Theology Everywhere

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.

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[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

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!

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[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.

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/

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^[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 

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. 

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[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

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.

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.

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[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.

by Tim Baker.

What constitutes holy ground? Is all ground holy, or is some more holy than others? This poem unpacks the sacredness of the dirt under our feet – what questions does it unlock for you?

Holy Ground

The soil crumbles in between my fingers,
But there lingers a sense of the deep,
The creep of roots out of sight,
Crawlies that live below the light,
And the sleep of a million million layers pressing
Ever downward.

I press my fingers into the dirt,
And the little stones and thorns and spikes hurt
A little bit, but no where near as much as I feel alive,
I thrive in the grittiness where everything thrives
And trees survive
In the hive of creatures and creepers and clay.

The soil is washing away and breaking down,
While we build another city, extend another town,
But it is here, with my hands lost in sandy loam
That we are closest to home,
Closest to the God who shaped us,
Like I’m shaping this mound
And waiting to be found
By the Spirit who moves over this ground,
The bit of compost in my back yard,
Where suddenly feeling connected doesn’t feel so hard
And I take off my shoes for a moment,
Because the bush isn’t burning,
But there’s a glimpse of glory in the bird-sound
And I think I’m standing on holy ground.

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You might like to spend a few minutes today thinking about the earth around you – in your garden, in plant pots, in a nearby park. If you get chance, you could put your fingers into the soil, feel the grit between your fingers, and pray. 

You might like to listen to this song by David Benjamin Blower as you do.

And be still. And be still.

by John Lampard.

The Catholic journal, The Tablet, has recently run a series of articles in which seven young adult converts to the Catholic Church write about their journeys of discovery. What helped them find what a Catholic faith is and what it does for them? As I read the articles I tried to picture if a parallel series could be written by seven young people who could write about their journeys to a Methodist expression of the faith.

The writers in the Tablet come from very different backgrounds. One was an atheist, another a cultural Muslim and Marxist, another was ‘dragged into an uncomfortable place where Jesus seemed to provide the best answer to a question, I didn’t even know I had posed.’ Another was a strident secularist who had argued publicly for the abolition of faith schools. Several of them had moved from other Christian faith traditions, but had been drawn to Rome, one of whom had been inspired by the journey of St John Henry Newman from Protestantism to Catholicism.

So, what attracted them to Catholicism? How did they find a true and living faith? Unsurprisingly each convert described an individual journey with few common points, apart from a sense of slowly committing themselves to something bigger and surer.

For one, who described himself as agnostic, but had married a catholic, it was a reluctant attendance at the baptism of his two daughters. ‘I did not, therefore experience a Damascene moment, but rather a gradual spiritual awakening. At our daughters’ christening, I became aware of a process that had already started.’ Eventually he felt relief, exaltation and, above all, belonging.

Another man was particularly attracted by the quality of the priests he encountered. He found his rootedness, ‘To begin with: good priests. Human priests. Holy priests: men whose lives became icons of Christ without losing what distinguishes them as unique men.’ Writing of one priest he says, ‘his humour is as genuine an expression of his faith as the seriousness with which he takes his duties. Here is a man who lost nothing of himself in his vocation, putting all he has and is into joyful service of God.’

Other converts were attracted to a sense of the ‘solidarity’ of the Catholic Church, in its worship and its theology. They were aware that they were moving in a counter-cultural direction, against the flow of much of society. They found strength and comfort in the Mass, which extended beyond the hour of worship. ‘The liturgy and sacraments spoke to my mind, to my reason and to my passions.’

The man who was a cradle Muslim was drawn into the church through joining a group of compassionate volunteers who worked with rough sleepers. ‘I can count dozens, if not hundreds, of instances where my friends spent long hours, foregoing food and sleep, trying to improve someone’s life.’ He ends his account by saying, ‘To believe in a loving God, a God crucified, is to say yes to a transformation we can’t see – a transformation in our souls.  When I chose to believe, I made a wager that love moves through the world more profoundly than power.’

All the writers expressed a sense of joy, future expectation and profound faith and hope.

I am very grateful that the Methodist Church is now putting substantial resources, funds and personnel into its Mission and Growth Strategy. This is the first time in the over 50 years of my ministry that it has done anything of this magnitude. I find its plans and projects encouraging and exciting. There is an emphasis on the church on the margins, pioneering ministry and church planting, evangelism and contemporary culture, and ‘digital evangelism.’  I am grateful for this and have looked through the website which provides evidence of serious intent and dedication. It will be a blessing to the church if it has any measure of achievement.

I am not the only minister who has experienced church growth through thorough and dedicated pastoral care. One of the best expressions of this is getting to know people by visiting them. I have always been attracted to the expression that God came to earth and visited his people. Could a ministry of visitation be another strand of Growth and Evangelism?

As I said earlier, the question which kept recurring in my mind, as I read The Tablet week by week was, ‘Could a Methodist publication, such as Connexions or other form, find seven new converts, not just to Christian faith but specifically to Methodism?’  I think it can and will.

by Graham Edwards.

The life of faith and the church can be demanding. It can of course be rewarding and liberating, but for many of us, I think, there is no doubt it can be demanding.  It often seems to be the case that in church life, we ask more and more of those who share that lived experience and are committed to it. In my experience as a Superintendent Minister and various roles I have undertaken, I have felt the pressure both to ask people to take on new or additional work and have been asked to take on new and additional things myself. This phenomenon may reflect something of the context much of the church lives in, facing challenges with building, finances, and volunteers, and the response to this which Michael Jinkins (1999, p. 9) calls the “hyperactivity of panic”. He notes that this “manifests itself in clutching for any and every programmatic solution and structural reorganisation in the desperate hope that survival is just another project or organisational chart away”. My primary concern here is that when asked to take on new or additional work, there is a sense that the proper, faithful response should be “yes”. However, I would like to argue that “no” is an equally faithful response in the life of the church.

Defining God is naturally a complicated endeavour. Søren Kierkegaard begins an attempt to explore, rather than define, the nature of God by claiming that God “cannot be an object”(1970, p. 99) to be examined since God is beyond any position or image we might try to suggest. For Kierkegaard, argues Kline, God is “an open-ended movement of longing and passion that refuses closure”(2016, p. 4). What we can do then is attempt to understand what God is not. This is sometimes called Apophatic or Negative theology, which Rowan Williams explains:

denies that there is a concept of divine reality which can serve as the sort of clear identifying set of ‘essential’ attributes that we use in making sense of the realities around us because we are dealing it a limitless agency … it is not … a prescription for general agnosticism … [it] invites us to look at the models of knowledge we employ in theology and the underlying assumptions we make about personal being (2021, pp. 19 – 21).

I don’t wish to argue that we must lay aside all other understandings of God, rather simply to acknowledge that exploring what God is not can offer a window into the nature of God, and I suggest that saying “no”, might equally offer a window into our experience of faith and call of God.

Firstly, “no” as a way of embracing fruitful patterns of life. In his well-known work Sabbath as Resistance, Walter Brueggemann argues that observing sabbath leads to a new or renewed way of living:

In our own contemporary context of the rat race of anxiety, the celebration of Sabbath is an act of both resistance and alternative. It is resistance because it is a visible insistence that our lives are not defined by production and commodity goods (2017, pp. xiii – xiv).

Because God rests in the creation narratives, it is clear that “the well-being of creation does not rest on endless work” (2017, p. 6) argues Brueggemann. The observance of sabbath suggests a renewed way of being, which acknowledges the need for rest, and at least implicitly saying “no”. Perhaps we can see “no” in this kind of positive way when it enables a new or renewed sense of call or service in the church, and therefore a faithful response to God. The opposite would be the endless expectation that “yes” is the right answer – even if it feels wrong and damaging.

Secondly, “no” as the performance of call. Steph Lawler argues for an understanding of identity as something to be “done rather than owned” (2008, p. 121). In this understanding, forming a sense of identity is an ongoing process in which the experiences of life are integrated into the performance of identity to, and with others. Butler (2004) and Goffman (1990) accept that identity is ‘performed’, but they challenge any perceived distinction between ‘being’ and ‘acting’, arguing that the two cannot be separated. Therefore, our identity is a lived thing, which is deeply contextual, as different parts become prominent in different places. The lived experience of the whole is where we see the fullness of our self. The sense of call in the Christian life is important, as it enables us to find our place within the community and tradition of the church. “No” allows us to honour that sense of call and give it appropriate value as we seek faithful ways of responding to God. This isn’t, of course, to suggest that something we might initially say “no” to, could not be something to which we are called, rather that the culture of “well, no one else will do it” might need to be challenged.

“No” is often an unwelcome answer in the life of the church as we seek to fulfil the functions and requirements of living as a church community. Perhaps, though, “no” allows us to embrace a more honest sense of vocation and call, and as such it offers an authentic expression of faith and a faithful response to God.

Brueggemann, W. (2017). Sabbath as Resistance. Westminster John Knox Press.

Butler, J. (2004). Precarious Life: The Power of Mourning and Violence. Verso.

Goffman, E. (1990). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Penguin.

Jinkins, M. (1999). The Church Faces Death. Oxford University Press.

Kierkegaard, S. (1970). Søren Kierkegaard’s Journals and Papers Volume 2, F-K (H. V. Hong & E. H. Hong, Ed. & Trans.). Indiana University Press.

Kline, P. (2016). Passion for Nothing: Kierkegaard’s Apophatic Theology [PhD, Vanderbilt University]. Nashville, Tennessee. https://ir.vanderbilt.edu/handle/1803/11242

Lawler, S. (2008). Identity. Polity.

Williams, R. (2021). Understanding and Misunderstanding ‘Negative Theology’. Marquette University Press.

by Kerry Tankard.

Some of you may know of the Albert Hall in Manchester.[i] It was built to not look like a church and to attract the working class away from the pubs and entertainment venues in the city. It was intended not just for worship, but for entertainment, leisure, and education; an experiment in a New Place for New People, which closed in 1969. The 1990s saw Brannigans nightclub open in its basement, something some would imagine was about as far from the original Methodist intention for the building as possible. Then, ten years ago, work was completed to convert the building to a music and entertainment venue, creating “The Albert Hall” I know. I was there again in May, with 2500 others, to enjoy the Osees fronted by John Dwyer, who is not the late Christian ethicist and theologian John C. Dwyer![ii] The (profane) worship that took place probably appeared more driven by chemicals, for some, than the Holy Spirit, however I want to suggest that what took place reveals something worthy of our consideration.

The arrival of the band on stage involved not a hush stretching across the congregation, but a fervent anticipation, applause, whistles, and shouts, which I suspect is seldom the experience of God, as God greets gathered Methodists on a Sunday morning. Dwyer plugs his guitar in, checks the sound, presses an odd key on his nearby synth and approaches the mic. He greets everyone before guitar, bass, and drums begin their resounding assault. An eruption of joy becomes manifest. No soft introit, no sense of reverence, just a slam of sound against the congregation, and the bodies of the congregation against each other. The opening hymn, Lupine Ossuary, did not make it into Singing the Faith, and for good reason. It continues this way for over an hour and a half, the odd calmer track creating space for recovery, before everything builds to the final song, C, and its ecstatic cacophony. Sweaty, overjoyed, and feeling only some of my 53 years, I left this sacramental space and headed for a train. “Sacramental space”? I hope you are intrigued.

I am not alone in believing there is a transcendent character to music. It creates an exploratory space where heart, mind, body, and soul are all invited to explore and respond.[iii] It takes the whole self, not just some fragmented part of it, and invites it in. That quality is amplified, in my experience, in live performance and in a riotous community’s response to it. Those gathering are drawn to each other in the celebration of a common love of the music, and a hidden searching. The singing is liberated, the dancing (jumping up and down, and slamming around) is a celebration of materiality, and joy pours out as persistently as the perspiration of bodies. I realise this can look anything but sacramental, and some would see it as the worst of the profane, however I want to invite re-imagination and question the language of profane which I have dotted about intentionally above.[iv]

First, I reject the idea of anything being wholly profane. To suggest as much is to believe there is somewhere that God cannot be, that there are some things which exist wholly apart from God and God’s grace.[v] To believe that is to misunderstand the God revealed in scripture, and in Jesus, and who is the source of all that is, will be, or has been. There certainly was profanity but that is not all it was or could be. I suggest the gig had the potential to be open to God, and God was present, because God cannot not be there! Our willingness to embrace this truth leads to a reconsideration of every moment, and a recognition of the God who is always present and gifting life to us. This truth can redefine everything and is at the heart of a participatory theology.[vi]

Second, I want to suggest that what occurred, while not Christian worship, is a searching for meaning, a participation in divine possibility and generosity, even though that is not acknowledged or recognised. Human beings are fundamentally created to know and love God, to discover themselves as more than just an action, moment, or story. Music touches that possibility even if it does so only in part.[vii] What it re-reveals, in human beings, is a desire for something, something more, or beyond who they are. In live music they are seeking ‘the physicality of transcendence’[viii] and they participate in an analogous form of that divine transcendence, though it is seldom identified as what it is. The gig is a human attempt to create a transcendent moment, but it will not achieve it by its own nature. It will only be realised by its sharing in the creative life, which is part of who God is. It participates in God by virtue of being created, and then being creative; through it, God chooses to share something of Godself whether that becomes known or not. A rush to judgement which sees such events, even in their worst manifestations, as only profanity or idolatry, risks missing the human longing and transcendent possibilities that are intrinsic to them as part of God’s creation.

I am not suggesting that this is worship in all its fullness, depth, and meaning. There is a real danger that this search for transcendence is simply appeased by the event, rather than the body and spirit being w-hol(l)y satiated by the fullness of God. Rather than enabling people to know it is analogous of what is possible, it is mistaken for all that is possible. This doesn’t disregard its value, but honestly sets it against a wider context of meaning.

There is goodness in this (profane) worship. It is a goodness that is not complete but is worth celebrating and critiquing. Where Methodists sought to create holy gatherings of entertainment in their halls, I prefer the more incarnational model of going to the places of entertainment and seeking the holy there.

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[i] Cf. https://www.alberthallmanchester.com/the-history-of-the-albert-hall-manchester/

[ii] A quick review of Osees cover of Sacrifice will leave you in no doubt of Dwyer’s dislike of the Christianity he perceives and the God he rejects. https://genius.com/Osees-sacrifice-lyrics

[iii] See Danielle Anne Lynch, God in Sound and Silence: Music as Theology, (Pickwick, 2018) p.16 ‘[M]usic allows humans to explore and understand more of their predicament, as well as providing a bridge to understand the object of sacramental experience, God.’

[iv] These themes are considered in Christopher Partridge, The Lyre of Orpheus: Popular Music, the Sacred, and the Profane, (OUP, 2014).

[v] The reasoning of writers such as Henri de Lubac is significant for my approach here.

[vi] Cf. Hans Boersma, Heavenly Participation: The Weaving of a Sacramental Tapestry, (Eerdmans, 2011).

[vii] ‘It is the Orphic, liminal, boundary crossing power of music, the power to draw in the Other, to engender communities, to create affective spaces within which new meanings are constructed, that lies at the heart of the relationship between popular music, personal experience, and the sacred.’ C. Partridge, Op. Cit., p.3.

[viii] Clive Marsh & Vaughn S. Roberts, Personal Jesus: How Popular Music Shapes Our Souls,(Baker, 2013),p.82