Theology Everywhere

by Richard Clutterbuck.

I’m writing this in the week I would usually have spent at the annual conference of the Society for the Study of Theology, three days of mind-stretching presentations, renewed friendships and convivial conversation. But not, of course, this year. SST 2020 is one of the countless casualties of the Covid-19 crisis and ‘Theology and Borders’ will have to wait until 2021. I can’t claim that a cancelled theological conference compares with the many personal tragedies and financial hardships that surround us. Nevertheless, I’ll miss something that has been an annual stimulus to my thinking for over thirty years. Instead, I’ve been trying to get through some of the books I bought at previous conferences and somehow never got round to reading. Perhaps theology will, after all, have something to contribute to life after lockdown and its new normality.

One book that seems especially relevant to our present situation is Kathryn Tanner’s Christianity and the New Spirit of Capitalism. Based on her Gifford lectures of 2017, this is a short but densely-written work that deconstructs the current phase of finance-driven capitalism and offers a Christian alternative to its destructive and dehumanising processes. She begins with a reference to Max Weber, who famously coined the phrase ‘Protestant work ethic’ and linked the ideals of Protestant Christianity with the spirit of early capitalism. Weber’s argument may have had something in it, but contemporary capitalism, says Tanner, is very different; rather than producing goods or supplying tangible services, it is primarily concerned with extracting profit from financial markets. It is entirely dominated by decisions made in buying and selling stock, basing its value on the confidence of the market rather than on any intrinsic worth. What is needed now is a Protestant anti-work ethic to counter capitalism’s dire consequences.

In a series of chapters Tanner introduces the effects of this ‘new spirit of capitalism’ on the humanity of those who work for it and who live within its financial sphere of influence. Her charges are well-researched and damning. Contemporary capitalism expects the total commitment of those who work within its institutions. They are asked to shape their own ambitions and desires to those of the company, whatever the cost. Finance-based capitalism also distorts our relationship with time. It collapses both past and future into the present. The past is something we cannot escape. Companies and households burdened with debt can never be free of the obligations imposed by a system in which debts are repackaged to become a new financial product. As a result, we are chained to the past. Similarly, the future has no open reality. It, too, only exists as an aspect of the present. Risks are managed by the market to ensure that, whatever its future peaks and troughs, those who have assets now will continue to prosper. The result is a world that combines a herd mentality (in which everyone follows the market trends) with a radical individualisation in which human beings are pitched against each other as they compete for jobs, promotion and bonuses.

It isn’t difficult to see how inadequate this financial capitalism has proved in the Covid-19 crisis. Only the intervention of central banks stemmed the meltdown of financial markets and only the social contract between people and governments can mitigate the crisis in health and the threat to livelihoods.

Which brings me to the other side of Tanner’s book. Besides critiquing finance-driven capitalism, she sets out the way in which Christian faith can point to an alternative world and to an altogether better account of human flourishing. She takes some of the building blocks of traditional Christian theology: sin, conversion, forgiveness, resurrection, salvation, and fashions them into a hopeful and challenging vision. Christian faith frees us from a past of debt and sin and offers a future shaped by God’s promise of salvation. In place of capitalism’s insistence that nothing truly changes, Christianity can face the radical discontinuities of human history with a faith that embraces both death and resurrection. And in place of capitalism’s claim to shape our identity and make us compete with each other, Christianity gives us a shared identity in Christ. Because of God’s grace, we are not justified by our work, nor damned by our lack of it. As Tanner says,

“Christian beliefs about a shared origin and fate entail, in sum, a refusal of the privatizing of risk and reward at the heart of finance-dominated capitalism. One fails, morally and otherwise, in the company of others. And one gains salvation by God’s grace alone.” (p. 205)

Or, as we are constantly being told: ‘we’re all in this together’.

Of course, there is a wide gap between a somewhat abstract theological treatise and the practical outcomes that everyone is looking for in this time of crisis. Nevertheless, Tanner gives a fine example of what Christian theology should be about. She has made a serious and disciplined study of the economic world that she critiques. She has, without embarrassment, taken the traditional framework of Christian faith, and demonstrated its relevance for the situation in which we live. And she has made the grace of God in Christ the lynchpin of human flourishing. A post-Covid 19 new normal will require us to follow her example.

by Clive Marsh.

We are using a whole new language. (‘Are you on mute?’, ‘Send me a link’, ‘Are you the host?’) Digital natives (those who’ve lived with computers since birth) are simply saying ‘welcome to our world!’ (the new real world?). Those not au fait, or even wanting to be au fait, with such technology are saying ‘but I’m now not part of the “we”’ you’ve just referred to. So when this is all over, I won’t be within what you’re calling “the new normal”.’ And I won’t even mention the question of ‘Zoom Communion’. I’ll just say it’s at times like this I’m glad I’m not a presbyter. No one can buttonhole me (even virtually) and ask why on earth we can’t ‘do Communion’ across the WWW and expect me to be able to do anything about it.

‘Zoom Communion’ is, though, just the tip of a very large iceberg of issues raised by the digital world for the ways in which the church conducts itself, undertakes its mission, and in which theology takes shape. I can quite see why those who actively explore ‘digital theology’ become exasperated with a church which seems to go at a snail’s pace when, from their perspective, ‘things have to change (and quickly)’. I can also sense (and sometimes share) the alarm of what might happen if too many changes happened too rapidly, and too substantially.

There can be little doubt that when our lockdown ends, or as its strictures are gradually relaxed, when social distancing is eased, and when we take stock of what has been happening in recent weeks, digital theology will have more allies, or sympathizers: ‘you know, that Zoom thing really is good. It’s got me thinking about the different ways our theology of conferring could happen.’ ‘Pastoral care could be thought of differently, you know, than we’ve been doing it for years.’ ‘More people might be willing to join in with meetings, so we could have a more diverse group.’ ‘Class meetings could make a comeback.’

That’s only the positive stuff, of course. There are counter-arguments too. Lots of people I know are ‘Zoomed out’ already through all meetings and one-to-ones going online. Plenty are missing seeing others (really seeing), not to mention the extroverts who need their hugs. I’ve been wondering myself whether I’ll get things wrong ‘after lockdown’ – or at least behave awkwardly – by hugging people I’ve never hugged in my life before (and can’t honestly remember whether I have) simply because I’ll be so pleased to see them. It will take a while to adjust after the initial re-assessment of social relations (actual and virtual). But we will, I hope, start to ask harder questions, and in fresh ways, such as: when do we need to meet in person? What is best done online, not just for money-saving reasons, but also for the sake of resisting climate change, and to save time? And these practical questions are caught up within a bigger range of issues of direct theological import, not least about creation, Sabbath, and what ‘church’ is anyway.

Behind those hidden, theological framework kinds of questions other, even more basic, stuff is buzzing around too. What is ‘really real’ anyway? The terms ‘virtual’ and ‘real’ have become fuzzy, but have helpfully pressed us to say what is ‘real’. ‘Fake’ has also intervened as an overused, but still important, term. ‘Virtual’ is not the same as ‘fake’. But the realm of the ‘fictional’, the ‘made-up’ is tangled up in there too. This has always been the case in the worlds of faith, belief and theology. We do make things up (even some of our God stories) but that’s only because it’s sometimes hard to get at what’s true and real (really real), as what’s real and true has never simply been about ‘what happens’ or what we can prove (scientifically).

I recall that one of the first pieces I ever wrote which had to do with the Internet (20 years ago? I can’t even remember) was prompted by claims that it would give us a whole new understanding of the Holy Spirit. I’ve seen some of the thoughts I put on paper back then re-emerging in articles and blogposts which have appeared in recent weeks. The Holy Spirit is really real, even whilst not visible, and yet seems very active as people connect ‘virtually’.

A new insight brought to my attention in the lockdown is how inclusive some new more informal forms of church are proving for those on the autism spectrum. People can be involved (e.g. doing a craft or art activity at home amongst family members) in a ‘bigger congregation’ without necessarily having to look at the camera, and without the stress (for them or for other family-members) of ‘going to church’.

All I hope, in the post-lockdown phase of the church’s life, is that we don’t get polarized, and that we do really reflect carefully and appropriately critically on the experiences that we’ve been having. For some, it will be about ‘getting back to normal’ (for which read ‘proper worship’). But what if the online worship has sometimes felt more ‘real’ than some of our past Sunday activity? What if we find that online life has added a new depth to what we go back to experiencing on Sunday (or Monday, or Wednesday, or whenever our face-to-face worship happens)? There will, in other words, need to be fresh considerations about what is real, and what helps us connect with the Really Real (I’m sure someone must have used that term for God before) in all our post-lockdown theological debate – whether or not the word ‘theology’ itself is used.

by John Lampard.

I have never been any good at philosophy, but am aware that different philosophies undergird theological ‘constructions’. In the past, for example, theologies have been built on the philosophies of Aristotle or Plato. In the last century theologians have used the work of different philosophers as a basis for their theology. For example Moltmann used the philosophy of Bloch and Bultmann and others the philosophy of Heidegger.

The problem of making theology relevant to people’s perception of the world we live in is that there is no ‘base’ or commonly accepted ‘experience’ on which a widely accepted philosophy (or theology) can be grounded. Science, and the scientific method, have been wonderfully successful in creating the modern world, and the way in which we perceive it. The methodology of rational based science has made it very difficult for theology based on a philosophy other than a scientific one to find credibility in today’s world. Is there perhaps an answer? Is there a possibility of a theological approach which is guided or underpinned by a rational, science-based philosophy?

What led me to begin to explore this position has been my abiding interest in the science of cosmology (and I only have an ‘O’ level in science). I am fascinated to discover how our understanding of the nature of the vast expanding and deeply mysterious universe can somehow be incorporated in theology, as it was before Galileo. Can the queen of science (theology) regain her throne?

My interest was aroused when I heard a radio programme, and then read, Philip Goff’s Galileo’s Error: Foundations for a New Science of Conscience, Rider, 2019, £14.99. Goff has no religious belief, but time and again he is crying out for a way of filling the void. He ends his book with the words, ‘I cannot help being excited by the possibility that… the yearnings of faith and the rationality of science might finally come into harmony.’ (p.216). That is very much where I stand.

I have purposely missed out a vital part of Goff’s quote because it is initially so off-putting and needs explanation. It refers to a worldview of ‘panpsychism.’ I have to admit that the objection to this word by my spell-checker and my own suspicion of anything associated with ‘psychics’ and ‘pan’ in theology is immediately off-putting. But I hope you will persist with my reflection.

‘Panpsychism’ is the study of consciousness, and has been around for centuries. It is based on the scientific observation of the extraordinary ability of so much of the created order to be aware of its environment, and often of itself. This ranges from human beings to animals, plants, and to a coronavirus, and Goff argues further down the chain to inanimate objects, right down to sub-atomic particles. He refuses to limit consciousness to ‘ert’ or living matter and he includes the ‘inert’. He offers as evidence the totally mysterious ‘quantum entanglement’ of two electrons which light-years apart can still ‘influence’ or have a ‘consciousness’ of each other. Particle physicists scratch their heads over this apparent measure of ‘consciousness.’

Galileo’s ‘error’ was that his philosophy created physical science (which has been wonderfully successful) by setting sensory qualities outside its domain of enquiry. Science deals with quantities, not qualities. Goff quotes Alfred Russell Wallace who wrote in 1870, ‘There is no escape from this dilemma – either all matter is conscious, or consciousness is something distinct from matter.’ Goff’s answer is that all matter is conscious, and some measure of consciousness is part of the nature of all that is. Those who propose panpsychism argue that consciousness is part of matter’s intrinsic nature; it is not an added extra.

If all matter has its own level of consciousness, it means that the way in which we view the universe, and its very creation, has to alter. Goff argues that science has been amazingly successful in analysing how matter works, but cannot explore the intrinsic nature of matter. If consciousness resides in the very heart of reality, which some scientists are beginning grudgingly to accept, it opens up a creative field for theologians to develop a new philosophical basis for theology.

I was interested that Goff says it will take many years for philosophy to flesh out a recognisable system incorporating panpsychism (and hopefully a better term for it). Perhaps those who are working in the field of theology could work with them and offer us a new vision of the work and purpose of God based on a philosophy of consciousness.

by Sally Coleman.

So, we have made it past the celebration of Easter Sunday and are making our cautious journey into this vastly different Easter Season. We did not gather as we normally would, did not break bread together, share breakfasts, or family celebrations in a gathered way. Instead from behind locked doors our cries of Alleluia may have been heard. I know one or two took to the streets to do so, but whatever we did this Easter Sunday just past was completely different to what we may have been preparing for.

Some say that our experience was perhaps more authentic to that first Easter morning, reflecting that the first disciples were gathered behind locked doors for fear of the authorities who had crucified the one they called Lord and who called them friends. Those who did venture out came away scratching their heads in disbelief, and doubt and questions were voiced. ‘Alleluia! Christ has risen!’ was not proclaimed on that first Easter Day.

Even Mary, who encountered the risen Christ was confused at first; she did not recognise him until he spoke her name, and when she went to hold onto him was told not to. He needed to ascend, to complete his work of transformation. Instead she was told to go and tell the disciples that Jesus would go ahead of them.

I wonder then what that means for us today, we have a sign on our building at Wesley Hall, Sheffield that says the building is closed, but the church is still alive and well – at home, worshiping, caring and praying. We are scattered yet connected, and in some ways have become more outward looking. We have been sent from the buildings to different corners of our communities. I wonder if we are beginning to encounter the Christ who has gone ahead of us into our homes and neighbourhoods?

One thing that we have done is to invite community members to join us in lighting a candle at 7pm every evening and placing it in an outward facing window. Interestingly this practice is growing as people share with their families and neighbours what they are doing and why. The church is lit up with prayer every evening, if only through the simple act of lighting a flame.

We have also been forced to slow down. Queues at Supermarkets offer unexpected opportunities for conversations, and people seem more ready to talk (from a safe distance). Has Christ gone ahead of us here? My suspicion is yes, and while I acknowledge that being able to go out wearing a collar has always opened a number of opportunities for people to converse with me, if you’d asked me earlier this year if I thought I would find myself praying, not once but a number of times with people in queues and car parks, I would probably have laughed.

What it has shown me is that people are asking questions of eternity and do want spiritual assurance of hope. These people may never have entered our churches on Easter Sunday, and our practices may have seemed strange to them, but here and now in the simple art of conversation, and in the lighting of a candle in prayer, the church is alive and well. Perhaps we need to hear Jesus’ words: do not cling to what was, for I have gone ahead of you.

by Jennifer Hurd.

The season of Lent is over and Easter is here. Once again we celebrate God’s truth that death and destruction will never ultimately triumph, and life and love reign supreme. In spite of everything that seeks to give an impression to the contrary, the resurrection is a resounding divine ‘No!’ to all that threatens to destroy us, and God’s universe-echoing ‘Yes!’ to everything that brings joy, peace and wholeness. It means hope and faith in place of despair and doubt.

On Ash Wednesday I began a long-anticipated Sabbatical period, planned to continue until Pentecost Sunday. As the COVID-19 outbreak escalated, I seriously considered curtailing it, and prayed and sought wise counsel. In the end, confident in my colleagues, I decided to continue, and changed my programme accordingly. My objective in planning the Sabbatical for this time was as an opportunity to enter deeply and intentionally into the Lenten and Easter journey in a way the general course of ministry doesn’t usually allow. Originally, I had a demanding bootcamp of a Lent in mind, with plenty of self-denial, self-discipline and spiritual and physical rigour. I intended deliberately to take myself off into the wilderness, metaphorically or perhaps even literally. Then I listened to the 3rd April 2019 Lenten session on pray-as-you-go.org, the Jesuit daily devotional website. I was already aware of the etymological roots of the word ‘Lent’ being in the Old English for ‘to lengthen’, reflecting how the days grow longer with the onset of spring during the season. However, some words from that online session expanded this idea and struck me deeply:

‘Perhaps we’d do well to think of Lent as the greening time of the year – in the Northern Hemisphere at least – something new beginning in the natural world, life reappearing and blessing us again with springtime and hope.’

Lent not as a season of negativity but of positivity? Lent not as a season of denial but of ‘greening’ – of creativity, renewal, new life, hope and flourishing? Lent not as a spiritual bootcamp but as a spiritual springtime? This seemed to call for further consideration for a Sabbatical Lenten journey, leading into a celebration of new life at Easter.

The ‘go-to’ theologian for the concept of ‘greening’ or ‘greenness’ is Hildegard of Bingen, the twelfth century German abbess, mystic, musician, poet, teacher and healer. ‘Viriditas’, her Latin word for the idea, is subtle, nuanced and difficult to translate (just for a change!), but it includes inferences of vitality, fecundity, lushness and growth, reflecting the divine nature. Its opposite is ‘ariditas’, with its inferences of drought, aridity and dryness. The latter might touch on a self-denying understanding of Lent as wilderness or desert, but I was beginning to sense the possible tension between Sabbatical and Sabbath – intended as a ‘greening’ time, if ever there was one! – and my original thinking about Lent. Which way to go? Self-denial or flourishing? Giving up or taking up? And was there actually a tension between the two? During the weeks leading up to Ash Wednesday, as time allowed, I pondered how to approach my Lenten Sabbatical.

In the end, I went with Lent as ‘the greening time of the year’. I decided to try to use the season to cultivate some much-needed ‘viriditas’ in my relationship with God and with others, as well as with myself. I didn’t give anything up, as I usually do. Instead, I spent more time appreciating less – less chocolate, wine, cheese. I consciously and deliberately expanded my devotions and reading and intentional time with God. I offered voluntary help in our local . I didn’t just fill up the garden bird feeders and rush away – I watched the birds emptying them as well. I noticed the new shoots in the terracotta pot that holds the indestructible lily on the patio; early on, I went to the theatre, cinema, art galleries, and reflected on what I saw. I slept; I walked; I continued knitting the cardigan intended for summer 2014. I baked for the first time in years and I tried my hand at calligraphy. Was I wrong, especially in the context of COVID-19? Should I have gone with my original idea of Lent as a bootcamp? It’s too late now – obviously, I didn’t. Easter has dawned; the promise of Pentecost awaits and in the meantime, we celebrate the potential of newness of life, its ‘greening’.

by Barbara Glasson.

by Catrin Harland-Davies.

As I write this, the country is closing down. Those who may be vulnerable to infection have been advised to stay at home, pubs and restaurants have been told to close, and we cannot gather for worship.

The response of many churches, circuits and districts has been to find ways of connecting us remotely, to care for one another and to worship together. But many of us are feeling a strong sense of dislocation and despair. And, for some of us, our natural reaction in such times is to turn to our Bibles for encouragement.

The Bible is certainly not silent on such experiences. But I’d like to home in on two fairly significant themes that have been resonating with me over the last week or so. The first is exodus and the second is exile.

Exodus

A band of slaves, pursued and afraid, lands on the far side of the Red Sea to see their enemies swept away and freedom suddenly theirs. The story of Moses and the people of Israel in the wilderness begins with exhilaration, jubilation, adrenaline pumping and a new adventure dawning. I doubt there are many who feel like that about the Covid-19 crisis, but there do seem to be many who are rising to the challenge with maybe just a slight sense of challenge and adventure. But in the 40 years that would follow, the Israelites began to wonder whether what they had lost was so bad after all.

Yet what lay ahead was the promise of something amazing! I find myself looking back longingly at a time when we only had Brexit, austerity, rising crime and floods to deal with! And perhaps we hope for a future which may, despite all the pain, feel better and more hopeful. Will this force us to rethink our investment in the NHS, our treatment of those in poverty, or the blind eye we turn to parts of the world with far greater mortality than the virus will bring? Will our worship be renewed and reenergised? And will we have discovered a new and deeper community spirit, through being denied each other’s companionship for so long?

The reality is probably that the promised land will not be flowing with all the milk and honey that we optimistically hope for, but maybe, as we land on the far side of the Jordan, we might find reason to rejoice – which will not, as is so often the case, and was so for Israel, later look back to the time of wilderness or suffering as somehow a golden era to be mourned in turn.

Exile

A large proportion of the Hebrew Bible was probably written during the Babylonian exile – a time of grief, frustration, anger. You just have to read Psalm 137 to see how deep the emotions could run. Without their Temple, their sacrifices, their usual patterns of worship, how could they even be God’s people? But even amongst the grief, that question of despair became a question of practicality – how, in practice, could they be God’s people? So we see the codifying of laws, a tightening of purity regulations and questions of Jewish identity. Some of the more legalistic parts of the Torah (Genesis to Deuteronomy) were probably written during this period. And in the midst of this, there comes also the call to buckle down and make a go of it: “Build houses and live in them,” Jeremiah tells the exiles[1]. This is for the long haul, so there is a need to make the best of it.

But this is not just about strategies for survival in the present reality of exile; what will happen at the end? The concern with purity of life and worship is about a desire to keep faith away from the normality of life at home, but also about a concern that life could pick up where it had left off, once exile was over. The grief was for a way of life and worship lost, that might never be recovered. The Jeremiah approach recognised that there might not be an end close enough to be in sight.

Throughout, there is the question that remains for us now, in our much shorter, but still real, exile: what about the return? The canon is not neutral; the order of the books in the Bible is not accidental, but reflects something of the theology of those who put it together. The Jewish Scriptures end not with Malachi, as the Christian Old Testament does, but with Chronicles, and the promise of return to Jerusalem. But would the exiles actually return, and would life return to normal? The question for us as a church must be, not only how do we cope with the exile, but how do we welcome one another back at the end, and to what? What will our church look like, and will we want to return?

Like the Israelites in the wilderness, and the exiles in Babylon, our task – our challenge – is to keep faith. God has not left us, even when the doors are shut.

[1] Jeremiah 29:5

by Frances Young.

The Serpent-Christ [1]

Deep, deep in the veins is the poison lodged.

The mind is crippled: no antidote

For wisdom’s sting, while the serpent sleeps

In the noon-day sun, warm on the tarmac,

beautiful.

Weak, weak is the heart by venom infected –

Yet seemingly strong: for the serpent-coils,

Tensed like a spring, speak power to leap

To the heavens, up the heated stones of Babel,

masterful.

Beaten, beaten down like wheat in a storm

Are dreams of good: no peace but a sword

While the wound festers. The serpent sleeps

In the noon-day sun, warm on the tarmac,

beautiful.

High, lifted on high, is the antidote:

For life is hid with the serpent-Christ

Who bears the serpent’s curse, and refines

Knowledge of good and evil – now

inseparable.

That poem emerged years ago from  pondering a striking modern crucifix I’d seen in an old tumble-down church in a French village – an outline figure remarkable in its curvacious, almost coil-like shape – the serpent-Christ. On the bike a few days later I’d almost ridden over a snake basking in the sun on the heated tarmac.  Insight into a whole series of biblical associations was triggered, which came to me afresh this year in response to the lectionary for the first two Sundays in Lent.

The train of thought began with John 3.14-15: ‘Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up..’; and turning to Numbers 21.4-9, that strange story  took on new meaning.

The people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.”

This ‘miserable food’ was nothing other than God’s gift of manna. Then we’re told, ‘the Lord sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died.’ The people came to their senses, confessed their sin and asked Moses to plead with the Lord to rid them of the snakes. Moses interceded and was told to make a serpent and set it up on a pole so that anyone who’d been bitten could look on it and be healed. The bronze serpent is the antidote to the snakebites.

In the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, snakes appear as hostile beings to be repulsed with spells, but also with magical powers for renewal of life.[2] Generally in antiquity, the serpent was a symbol of wisdom.[3] Jesus is reported to have said, ‘Be wise as serpents.’ The name, Naasenes (Naas = snake in Hebrew) or Ophites (ophis = snake in Greek), was given to certain gnostic heretics; clearly they were snake-worshippers, the snake symbolising the knowledge or wisdom which brought salvation. In Genesis the snake tempts Adam and Eve with the promise of knowledge, and some rediscovered gnostic texts depict the serpent as the ‘goody’ in the story, offering the knowledge needed to escape from the clutches of the ‘baddy’ Creator-God.  From the usual point of view they read Genesis upside-down; but what was there to stop them? The serpent was a symbol of wisdom.

The snake-bite in the desert was an attack of ordinary human wisdom. When you’re dying of hunger and thirst, and not getting anywhere, what’s the commonsense thing to do? The antidote was the bronze serpent raised on a pole – the true wisdom that comes from God. So arises the Gospel insight that the wisdom of God was embodied in Jesus, the Son of Man, lifted up on the cross as the antidote to the serpent’s curse.

The challenge: where is divine wisdom in the current wilderness of climate change and coronavirus?

[1] Select verses from a poem published in Frances Young, God’s Presence. A Contemporary Recapitulation of Early Christianity (Cambridge: CUP, 2013), pp. 255-6. Biblical References: Genesis 3.1-7; 11.1-9; Numbers 21.4-9; John 3.14-5.

[2] The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, British Museum Exhibition, November-March 2011. See John H. Taylor, Spells for Eternity. The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead (London: British Museum press, 2010), p. 65.

[3] Statuettes of the Cretan goddess of wisdom show her with snakes in her hands. The healing wisdom of the Greek god Asclepius was symbolised by the snake.

by Will Fletcher.

‘Every name tells a story.’ These words are pondered by Jim as he sits in a New Orleans’ bar in Patrick Neate’s novel Twelve Bar Blues (a book to be read with caution if you are sensitive to bad language and topics including prostitution). Jim finds himself surrounded by people with exotic sounding names – the African American bar owner called Molly Malone, as her parents loved the song; Sylvia di Napoli, a lady he met on a plane to New York and then travelled around the USA with as she sought to discover who she was; and Musa, the African witch-doctor who arrived to help Sylvia discover her destiny. Surrounded by such characters, Jim felt as though he was the only one whose name did not tell a story.

What made Sylvia’s story more gripping (though in places more confusing) was that hers was a story told over different centuries and countries as we read her story in parallel with that of her ancestors. Her story was not just about her and her parents, but also grandparents and beyond – people whom she had never met – yet whose stories were intimately tied up with hers.

At the same time as reading this novel, my mum gave me an old Family Bible, given as a wedding present to one set of my great-grandparents. In it is listed all the births, marriages and deaths on my mother’s side of the family ever since. It mentions my great-grandfather, Francis: born 1886, married 1909, died 1972. But it only contains facts. What brings him to life for me, what highlights those points of connection across the generations are the stories I’ve been told about him: Trades Unionist and Labour Party member, passionate about justice, an avid member of his community, clearly enjoyed writing as he wrote a monthly newsletter to all the boys from his village who were away fighting in the Second World War. Knowing where we are from is more than a list of dates or events. Sylvia reveals further wisdom when she says, ‘Truth doesn’t prove anything but itself. Stories are about people.’

We are being encouraged this year by our President and Vice-President to consider the question ‘So what’s the story?’ For each of us, whether we consider ourselves a Sylvia or a Jim, has a complicated story that leads us to this moment, made up of characters we know, those who are only names in a family tree, and even those whose names have been lost to us. Complicated those these stories might be, they are important as they reveal something of who we are, and we may glimpse those familial traits passing down the generations.

It is not just in our biological families that these stories are important, but in our faith family as well. We retell our faith stories as we read Scripture week by week, and as we recall the story of salvation in Communion liturgies. Going further, in the opening verses of Matthew’s Gospel Jesus is linked back through David, Ruth, Jacob all the way to Abraham reminding us that we have a common ancestry of faith filled with the good, the bad and the unknown. Retelling these stories (including those with which we may be uncomfortable) is at least as important to us in helping us understand who we are as reciting a list of facts or statements.

I wonder whether we also need a greater focus on retelling those stories of our faith family that lie between us and the events of Scripture. We can all easily speak of our ‘tradition’ either in a positive or a negative sense as though it has always existed, as though we have always thought this way, or done this particular thing. Yet the stories of our ancestors in the faith are far more complex and far richer.

The last wisdom from Twelve Bar Blues for this post is about our reason for such sharing of our stories. When it was suggested Musa had arrived to help Sylvia discover where she was from, he corrected this saying he had come to help Sylvia discover her destiny. We may have a different way of speaking of our future, but the sense is the same. We should seek to discover our stories from our faith family, not only to understand where we have come from, rooting ourselves in our past; but also to discover where our future may be heading.

by Stephen Wigley.

A couple of months ago I was attending a funeral for a much loved colleague. Right at the end of the committal service and just as we were preparing to leave, the music came on – and to our surprise it was Bobby McFerrin singing ‘Don’t worry – be happy’, a song guaranteed to bring a smile to anyone’s face.

I was reminded of this when a couple of weeks ago, I attended a service at our local Anglican church. The Gospel reading was Matthew’s account of the Sermon on the Mount recounting Jesus’ invitation to consider the birds of the air and the lilies of the field. We were being encouraged to take seriously concerns about God’s creation and our environment and then, right at the end of the reading, heard Jesus’ surprising summary; ‘So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.’

It certainly made me think – because worrying about the future, especially the future of our planet in the context of carbon emissions and climate change, is precisely what we are being challenged to do. And not just to worry, but to do something about it; whether it’s to re-examine our lifestyles, what we consume and how we travel, or where, as individuals or institutions, we place our money and investments. Worrying about tomorrow so that we can make critical choices today is just what we are being challenged to do.

So what is it that Jesus means when he says, ‘Don’t worry about tomorrow’? He speaks about the pressures people face in terms of what to eat, to drink or to wear. Are these more about wider societal pressures and expectations rather than concerns about the basic matters of subsistence? Yet Jesus also asks whether any of us can by worrying add an hour to our span of life; and we know that very basic decisions about diet and exercise can make a big difference in terms of life quality and expectancy.

The 20^th century American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr was an advocate of ‘Christian realism’, an approach wary of abstract, aspirational claims which sought to emphasise instead what was practical and achievable, as in his famous prayer; ‘God give me grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and wisdom to distinguish one from the other.’

Is that what is going on here? Is Jesus suggesting simply that we should stop fretting about the things we cannot change and make the most of what we have and can do something about? Or is he reminding us of those things which should have stronger claims on our time and attention, in terms of striving first ‘for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well’.

This can give the impression of our wanting both to have our cake and eat it. But in the meantime, climate scientists remind us that we can’t;  that the difficult choices needed are not just ones required of other people, whether governments, multinationals and financial institutions; that they equally involve us in the decisions we make about our lifestyles and consumption, food, clothes, cars – and yes, holidays too.

Not worrying, it seems to me, is not seeking to be let off the hook or absolved from the need to make challenging choices, but it is about being clear-sighted and realistic. It’s not just a matter of symbolic gestures to focus attention, however significant these can appear; it’s also about building a consensus for making those practical decisions which involve the most people and can make the biggest difference.

It’s also about that fundamental optimism which Jesus shares in the Sermon on the Mount and which goes to the heart of our faith; that in the end it’s the Kingdom of God and God’s righteousness which counts. That’s why I remain encouraged by the tone and title of the Methodist Conference statement on climate change, ‘Hope in God’s Future’. It’s not that we shouldn’t be actively concerned – but it’s more than our worrying which will make the difference. It’s ‘Don’t worry, be happy – and share in God’s care for creation’.