hindus, the hospitality of a Sikh Gurdwara, and the self-control practised by many Buddhists. I can be envious of what I see without needing to denigrate it or nor without needing to follow that faith.

Christianity is open to a “hard superior” attitude, especially against Judaism. This result in actions and attitudes which are shameful and a blight on Christian history. But Christians can also show “soft superiority,” that is, hold with confidence to the truth of their own beliefs without being afraid of interacting with and learning from people of all faiths and no faith. In our complex and contested world we need a “soft superiority” as we learn to live well together.

Nominating Boaz

by David Markay.

Now, in the category of Actor in a Supporting Role, the academy nominates…. Boaz. Lacking the requisite screen time to be considered the Lead, nor enough lines to qualify for an Actors’ Equity card, Boaz’ role is, nonetheless, pivotal to the overall plot of our story.

In their recent study of The Book of Ruth, Pádraig Ó Tuama and Glenn Jordan interpret the ancient narrative against a modern backdrop of populism and polarization. They focus upon Ruth’s courage in the face of long-held stereotypes and deeply-rooted prejudices. With its emphasis upon chesed (often translated as ‘lovingkindness’), the Book of Ruth “challenges us on who we consider kin and how an outsider becomes one of us”.[1]

Ruth occupies centre-stage for most of the story. Boaz enters stage-right, across a field, part-way through an unfolding drama. His imperfect, yet crucial role prompts my new-found admiration. I may be partial to this character because I once knew someone by his name. My family had neighbours whom I only knew as Mr. and Mrs. Boaz. They lived at an intersection of two roads, their home positioned along our primary school boundary lines between friends and rivals. My recollection of Mr. Boaz is of a man with a reserved smile, a well-waxed car, and a somewhat quirky demeanor.

Biblical Mr. Boaz enters the scene, sees Ruth, and asks the question, “To whom does this woman belong?” And with that Jewish man’s encounter with Ruth the Moabite, a border is crossed. He becomes an understated hero, spotlighted only momentarily.  He is a bit like a member of the congregation who does not have a title or an official position, but sits at the heart of the community.

Boaz is, first, the person who notices. He straddles the furrows in the earth, observes the person of little consequence, and treats her with dignity. While identified and shaped by his own community, he is able to engage with the foreigner. I think I saw Mr. Boaz in action during one congregation’s recent creation of a warm hub. The long-time Christian — well-versed in Scripture, Tradition, Experience and Reason — also knew non-church people in the neighbourhood well enough to forge an unusual partnership. Thanks to her, people once isolated in their own groupings are coming to know one another as neighbours.

Boaz of Bethlehem also shows a bilingual dexterity of language and tone. At one moment he is capable of tenderness towards the outsider. In the next he confronts his own community’s lack of hospitality, “persuading the residents of Bethlehem to extend the full protection of the law to this outsider”.[2]

Bridge-builders often have a dual role: venturing alone into the territory of ‘the other,’ while speaking bluntly behind closed doors with their own constituents. Frank conversations at the kitchen table amongst kin are as crucial as the dialogue across divides. As recent reflections on the Good Friday Agreement have highlighted, in order for deep transformation to happen, hostiles often need the persuasion and pioneering of someone they trust.

Was that Mr. Boaz who appeared during a recent congregation-wide discussion about same-sex marriage? He was, on account of his background and beliefs, opposed to the idea, and for that reason would not help or attend such a service should it occur at his church. But, he added (in a quirky and neighbourly kind of way), he would not stand in the way of it happening. The atmosphere in the room eased.

The Bible often uses brief appearances of minor characters to teach us something about a life of faith. Reflecting on the power of such stories, Richard Lischer notes that “The Letter to the Hebrews is famous for its thumbnail stories of faithful believers. The stories are not conceived as history but as small vessels of encouragement to readers to complete their own stories…”.[3] Beside the Abrahams and Sarahs, the Jacobs and Josephs, the Rahabs and Ruths, there is a place for those farther down the cast of characters.

Therefore, for his minor role in a major narrative, his inspiring performance in our epic as the people of God, and the way his story encourages our own story as followers of Jesus, I nominate Mr. Boaz.

[1] Pádraig Ó Tuama and Glenn Jordan, Borders & Belonging; The Book of Ruth: A Story for our Times, Canterbury Press, 2021, p. 78.

[2] Ó Tuama and Jordan, p. 69.

[3] Richard Lischer, Our Hearts Are Restless; The Art of Spiritual Memoir, Oxford University Press, 2023, p. 361.