Theology Everywhere

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

by Josie Smith.

When Moses cheekily asked God for his I.D., the answer was something like ‘I AM’. That’s three letters in our alphabet, but what a complexity of meaning!    Not just ‘I am what I am’ in the present tense, but ‘I always was and always will be.’    It even carries the meaning ‘I continuously cause all things to be’.  The Name is both noun and verb, both Being and Doing.    The very nature of Being, in fact, in whom all things and all times and places and people have THEIR being.   No wonder people refused to pronounce the name of God.    

The doctrine of the Trinity came out of experience, not theorising.    People were certain that the transcendent yet immanent ‘God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’ was the one creator God.    Embodied in Jesus they recognised ‘the way, the truth and the life’. And in the Pentecost experience they knew that this too was God in action.   But our human minds want to know what all this topsy-turvy three-in-one maths means.     How can three aspects of Divinity be ‘co-equal together and co-eternal’?   (The Church has been split by the Filioque clause – the ‘and the Son’ bit – for centuries, and whether the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father or from the Father and the Son, and how they can be co-eternal in either case, really gives people sleepless nights.)

When Jesus was asked questions his reply was so often in the form of another question – What do you think?   Who do you say that I am?    Are these your words, or did someone else tell you that?     Or he painted a simple picture – the Kingdom of God is LIKE – yeast, a mustard seed, a pearl.      He spoke of a lost coin or a missing child or a shepherd with his flock.     Or bread and wine, the stuff of everyday nourishment, which for us now carries such a wealth of meaning in Holy Communion.    A picture, a story, a symbol, to take away and reflect on.     Even Jesus couldn’t describe that which cannot be described.     The Kingdom is like – is like – is like.

The Trinity has been likened to a shamrock leaf, or a triangle (a very strong structure) or water which comes in many forms from clouds to solid ice and which is essential to  life.    We can drink it, wash in it, cook with it, drown in it.    We are largely composed of it.     It formed the continents over geological time, and continues to do so.     A plait of hair is another three-in-one symbol.     But these are only clues.    COVID isn’t that little green thing with knobs on which we’ve seen pictures of.    God isn’t a shamrock leaf and the Kingdom isn’t a pearl.    I like to think of the doctrine of the Trinity as a clue – a representation – a map, if you like.   That black line on the map is, we know, a road, because we have been taught to read a map.   But we can’t begin to imagine the lives of all the travellers on that road, nor yet their speed, destinations or missions, their home lives or their work.     Those contour lines tell us that we are approaching hill country, and there are little symbols which give us all sorts of clues about the terrain.   But sitting at home gives us no idea of the weather out there in the real world.

The map is not the country.     These small, everyday, fertile ideas (the map, the credal statements) are there to help us to get out into the real wind-in-the-hair country with wide views, with miles between us and the horizon in all directions, where God is the total reality surrounding us and filling us.     God whose name and nature is Love.

In the name of the Father,  the Son and the Holy Spirit,  Amen.

by Simon Sutcliffe.

The story in Luke of Jesus sending out the 70/72 disciples is fascinating. Firstly, it reminds us, as Luke often does, that Jesus had a much greater following than the 12 disciples. What is important for us here though is to answer the question of how we might be salt in the earth. It’s rare for Jesus to offer a mission strategy in the Gospels, but here he offers not only a strategy, but some careful instructions to follow.

Firstly, we learn that the disciples are to go before Jesus to the towns and villages. They are the warm up act. It is Jesus who is the main attraction and they are simply preparing the way for him.  Secondly, he tells the disciples not to take anything with them. This will become very important when they arrive in their destination. It seems a stark contrast to the church today that might want to have a budget to employ people, a raft of resources, pamphlets, and gimmicks to attract and engage with people.

Next, they are told to go to the towns and villages and knock on a door and say ‘peace be with you’ if that peace is returned, they are told to stay in the house and not move on. They are to become guests in another’s space. And this is where their lack of preparedness in bringing things with them becomes important. Jesus tells them twice to eat whatever is given to them. Twice! This is a big deal for a group of Jews who have strict purity laws about what can and cannot be eaten. By not taking anything with them they are utterly dependent on their hosts.

Sympoiēsis is a Greek word which means making or becoming with. Within the natural sciences there is growing appreciation that nothing ‘makes itself’ that all creation is made with other creatures and plants. There is no such thing as an autopoētic (self-making) self, or, I would argue community. We, and  similar communities are all products of the relationships we foster and nurture. When Jesus sends his disciples out into the world he asks them to make with, to become with, those he his sending them to. Church can often see mission as a doing to, rather than doing with and has struggled sometimes to work in partnership with other agencies that might share its aim or values.

Jesus doesn’t simply ask his disciples to ‘go and do good’, but to find people of peace and with them show that the Kingdom of God has come near. So, how do we find people of peace? The only way is to ‘knock on the door’, to intentionally seek out relationships with other people and agencies, and to stay committed to those relationships (don’t move from house to house). People of peace will be those who trust and understand the church’s motivation for being in a relationship with them, they will share some, if not all of the values that we might call kingdom. To put it bluntly, they will get us! But, and this has historically been difficult for the church, the church is not to colonise these relationships, own them, or stay in them for their own purposes. Rather the church is asked to make itself vulnerable to the other, to be in relationship not as host, but as guest.

Questions:

1.  What makes a good host and what makes a good guest? What does this teach us about how the church might have a ministry of being guest?

2. Which do you think the church prefers to be? Guest or host? Why?

3. Who are your ‘people of peace’? Which agencies and people in your local community do you share ministry with? How might you find others?

We are pleased to continue our partnership with Spectrum, a community of Christians of all denominations which encourages groups and individuals to explore the Christian faith in depth. This year the study papers are written by Prof Anthony Reddie and Rev’d Simon Sutcliffe on the theme ‘Being the Salt of the Earth (A look at some peace and justice issues)’. This is the sixth and final article this the year.

by Mike Long.

Issues of power are central to the pursuit of justice and a theological appraisal must be cognisant of the ambiguity it provokes in theological reflection, as well as – critically – its impact.

Power takes many forms. It is more than simply the capacity to change things in accordance with one’s will. It is also the capacity to resist change, and the ability to influence people and shape events; it is formal and informal, located in particular positions, roles, and structures; it is the property of individual people due to their own innate skill, personality or position. There is physical and financial, intellectual and informational, cultural and charismatic power. Power enables every form of enterprise and organisation[1] but it can be highly destructive.

There are distinct strands in the biblical approach to power. There is the supremacy of divine power: to create life or destroy enemies, to redeem Israel from Egypt and defend them from adversaries. Here power is used to further God’s purposes, though sometimes this is seen in scalar terms – God is more powerful than other gods (cf Elijah and the prophets of Baal).[2] The ‘right hand of God’ remains an image showing that power should be used in ways that are creative and liberating but its dynamic of domination and force reveal its inherent dangers.

Hence the caution over the potential for abuse of individual power. Israel is destined to exemplify a different type of power from alien nations, and we see divine reluctance to anoint a king over Israel until Saul’s installation. The proper use of power is exemplified in the figure of the shepherd-king, most notably in the prophecies of Jeremiah[3] and Ezekiel.[4] David is a fine example, yet his actions involving Bathsheba reveal power’s corrupting aspects.

In Jesus notions of power are radically redefined. He eschews formal power, though he does have a certain popular authority; he resists the temptations of power over others, trusting instead in the power of divine love;[5] he inverts conventional expressions of power by healing people on the Sabbath;[6] and a man excluded from the community due to demon possession.[7] Jesus enables marginalised voices and experiences to be heard and validated.[8] He melts into the crowd,[9] rejects ways of domination in favour of mutual service[10] and he forbade his followers to have titles.[11] Jesus’ trial contrasts his lack of physical power with that of the Roman and religious authorities, and his passion and death exemplify a model whereby his power in powerlessness becomes liberating rather than oppressive.

Further, there is the Pauline notion of the world held ransom to the ‘principalities and powers’. These can be positive or negative, but all require redemption. Today we might think of structures of injustice, or the damaging asymmetry between those with power and those with less or none. The prevailing spirituality of these powers, their ethos and culture have a character that is quite different from the simple amalgamation of its constituent elements. As such the Christian response needs to be more than individual engagement but a collective one, and which may be at variance with those that individual ethics might advocate. The Christian approach to power is deeply counter-cultural and may appear quite foolish in the eyes of the world.[12]

The Church has, for much of its history, exercised very considerable power in the world. In doing so it has not been immune to abusive practices, even in the present day, and perhaps especially when that power is not recognised or named. Methodists have been particularly wary of power vested in any single individual. One product of this hesitancy has been its dispersion into more collective forms, but it can mean that the locations are power are less easy to identify. The willingness and ability to recognise the dynamic of power is vital.

Power, like wealth, is a commodity with huge potential for good hence the powerful have a greater responsibility for ensuring just outcomes. But precisely because power has such capacity it is prone to becoming idolatrised, fetishized, and distorting the vision of those who possess it. Those with power are particularly vulnerable to its corruptions and weak accountability exacerbates this tendency. Yet power must not be abdicated through a reluctance to accept responsibility. Its avoidance – timidity or sloth – is just as much sin as its improper use. Humility and conscientization are required for the proper dispensation of power. The antidote to the misuse of legitimate power is accountability, its remedy for unjust systems is structural, political and economic change.

The Christian use of power is the same as for the stewardship of all gifts, but the warning signs are written in capital letters. Christian approaches to power need to be cautious in application, mindful that power corrupts, and therefore vigilant to the danger of abuse. Power – as rightful authority coupled with capability – is to be used to embody the gospel of Jesus Christ and the kingdom of God. Christian power is not coercive; it enables and is motivated by love.

The Methodist Church is currently undertaking a two year exploration of what it means to be a justice-seeking church through the Walking with Micah project.  Theology Everywhere is working in partnership with the project to host a series of articles about justice. For more information visit www.methodist.org.uk/walking-with-micah/

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[1] Hannah Arendt (Power and Violence, p.45) states that power corresponds to the ability not only to perform individual tasks but to work collectively.

[2] 1 Kings 18: 20-40

[3] eg Jeremiah 23: 1-4

[4] Ezekiel 34

[5] Luke 4: 1-13

[6] Luke 6: 6-11; 13: 10-17; John 5: 1-16

[7] Mark 5: 1-20

[8] John 4: 5-42

[9] Luke 4: 30, John 6: 15, 7: 40-46; 10: 39

[10] Mark 9: 33-35; 10: 35-45, Luke 14: 7-14, 22: 24-27

[11] Luke 23: 8-10

[12] 1 Corinthians 1: 25