Theology Everywhere

by Richard Clutterbuck.

When I invite a Methodist congregation – usually in a service of Holy Communion – to recite the Nicene Creed with me, there’s often a sense of surprise. It’s as if this is a strange and eccentric thing to do in an act of worship. So, we might not expect Methodists to be in the forefront of the celebrations for this year’s 1700^th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. What does it matter that 318 (according to legend) bishops and their assistants assembled in a corner of the Eastern Roman Empire to thrash out a formula for teaching Christian doctrine? As a student once said to me in an Early Christian Doctrine class, “Why bother, these people are all dead, aren’t they?”

I do need to acknowledge that the historic creeds (the Nicene Creed and the Apostles’ Creed) have had a mixed reception in Methodism. Its more evangelical members might think that the councils and creeds are unnecessary; after all, we have the Bible, so what more do we need? Liberals, on the other hand, may find the idea of councils too controlling and creeds too restrictive; “don’t let anyone tell me what to believe!” John Wesley, as so often, sends a mixed message. He was always a staunch defender of the basic tenets of the Nicene Creed, such as the doctrine of the Trinity, in spite of their many contemporary critics. On the other hand, Wesley omitted the Nicene Creed from the communion service in his version of the Book of Common Prayer, edited for the newly-independent Methodist Church in the USA.

So, why should we celebrate Nicaea? I could suggest a number of reasons. One would be our solidarity with other Christians, past and present, what Jurgen Moltmann called ‘the ecumenism of time’. Another might be the conciliar method of bringing together Christians with different points of view to find a common understanding – something that, at its best, Methodism has done with its conferences. But asked to give just one reason, I would say this: Nicaea gives us an answer to the question, why bother with Jesus? The creed of the Council of Nicaea is shorter than the version we commonly recite as the Nicene Creed (it’s rather light on the Holy Spirit) but it shares the same emphasis on the drama of God’s action in creation and salvation. Jesus, the person who walked the lanes of Judea, taught in synagogues,  gathered disciples, performed miracles, suffered and died at the hands of religious and imperial powers, and (so his followers believed) rose from the dead, is one with the God who created the universe and works for its salvation.

“We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of all things, visible and invisible;
And in one Lord. Jesus Christ, the Son of God…”

The clauses that follow make it clear that not only has everything that exists come into being through God’s creative care, that same God’s saving love for humanity finds its expression in the Father’s Son, Jesus Christ. Famously, Nicaea introduced the word homoousion (of the same substance) to talk up the unity between the Father and the Son, and to refute the claim of Arius (an influential priest in Alexandria) that Jesus was part of creation rather than one with the creator.

If that seems a strange point of view to us, it’s surely because the European Enlightenment sparked a series of attempts to get behind the councils and creeds to a ‘real Jesus’ who could be recovered from their theological formulae. So, the nineteenth-century gave us the ‘Jesus of History’ movement, with multiple attempts to write the life of Jesus, usually with an emphasis on his ethical teaching and example. More recently, the ‘Jesus Seminar’ painted a picture of Jesus as the wandering prophet, a thorn in the side of the powerful. While these movements have given us a lot that’s helpful and challenging, they don’t give us a reason for putting our faith in Jesus, making him the centre of our belief and worship as well as the inspiration for our practice. It’s this that Nicaea does, admittedly in the language of its day, but nonetheless as a genuine call to faith and affirmation of salvation.[i]

What we teach still matters. We might look for different language from that of Nicaea, but we can still share in its faith.

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[i] It wouldn’t be right to claim her as a supporter of my point of view, but I am deeply indebted to one of my fellow-contributors to Theology Everywhere, Frances Young, who is taking a leading part in some of the celebrations of Nicaea this year. Her two recent volumes on Scripture the Genesis of Doctrine (Eerdmans 2023, 2024) shed fresh light on the early church and the complex relationship between the Bible and Christian teaching. In particular, Frances emphasises the importance of teaching in early Christianity. The early church, she says, often looked more like a school for learning than a traditional religion. What you believed really mattered; it wasn’t just a matter of fulfilling the right rituals. This teaching, she tells us, both depended on a dense and creative reading of scripture and developed its own lens for interpreting the Bible. See, also her “A Song for Nicaea” in the bulletin of the Methodist Sacramental Fellowship.

by Sandra Brower.

Epiphany is a good season to think about the relationship between Jesus and John the Baptist. ‘Epiphany’ means ‘manifestation’ or ‘appearance’ – we often associate it with an ‘aha’ lightbulb moment. The lightbulb moments in our lives are moments when we see something clearly, more clearly than we’ve seen before. And often these revelations aren’t produced by intensive thinking or pondering on our parts – they just come to us… in the moment.

Good fires bring light and heat in the dark and cold. And heat has the power to soften. About seven years ago our family spent Christmas in Eswatini, and one of the highlights was visiting Ngwenya Glass, where recycled glass was fashioned into all sorts of beautiful objects. There were massive stoves where the glass would melt and become malleable.  And we saw the workers take the molten glass from the fires and mould it into exquisite objects. The fires in the glass factory enabled the crooked to be made straight and the rough made smooth.

Eureka moments, in Scripture, are more often than not, associated with the Spirit of God. John says that while he baptizes with water, someone more powerful would come who would baptize them with the Holy Spirit. Throughout Acts, as people begin to follow Jesus, the disciples ensure that they have received the Holy Spirit; there is no New Testament conception of a follower of Jesus who does not have the Holy Spirit as their guide.  What does it feel like to have the Holy Spirit as a guide? It feels like a kindled heart. John the Baptist speaks about the baptism of the Holy Spirit being like a baptism of fire. His language is harsh. Even the crowds find him confusing for they ask him: ‘What, then, should we do?’  

The hymn, Come Down, O Love Divine, speaks of hearts kindled by a holy flame, and how that flame freely burns, ‘till earthly passions turn to dust and ashes in its heat consuming.’ It’s John the Baptist language; it speaks of the purifying nature of fire, of how the Holy Spirit guides us to do the right thing. To the crowd’s question, ‘what, then, should we do?’ John answers: ‘Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none, and whoever has food must do likewise.’ It’s not rocket science, but our lizard brains are often centred on self and not others.

When Jesus was baptised by John, a voice from heaven says, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved’. But what do we make of the Holy Spirit descending on him?  I mean, it’s not as if the Spirit hasn’t been with the Son all along. They are together in creation, the Spirit is there at Jesus’s conception, and has been with him as he grew in strength and wisdom, and the Spirit continues to be with Jesus throughout his ministry, guiding him and teaching him all the ways of his Father in heaven. So his baptism is not the first time that the Spirit shows up in his life. But the voice says something else in that moment: ‘with you I am well pleased’.

Right after the event of Jesus’s baptism, the rest of the chapter talks about the ancestors of Jesus, through his earthly father’s lineage. The Gospel of Matthew starts with Abraham and names all the generations to Jesus, son of Joseph – husband of Mary. Luke starts with Joseph – husband of Mary, and traces Jesus’s lineage beyond David to Adam, son of God. While it might be boring to read, it is included to emphasise that Jesus is not only the Son of God, he is also the Son of Joseph and Mary. He is human. The Father is well-pleased with Jesus because of what he does for us. Taking on our baptism at the beginning of his ministry is rich with meaning. One of the early church writers, Irenaeus, spoke about how Jesus passed through every stage of our human life, owning it and bearing it. The miracle of Christmas, that is revealed to us in the season of Epiphany, is that we – just as we are – can be the dwelling place of God’s Spirit because of Jesus, who becomes one of us.

Approaching Lent, and perhaps having celebrated its start with ashes on our foreheads, let’s remember that a kindled heart leaves ashes behind. When we feel convicted, when something is tugging at our hearts – that is good news! Because it means that God is dwelling close to us. Hearts of stone are hard to move. But kindled, malleable hearts, speak of a soul that is yearning for God, yearning for grace, and yearning for love. Don’t be afraid of the fire.

by Tom Stuckey.

“He went and hanged himself.” (Matt 27:5)

This is not a very promising text. It would not be wise to conclude your sermon with the words of Jesus, “Go and do likewise”.  There were 6,069 suicides in England and Wales last year; the highest since 1999. That is about 19 a day. These suicides cover persons of every social/democratic category. Of course a few hit the headlines. In January 2023 Ruth Perry, the headmistress of a Caversham School died by suicide after a destructive OFSTED Report. Then there were the three celebrities who ended their lives following the experience of participating in the popular TV ‘Love Island’. Going further back there were the tragic deaths of Amy Whitehouse and Whitney Houston.[1] Were these two so severely damaged by fame, fortune and the expectations of others that an untimely death was inevitable? Sometimes reasons are obvious but not always so.

Judas, the disciple, is an enduring enigma. As far as we can ascertain he was high up in our Lord’s affections. He was probably lying next to Jesus at the last supper. How else could Jesus have acknowledged him as the betrayer without the other disciples hearing (Matt.26:25)? It has been suggested that Jesus not only gave him the choicest morsel of food but may even have placed it in his mouth (John 13:30). It was love’s last appeal, but tragically Judas had drunk so much darkness into his soul that this token of love was received as wrath. None of the other disciples suspected his dark designs as he left the upper room on the night of betrayal. He was a trusted companion, sent on a special mission by Jesus (John13:29-30). Alan Mann thinks that many today unconsciously take Judas as their role model. ‘He typifies the post-industrial self . . . the intimacy Judas craves is purely for his own satisfaction and that others are expendable.^’[2]

Both Jesus and Judas die “hanging on a tree” (Acts 5:30, 10:39, 13:29). In the eyes of the law both are cursed. The contrast between Jesus and Judas could not have been greater. The life and death of Judas demonstrates the “down-side” of God’s justice, enacted in wrath. The death of Jesus demonstrates the “up-side” of God’s justice, enacted in love.

 Judas is the antithesis of Jesus.[3] While the Jesus narrative is one of coherence, his is a narrative of incoherence. Judas slips into the “nothingness” of isolation because he cannot maintain relationships. Jesus takes “nothingness” away from people, absorbing it into his own relational identity with the Father. Judas dies because he has based his whole life on an illusion and, losing all sense of self worth, suffers from chronic shame. He cannot confess, because confession would sink him further into shame. He cannot pray, because self-absorption has robbed him of the capacity to know anyone other than himself. He has distanced himself from the corporate world of relationships to such an extent that, when Jesus offers him a token of love, he turns away. The life and death of Judas is a negation of at-one-ment. He kills himself because he knows he is already dead. His suicide is the ultimate act of self-harming in a desperate attempt to feel something. Jesus and Judas represent two polarities; one walks the path to heaven, the other the path to hell!  We have the same choice. 

In Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy there is this inscription over the doorway of hell.

Justice it was that moved my great creator. Divine omnipotence created me and highest wisdom joined with primal love.[4]

Is Dante suggesting that divine justice, power, wisdom, and love have created hell? Jesus and Judas illustrate the inseparable relationship between light and its shadow. Some argue that Dante’s inscription points to the choices people make since love gives us the independence to freely decide on either path. I believe God is more directly involved in that because of his love for the world, he makes himself accountable for the “nothingness”—which is the hell of his “non-creating”. Judas chose the path of “non-creating”. In his quest for absolute affirmation he copied the fall of the angels and dies on a tree. Jesus chose the path of creating. In his quest for justice he is obedient unto death and dies on a tree.

Jesus does not climb the tree like Judas; he is lifted up. In the Gospel of John, Jesus is not only lifted up on the cross, but he is raised up in resurrection. His cross becomes the new tree of life—not a tree of death. Thus Wesley can sing, ‘Thy love on the tree display unto me, and the servant of sin in a moment is free’.[5]

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[1] Amy Winehouse was found dead on 23 July 2011, and Whitney Houston on 11 February 2012.

[2] Alan Mann, Atonement for a ‘Sinless’ Society. Paternoster, 2005, p125.

[3] I am greatly indebted to Alan Mann’s reflections on these respective narratives of coherence and incoherence. (Mann, 107-131).

[4] Wilson, Dante in Love, Atlantic,2011, p.209.

[5] MHB 200

by Josie Smith.

In January, rather to my surprise, I achieved my ninety-fifth birthday. The oldest inhabitant at my church is 106, and the next in line is 98, and you have only to read the obituaries in the Methodist Recorder to discover that Methodism does longevity rather well on the whole.

What about some Thoughts to encourage you youngsters, then?   A friend of mine less than half my age told me that he couldn’t imagine how it feels to be So Old.  There I have the advantage – I know how it feels to be his age, because I have been there.   I told a young friend at church recently that the nice thing about ‘being a has-been’ is that ‘you once were’.  Her witty response lifted my spirits. ‘You’re not a has-been’ she said decisively ‘You’re very much Current Affairs, you are!’ My church is a good place to be – everyone counts, from the youngest regular attender whose age can be measured in weeks, and though I might appear to be a fragile antique, my input to discussions and decisions is not only sought but heard, and even acted upon when it accords with ‘the feeling of the meeting’.

What then does it feel like to be 95? It’s thirty years since I retired from my last Proper Job, with the Home Mission Division as it was then, and since then it’s been voluntary work of various sorts, and following my interests. And now I have slowed down.

A sort of balance sheet might be in order.   

Aspects of being Very Old: BAD – energy levels and physical strength are (only just) adequate for me to live more or less independently. It takes me four times as long to do anything as it used to, and I need two sticks to walk. (Try carrying anything while both hands are thus occupied!) I gave up my car around my 93rd birthday when I was awaiting complex surgery and using my accelerator foot became too painful. I am recognised to be housebound now, which brings me to GOOD – if I need a Covid jab or a blood test the medical people come to me, and appear to enjoy meeting a non-standard nonagenarian. I do have a regular lift to church on Sunday mornings, which is much appreciated, but our services are live-streamed – GOOD – so that I can take part from home if necessary.

But BAD – Ageism! I keep getting invitations through my door to move to one of the several local care homes, where I should ‘find new friends with whom I have a lot in common.’ Who says? ‘Being Old’ does not guarantee having a lot in common with everybody else who is old, merely because we were born a long time ago – though the requirement to love my neighbour is always part of the deal. One of the things I loved doing as a freelance broadcaster was to visit care homes and talk with some of the residents. What rich and varied lives they had led, and what entertaining stories they told. Many of those voices live on, safely archived in the history department of the local university.

BAD also is the assumption that old = lonely. I love people, but I am also perfectly content if I don’t see anyone for days. I enjoy my own company too. And that of a houseful of books. I am very deaf, so find radio a trial (difficult for a has-been broadcaster to confess that) and always need subtitles – often hilariously ill-translated – for my rare bits of television watching. I can’t hear the telephone ringtone, and even if I could, I can’t move fast enough to reach it before it takes a message instead.

GOOD – I can tell people I love them without embarrassment, which in a religion which is built on love is positive – and at 95 unlikely to be misunderstood. GOOD – My understanding of ‘the World, the Universe and Everything’ is constantly evolving. My present church, an Anglican/Methodist Ecumenical Partnership, provides enough challenge to keep me on my toes. GOOD – I recognise that other faiths have an angle which adds to my own faith, and though I can no longer be an active Local Preacher I do get my turn leading intercessory prayers and reading for services. Even a bit of Am. Dram. if I can do it sitting down. We had a Christingle service on Christmas Eve in which I was the both the Narrator and the chief of the flock, called Ram (suitably clad in a sheepskin) and all the children were shepherds and Magi and Angels as we told the Nativity story from the point of view of the sheep.

And I can view the end of my life with equanimity. I have difficulty in understanding when people bring me ‘sad’ news of the death of someone at a ripe old age after a rich and fruitful life. It is the natural ending of the state of existence we call life, and it can be approached with joy. We as Christians surely know that.

Being alive has not all been sweetness and light for me. I have survived early bereavement, cancer, sepsis, a cracked skull and a fractured femur, as well as lots of minor ailments, accidents, other broken bones and what are known as ‘surgical procedures’. I have been at enough deathbeds to know that it is often a relief when it comes. Death is revealed not as an enemy but as a friend.

So onward and upward, friends! Whatever the state of the world (and of those with the ambition to control it) God will be with you on the journey.

by George Bailey.

‘It [love] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.’ 1 Corinthians 13:7 (NRSV)

This verse has been in my reflections recently – the lectionary reading for 2^nd February, so also in our weekly Bible study, and featured at several weddings and funerals this month. The key questions I have are whether love has any limits, and how do we read this responsibly in the midst of unbearable suffering?

The first issue is to consider how it is best to translate this verse into English. The NRSV translation above is close to the Greek text and follows the King James Version – ‘all things’ (panta) is repeated four times. Anthony Thistleton raises concerns with this, which I have found to resonate with people’s reactions: how can love have no limits? how can that work in reality? As Thistleton puts it, bearing and believing all things, ‘appears to support Marx’s notion of Christianity as the opium of the people, or Nietzsche’s concept of Christianity as “servile mediocrity,” […]’ or to form a basis for Freud to see Christian faith as ‘a projection derived from inner conflicts resolved by wishful thinking which “believes all things” in order to “endure all things.”’[1] Thistleton proposes an alternative translation to guard against these possible misunderstandings:

‘It never tires of support, never loses faith, never exhausts hope, never gives up.’[2]

This moves away from the Greek, changing the ‘all things’ to a double negative, and altering the way the verbs work, especially requiring an interpretation to render ‘bears’ and ‘endures’. The NIV offers a compromise between these two options:

‘It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.’

This also requires an interpretation to render ‘bears all things,’ but does not need to use double negatives, and avoids the problems with ‘all things’ – so making it easier to maintain that there are some things which love should not endure or believe, but it can though continue always to protect people and retain trust.[3]

All these translation considerations assume that the love here concerns the relationship between Christians and other people (i.e. from individuals to global issues). This is a common way to interpret verses 4-6, which describe the activity of love. Paul is implicitly listing negative ways that the Corinthian church people were behaving towards each other, and offering the opposite as a vision for community life. Given his arguments elsewhere, he is probably also implicitly offering his own behaviour towards them as a model of love in action. Both these perspectives feature in the way I sometimes use these verses in weddings and funerals, to encourage and celebrate the cultivation of a loving character.

However, there is a third way to interpret verse 4-7 – as a description of the love of God revealed in Jesus Christ. It makes sense to read these verses, replacing the word ‘love’ with ‘Jesus.’ This helps with the pastoral problem of positing such an idealised vision of Christian lifestyle, one which no human can fully exemplify… except that is for Jesus. Karl Barth proposes this; though he does follow the simpler reading for verses 4-6 as encouraging a Christian character, he especially focuses his interpretation of verse 7 in a more Christological way:

‘At this point we catch an unmistakable glimpse of the pattern of Christian existence. And this pattern, the royal man Jesus, is not only the pattern but also the living Head of His community and all its members, in whose life and therefore in whose victory they may participate as such, not just passively but actively, as active subjects. When they love, they become and are this. When they love, they withstand the whole world of hostile forces and defeat it. If in all activities wrought by the Spirit Christians are in undecided conflict with this world, when they love this world is already under and behind them.’[4]

Some situations are extremely challenging to human endurance, and threaten the possibility of maintaining human hope and faith. It is here, Barth seems to be saying, that the persistence of love is not a burden to carried by humans on their own, but it is an activity of Christ, and by the work of the Holy Sprit the community of Christ participates in Christ as love.

David Prior is inspired by Barth’s comments to subtitle his interpretation of verse 7 as ‘Love and apparent darkness in God.’[5] I think this is helpful and is pushing further towards the acknowledgement that there are situations which cause us to question whether God cares, or even if God is really there – we cry out to God in the darkness, ‘Why?!’ Human pain can find a voice in these verses, which should not ever be used to diminish the experience of those who struggle to endure suffering. Perhaps verse 7 is most appropriately interpreted first from a Christological perspective – it is precisely because there are things which we cannot bear and endure, and situations in which our faith and hope are lost, that we need the love of Christ, which is victorious even in death. Jesus Christ ‘bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things,’ and this is where we place our faith and hope in unbearable situations.

Paul ends the passage ‘faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love’ (v13) – in the resurrection life, our faith is different to how we experience it now, for we will be face to face with God; hope is different, for time is no more within God’s eternity; but love is the relationship between us and God, in Christ, by the work of the Holy Spirit. What we glimpse of that suffering love of Christ, with us and for us, when we face suffering now, will remain and be completely realised in our eternal relationship with God.

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[1] Anthony C. Thistleton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text. The New International Greek Testament Commentary. Eerdmans’s; Paternoster Press, 2000. p1056-7.

[2] ibid., p1026.

[3] Other commentators are divided on this translation issue: e.g. Gordon Fee uses the NIV option (The First Epistle to the Corinthians, Revised Edition. Eerdmans’s, 2014. p522); both David Garland (1 Corinthians: Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament. Baker Academic, 2003. p486) and Paul Gardner use the NRSV option, but Gardner in particular, also acknowledges that Thistleton’s concerns need to be considered whenever that version is interpreted (1 Corinthians: Zondervan Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament. Harper Collins, 2018. p574).

[4] Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics. Volume 4, part 2, The Doctrine of Reconciliation. (eds. G W Bromiley, Thomas F Torrance). T & T Clark, 1958. p835

[5] David Prior, The Message of 1 Corinthians: Life in the local church. IVP, 1993. p232.

by Michael Wakelin, Elaine Lindridge and Keith Albans.

³⁶He also told them a parable: ‘No one tears a piece from a new garment and sews it on an old garment; otherwise the new will be torn, and the piece from the new will not match the old. ³⁷And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; otherwise the new wine will burst the skins and will be spilled, and the skins will be destroyed. ³⁸But new wine must be put into fresh wineskins. ³⁹And no one after drinking old wine desires new wine, but says, “The old is good.” ’
Luke 5: 36-39

Although many professed the centrality to the life of their church of mission, community engagement and social action, when the 2020 lockdown hit, the two most common concerns expressed were about provision of weekly services and the management of buildings! Perhaps two expressions of our Christian identity are more deep-seated than we realised!

But the Covid-19 lockdowns have changed us, making some feel less able and willing to participate in the ways, and to the extent, that they had before, while others have reassessed their faith and the contexts of its out-workings.

The Fresh Expressions initiative has been with us since the late 1990s and within Methodism it has morphed into the New Places for New People (NPNP) programme, in which the Mother House is involved.

Some expressions have become home for people with an orthodox faith while others have both reimagined faith and church. All tend to see the focus of their activities away from the confines of the inherited church as they seek to navigate a way in the post-Christian world.

In his parables in Luke 5 Jesus ponders the difficulties of old and new co-existing – things get torn and wine gets spilt. In 2 Corinthians 4, Paul also writes about things getting broken, but now it is precisely so the treasure can be seen, and while the outer reality atrophies, his assurance is that ‘our inner nature is being renewed day by day’ (2 Cor 4: 16). In John 3 Nicodemus struggled with the idea of being born again, but if we’re to be renewed day by day, then we need to be born again, again … and again! And if Nicodemus is still asking, ‘How can this be?’ maybe Jesus will still be saying ‘The wind blows wherever it pleases!’ (John 3: 8)

As models and ideas of church change, history suggests that all too often there comes a point where new and old part ways, badly and acrimoniously. In the post-pandemic world, finding ways of walking together whereby those with inherited models of faith and church feel at home in a reimagined church is a key task.

And for the remnant church, the challenge remains of finding ways of expressing the key messages of a loving and endlessly merciful creator God and a Saviour who brings good news to those on the margins of society. And if it can be a church which is seen to be serving those who are outside its walls, then the call to be salt and light might be lived out.

For reflection:

• How do you respond to the concept that we can be born again, again?

• In the post-pandemic world, what do you think should be the key defining features of a reimagined church?

• After all of your discussions and reflections, do you have an answer to the recurring questions, What role for a remnant church? and Who is the remnant?

This year’s SPECTRUM Conference, What role for the Remnant Church? was held at Swanwick in mid-May and was led by Michael Wakelin and Elaine Lindridge, two speakers who have both written publicly of their growing conviction that some long-held beliefs and practices of Christians and the churches are in urgent need of close scrutiny and critique. Articles are in the form of discussion papers based on their session notes, with editing by Keith Albans – we have shared them periodically on Theology Everywhere. Also see Time for a New Reformation , Reimagining Faith, What are trying to say to the world?, Should I stay or should I go? and Discipleship for the remnant church.

by Michael Wakelin.

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:
‘Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Gird up your loins like a man,
I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
‘Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.

Job 38: 1-4

The past five years have been some of the toughest since the war. The wrong people seem to hold sway in the world, the pandemic and cost of living crisis have sucked the confidence out of many of us, and we may wonder what God is doing! As Sydney Carter put it, ‘And God is up in heaven and never does a thing, with a million angels watching and they never move a wing’.

On the other hand, these words from Dr Who remind us that God’s time is not linear and human freewill enables terrible people to do terrible things. ‘People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it’s more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly … timey-wimey … Stuff’.

This is the setting of our call to be disciples in a remnant Church. We are called to:

Spend time with Jesus

In the first chapter of John’s gospel two of the Baptist’s disciples respond to the invitation to ‘come and see’ where Jesus is staying and when they found out they ‘spent the rest of the day with him’ (John 1: 39). In all probability they will have said very little, but they will have listened.

Be expectant

Rowan Williams compares discipleship with bird-watching! Sitting still for hours and nothing happens, but the expectation that something will keeps the twitcher watching. Ann Lewin’s poem The Kingfisher makes the same point about prayer. God is always active, and signs of the kingdom are there, like dark matter – and discipleship requires attentiveness.

Be faithful in adversity

As disciples we are called to be faithful; whatever is happening – we are called to love our enemies not just when it is convenient to do so, we are called to trust in him not just when things are going well, we are called to be loving even when love seems to have abandoned us.

Have robust theology

I wonder why the rabbis included the book of Job in the canon. It has some unpleasant characters and a hero who suffers countless indignities.

As a philosophy, the Japanese art of Kintsugi treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. We are described in the Bible as clay – not made of cast iron and burnished steel – we are designed to be fragile and being broken is part of life. But when we break it’s not a signal to give up or be thrown away, rather it’s time to get repaired and start again.

We are fixed by giving and receiving love – and our brokenness is then transformed into the rich and lovely human beings we are – scarred but so beautifully restored.

Take committed action

We are called to be observant and then to do something. The disciples were with Jesus but were so stupid they didn’t notice half the time what was required of them. It is easy to be the Levite, passing on the other side, and the Priest keeping his distance. There is a difference between noticing and seeing.

There are great examples of people making a response which leads to projects and change, far larger than the original vision. The City of Sanctuary project which Inderjit Bhogal began in Sheffield almost 20 years ago has now spawned over 120 cities of sanctuary as well as many other things.

Conclusion: God works with those who, like Mary, say ‘yes’. The gospels tell us of the bewildered and broken fishermen who chose faith and became the most potent force in religious history. Throughout the centuries Christian disciples who have said ‘yes’ have toppled governments and transformed societies fighting against seemingly hopeless odds to end oppression and bring about justice.

For reflection:

• Look at the words of Job 38. Do they offer any answer to Sydney Carter’s lament?

• What is your understanding of being a disciple? What do you need to do to change or improve your discipleship?

• How might we practise attentiveness to what God is doing?

This year’s SPECTRUM Conference, What role for the Remnant Church? was held at Swanwick in mid-May and was led by Michael Wakelin and Elaine Lindridge, two speakers who have both written publicly of their growing conviction that some long-held beliefs and practices of Christians and the churches are in urgent need of close scrutiny and critique. Articles are in the form of discussion papers based on their session notes, with editing by Keith Albans – we are sharing them periodically on Theology Everywhere. Also see Time for a New Reformation , Reimagining Faith, What are trying to say to the world? and Should I stay or should I go?

by Kerry Tankard.

I grew up as a white male teenager in the 1980s. Musically the early 80s charts were a mixed bag of blandness, drivel pop, middle of the road and adult orientated rock and popular new romanticism. The musical rebellion of 70s youth had dissipated, many of the bands gone or produced to the point of mediocrity. There were the undercurrents of emerging electronica, new-wave, goth, and anarcho-punk (for those of us interested), but these were not mainstream. In the mid 80s, Creation records and other independent labels would deliver something quite liberating for those of us who were disillusioned by the charts. Indie music labels fought to give us different expressions of music, bands emerged, and new movements stirred, my favourites inspired by the discovery of late 60s psychedelia and, crucially, the Velvet Underground. Our mentor, and prophet, was John Peel and his seemingly infinite catalogue of new music posted to him by labels and bands alike.

What the bands we were introduced to had in common was an imperfection exceeded by their intention to reframe guitar music. One home for such bands was Creation, founded by Alan McGee.[i] You may not know the label, or the man, but you will have been impinged by the label’s output during its latter success with some band called Oasis, whose average lyrics and musicality was far exceeded by their swagger, personalities, and Magee’s belief in them. For me, however, it was the bands that came before: The Jesus and Mary Chain, The House of Love, My Bloody Valentine, Ride and Slowdive, to name a few.

The Jesus and Mary Chain’s first single was created by 4 men whose musical ability was so limited the bassist only had 2 strings, as that was all he could manage to play; the drummer, Bobbie Gilespie, banged a snare and tenor drum; a painfully shy vocalist, Jim Ried, plied his lyrical beginnings; and lead guitarist William Reid, Jim’s brother, masked his shyness and lack of competency with an astounding amp destroying noise. William, when placed in front of an amp, created a noise that became legendary. In the studio, guitar noise overlayed guitar noise and when that was recorded several times, feedback was overlayed on the guitar noise. When William, disappointed by the early mix of their first single Upside Down, was let loose on the mixing desk he cranked the guitar and feedback channels up to max! All of this would sound horrific to sensitive ears, but to those hungry for a new sound this was joy manifest. It was a transcendent assault, and we were overjoyed.

What is the theological significance of all this musical rambling? It is in the simplicity of what was being offered. This was not a band of accomplished musicians, it was not production from which all imperfection had been eradicated, but an offering of four people’s souls and hopes, dreams and memories, passions and desires, failings and faults. It was their attempt to offer guitar music in a way that would disrupt the present and offer a revisioning of what was possible. It was the very real honesty and provocation of their recordings, their primal aural brutality, that was so incredible. It was unpalatable to the daytime Radio 1 audience, never mind its mature Radio 2 sister, but it made sense to those who were searching. Its hope, at the time, lay not in mass appeal but in faithful manifestation. In Church terms, it was John Wesley disrupting his communion into something new; it was Walter Brueggemann’s call on the Church to offer a counterimagination,[ii] and embrace, rather than domesticate, its oddness.

Don’t get me wrong, some/many of those indie bands, and labels, had an aspiration for global appreciation, while lacking the resources and popular accessibly to achieve it. They also had a subversive streak that was determined in the early days to put authenticity and art before bland acceptance. Creation enabled this, though seldom successfully. The great divide between the indies and the major labels was in the desire not always to be popular, or acceptable, but to be true to what they were doing and creating, and to where that creation came from.

In an age where it feels that people are searching for ways to make a church that works for the populus, I wonder if there is something to be said for a call to the minority world of the “indies”. This is not a call for the deconstruction of connexionalism, and a sinking into congregationalism, but it is a question about whether Methodism is better manifesting an 80s indie music mentality rather than a major label corporate blandness. It may not make us popular, or grant us mass appeal, but it could suggest a truthfulness and authenticity about who we are; a place where the offering is real, pure and flawed, but faithful, and hopefully graced by feedback!

For Reflection:

What is your experience of being different? Why did you feel different, was it important, and how was that affirmed, or not, by others?

What is better for the Church – to be popular and successful, or to be marginal and “indie”?

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[i] If you really want to know more, check out David Cavnagh’s, The Creation Records Story: My Magpie Eyes are Hungry For The Prize.

[ii] Cf. Walter Brueggemann, Disruptive Grace. This collection of essays explores the themes of Disruptive Grace, embracing the oddness of Christian worship, and our call to offer, explore, and practice a counterimagination.

by Elaine Lindridge.

Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, ‘Do you also wish to go away?’ Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.’ Jesus answered them, ‘Did I not choose you, the twelve? Yet one of you is a devil.’ He was speaking of Judas son of Simon Iscariot, for he, though one of the twelve, was going to betray him.

John 6: 66-71 (NRSV)

Ian Cron’s book Chasing Francis tells the fictional story of the Pastor of an American mega-church who lost his faith in God, the Bible and evangelical Christianity. After a breakdown, the church elders ask him to leave so he went to Italy to visit his uncle, a Franciscan priest. There, he was introduced to the revolutionary teachings of Saint Francis of Assisi and found an old, but new way of following Jesus that heals and inspires.

Echoing Francis’ approach of living out his faith in the way that felt right for him, Brian McLaren argues in his book that staying and leaving are not the only options: ‘I don’t have to choose between staying Christian compliantly or leaving Christianity defiantly. I can stay defiantly.’He goes on to say: ‘I can intentionally, consciously, resolutely refuse to leave … and with equal intention and resolution, I can refuse to comply with the status quo. I can occupy Christianity with a different way of being a Christian.’

This defiance need not be angry or judgemental, but it can be problematic for the Church. How can those who ‘remain defiantly’ live in community with those who are content with an inherited faith? It can be exhausting for everyone, and studies of Church leavers show that such exhaustion can be the reason many choose to depart.

The Methodist Conference statement in 2016 on living with contradictory convictions was designed to help conversations around same sex marriage, but the principles have wider application. They speak of engaging openly, honestly, prayerfully and graciously, treating each other with respect and dignity, recognising the sincerity of the faith of those who may see things differently, seeking to learn from one another as we travel together as fellow pilgrims and renouncing all language and behaviours that attempt to coerce others to change their views or beliefs.

We know that it does not always prove possible for everyone to remain within contrary convictions, and in leaving or staying it is worth pondering the question of who the remnant is. Some will say the remnant are those who remain faithful to orthodoxy as passed down from the Church Fathers, but what if the remnant are those who are doing the reimagining – the questioning? What if the remnant is made up with some who ‘remain defiantly.’ What if the remnant is made up of some of those who have left the inherited church but still long for community … and are finding ways to ‘be’ a faith community in other spaces?

For reflection:

How do you respond to Brian McLaren’s suggestion that ‘I can occupy Christianity with a different way of being a Christian’.

How do those who are not re-imagining faith view those who are? And vice versa? What role do both groups have in looking out for and supporting each other?

What can we learn from the exchange between Jesus and the disciples in John 6: 67-69? How might it play out today?

This year’s SPECTRUM Conference, What role for the Remnant Church? was held at Swanwick in mid-May and was led by Michael Wakelin and Elaine Lindridge, two speakers who have both written publicly of their growing conviction that some long-held beliefs and practices of Christians and the churches are in urgent need of close scrutiny and critique. Articles are in the form of discussion papers based on their session notes, with editing by Keith Albans – we are sharing them periodically on Theology Everywhere. Also see Time for a New Reformation , Reimagining Faith and What are trying to say to the world?

by Tim Baker.

What if God is home?

Not just in the sense that God provides a big spiritual home for all wandering souls…but also in the sense that God is at home. That this planet, the community, this house, this family that I call home is also, somehow, God’s home. Of course, God is sort of at home in all places at all times, but the last few weeks I haven’t been able to shake the notion and constant reminder that God is specifically at home, with us, here. 

This Christmas season I had the privilege of hosting a series of videos as part of the Methodist Church’s Hush the Noise campaign, as part of my role at Twelvebaskets. On the final video, Jasmine Devadson and Inderjit Bhogal were discussing that famous passage from the beginning of John’s gospel and Inderjit drew us to this one vital word: ‘dwell’. The word became flesh and dwelt, dwells, is dwelling amongst us. 

This word has continued to sit with me throughout the Christmas season, tickling and scratching away at me like a pine needle trapped in a festive jumper. God dwelling here. What I’m left, after all the scratching and as we head into what’s left of winter, spring and beyond, is this simple thought: what if God is at home?

Too often in Christian thought we paint pictures of God who is far away, God who is detached, God looking down on the chewed up tennis ball we call earth from some high celestial vantage point. Too often we paint Jesus’ incarnation, life, and ministry as a brief 33-year blip or anomaly in human history – that one bit of time where God cared, where God showed up, where God ‘visited’. But what if God wasn’t visiting at all – the divine was coming home. All things came into being through this ‘word’ and now, at Christmas, the word comes back to their own. And goes on and on doing so, over the course of human history, in every home and every heart. 

Prepare a space for the Christ, we say, each Advent, but let it not be as if we are expecting a royal visitor and we must wear our finery and talk with accents not our own. Rather, let it me a homecoming, a welcoming back, a recognition that this has been God’s world all along, and we are simply here to hold the space, to take care of the resources, and to hang up a welcome banner!

And let it not be confined to Christmas either. God is always home, and always homecoming – have you noticed?

There is a delicious word that comes from roots in the Welsh language – hiraeth, meaning homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, the nostalgia and yearning for the lost places of your past. Perhaps this is what climate grief is, for God as well as for us? The pain in the heart of God is a yearning for a world where the divine and the mortal can live together, dwell in community, be at home.