Sea & Islands Post 16b

Mystery

Perhaps this is the hardest test for Evangelicalism. We have been birthed through the reasonable argument of Biblical certainty in the midst of an environment of Liberalism. We have revelation in which we place our utmost confidence. We claim to be able to know the truth. We are comforted by such certainties.

There is much in this heritage for which we should be thankful. Yet perhaps we have been so focussed on certainty that we have given little room for mystery. Our communion services depict symbolism rather than sacraments. Our gospel sermons declare decision rather than pilgrimage. Yet we continue to be faced with the fact that there is more that we don’t understand than what we do.

It seems to me that the gospel is more an anchor for the soul than certainty for the mind. In many ways the story is unreasonable. In fact, it has to be said that it is outrageous. Some groups suggest that the scandal is that we have been offered salvation at all, but I would suggest that this places more emphasis upon sin, than it does upon the fullness of the grace of God. Perhaps we experience a prodigal (wasteful) God in the representation of the father in the story. I wonder whether it could be said that God's love is so great that he outweighs our wastefulness with his own willingness to waste, or lavish, his grace upon us.

Our ability to reason might help us when the circumstances of our lives seem fair and palatable. Our emotional response of happiness to the idea of forgiveness might help us in worship when everything is calm. But as we journey through the life that we have been given we are faced with some offensive images. The death of a loved one cannot be easily covered over by a smile and a Bible verse. Persecution cannot be earned by adopting a cheery disposition and discussing abstract theology.

Ultimately both our minds and our emotions are ravaged and we hold on to the still small voice that reminds us that whatever else happens, it will be ‘well with my soul’.

At those times it is only the mysterious movement of the Holy Spirit as he breathes on the words of Scripture and into the hearts of women and men (who come to our aid). This wind, who blows wherever he pleases, and who cannot be contained nor understood, comes to comfort and reassure.

I am persuaded that there is truth that can be relied upon. Yet without our willingness to both embrace the truth and celebrate the mystery we will never fully rely upon the work of the Holy Spirit.

The incarnation is a mystery. Those who wish to reason with it will enjoy a long discussion. Those who choose to add to that discussion a recognition of the mystery will perhaps find an anchor for the soul.

So how do we express this in a way that will become useful to us in a practice?

Amiel Osmaston (27) offers to us three images of church models: 'fuzzy', 'centred', and 'bounded'. Each of these models reflects something of the way in which local churches operate. She draws our attention to the relationship of the church to communities, showing us that gathered churches tend to have clearly defined walls between themselves and those outside. Parish churches tend to have less clearly defined boundaries.

From her work I have produced two clear examples that compare the usual evangelical model (Single Access) with a more incarnational model (Open Access). (Fig 1. Single, Open)

The 'Single Access' model shows how evangelical churches see the route towards belonging as having only a single access point; essentially a definite acknowledgement of faith in Christ, as understood by the group. In actuality each group is likely to describe this in different ways by attaching to this single theme a number of other components, including service, giving, baptism, personal devotion, theology, moral choices.

Even when churches adopt a more missional approach the presence of different access points in terms of church programmes, will still be ultimately secondary to the main goal of a confession of faith, as described above.

The 'Open Access' model shows that the routes to belonging are allowed to develop in a more organic way. Emphasis is placed upon the individual journey and room is given for people to find engagement with the group in a variety of ways. Pressure is taken off the need to 'seal the deal' as if we are selling salvation. The reliance is upon the work of the Holy Spirit to guide people, even if others do not always see this happen.

The Grubb Institute’s report ‘The Parish Church’ (28), in its discussion about the nature of the church highlights the strengths and weaknesses of the 'associational' and 'communal' forms of church. In doing so, it seems to indicate that neither model will suffice in meeting the needs of the calling of the church.

The problem seems to be that we find it too easy to look for choices between various models of ecclesiology. These models reflect the theology and hope of the movement from which they were born.

It is my belief, however, that we need to place each church, willingly, into the position of tension that we see in the New Testament. As we do this, although, or more accurately because, the New Testament does not give us an exact model we will recognise that no single model will bring us the required framework for our operation. The church, mystical as it is, is far too complex for that to be the case. No model, or group of models will ever be enough; for without the life of the presence of God and the underpinning of love that is detailed in 1 Corinthians 13, we will never offer relevant meaning to a watching world. We need to develop models that are organically based, rather than structurally ordered.

David Clark (29) indicates this when he says: ‘unless the church can end its own captivity to closed structures, and demonstrate in practice the reality of Christian community, the Good News will fall on deaf ears’.

Although our search should continue, I have taken two distinct models to explore how we can live in the tension between them. The two main themes that concern me about our existence are holiness and mission. As previously stated they need to be held in tension. Jesus met both requirements as he walked in holiness yet met with the marginalized. He showed us the possibility of being connected yet distinct at the same time. We need to find that place for our churches to exist. The 'gathered' model, often adopted by congregational style churches (Pentecostal, Baptist etc), offers to us an environment for expressing aspects of our separatedness. It offers what Martyn Percy (30) calls a ‘sacred canopy’ under which people can gather.

It draws people towards certain distinctives and calls them to make a definitive choice to cross over into the purposes of God. As Jesus called his followers he presented them with clear choices and the New Testament shows us that we have moved from one kingdom to another. The idea of pilgrimage shows us that we have a clear destination and that steps need to be taken in order to progress in our journey. Yet the gathered church is faced with a problem: what does it do with its contact with the world in terms of mission.

Newbigin (31) speaks of a ‘hermeneutical circle’ as a model for church communities where ‘Scripture and tradition, tradition and Scripture are in a constantly developing reciprocal relationship.’ In charismatic and pentecostal terms this could be more appropriately stated as Scripture and experience, experience and Scripture: even though, as stated earlier, experience is perhaps another word for tradition. Either way, Newbigin rightly goes on to point out that it is not completely possible to use this model: ‘what happens at the boundary between this community of faith and the world that lives without this faith?’.

So we, who have tended to embrace the gathered idea of church, need to look for another expression towards our communities.

The parish model presents to us with more of an idea of connectedness. Whereas association churches, by nature of the model, give clear parameters in which connections are found to be acceptable, the communal model speaks of connections without walls. Here is our model for mission. Living with the people sharing their tears and laughter. Being so close to the boundaries of people's lives that when crisis comes, they might move their thoughts to include the church and its message.

Perhaps it is the parish model’s ability to be salt and the gathered model's ability to be light that makes these two models useful to each other. Perhaps only when we have the two in tension can we reach something of our full potential. Again, I would want to transfer these meanings to the twin motifs of rootedness and openness.

We see our communities as being in a parish in which everyone has the same value and to whom we bring the salt of the gospel; binding wounds, fighting injustice, sharing life.

We see our churches as having something distinct to offer as we gather around the cross; shining a light of holiness and truth.

Perhaps a good starting point in this discussion is to see the two models as a fusion of the passion to ‘be’ and the power to ‘do’.

Berkouwer (32) notes that it is possible to find an ideal place between these two themes ‘if the church is truly the church, the problem of two kinds of ecclesiology, in which stress is laid either on the church’s being or her functionality in the world, dissolves.’

Although it is somewhat idealistic to hope for a time when there is no tension between being and doing, it does show that both factors are of equal importance. Only when equal weight is given to both models will we be pulled into the most effective place and then perhaps Berkouwer is right in suggesting that the sight of two models ‘dissolves’ and one model becomes apparent.

In a sense I am suggesting that the acceptance of several available models of church creates the necessary tension that drives us to asking question that would not be apparent if we simply embraced a single model. We will. of course, be drawn in a particular direct but we are opening ourselves up to a broader influence.

Either way the models chosen are potentially ineffective for differing reasons.
The Parish has the potential of losing its definition and the Gathered tends to move further towards exclusivity. Yet both have massive potential. The parish removes the fear of contamination so that we can actually touch the mess of the world, whilst the gathered draws people towards an eschatological vision of the hope of Jesus. Perhaps the parish model also allows us to become more open about our own mess.

Moltmann (33) notes ‘The Church is ‘at the same time’ the object of faith and the object of empiricism…………..for the Church eschatology and history come together.’

Whether Moltmann is correct or not, the idea of the church being two things, or occupying two spaces, is important because it challenges us not to settle.

Pentecostal certainty, and the evangelical foundation it is built on, leaves little room for the idea of conflicting thoughts drawing us toward a correct footing. Yet the Bible is full of ideas that challenge us in such a way. Only when we experience both models in tension can we hope to fulfil what Newbigin calls ‘the congregation as hermeneutic for the gospel’

There is probably no more powerful communication of the Gospel than people living in community expressing the love of Christ.

So we see two competing themes at play: the idea of a definitive landing place in our theology and experience and the picture of a pilgrimage as an expression of our journey with God.

An incarnational motif frees us from the need to find a level of certainty expressed as the goal of evangelicalism and releases us to explore the mystery contained in the story of salvation that comes through a God who would become man.

Ecclesiological effectiveness is not the result of certainty; it is the fruit of faithfulness

Sea & Islands Post 11

The Marks of Incarnation

If the incarnation story continues in the church then surely it follows that there will be indicators that can be seen within the life of the church.

Snyder (19) proposes ‘While the Incarnation is a mystery, it provides the essential model for the believer and especially for the church’s corporate life and mission in the world.’

I have never particularly enjoyed looking at my own reflection in the mirror. I like it even less now because the passage of time brings me greater distress. The recurring thought that springs to my mind is that I look like my father more than my father’s son. I am not saying there is anything wrong with this, should he read these words; it continually reminds me that I am connected to my parents. I recall one day waking up from one of those mid-day naps that seem to be the comfort of middle age, looking down at my hand in that half asleep half-awake state and thinking that my dad was in the room.

In a similar way, if we care to look, the whole of creation bears the impression of the thumbprint of God: every galaxy, star, planet, flower, animal and sunset, every human being reflecting God. Both in terms of physiology and history all created matter and therefore human life images our creator.

In the incarnation the logos or the Word, the second person of the Trinity, embraced the physicality and emotionality of this ‘creative’ fingerprint personally and thus reflected the creative act in both physique and purpose.

As we look at the life of Christ we can see the mind of a purposeful God. Every aspect of the life of Christ has the thumbprint of God upon it: from conception, through death, to resurrection. At conception we see the will of God unfold in a manner that although spoken of by the ‘prophets of old’ was, in many ways, unimaginable to the human mind.

His birth, so ordained to fulfil the prophetic utterances of the people of Israel, brought together divinity and humanity. His growth as a child: expressing his willingness to be self-confined within the human condition. His ministry: breaking into the mundane of human frailty, yet always with a mind upon the ultimate goal of the cross. The passion of the self-sacrifice of the creator God as a seed falling to the ground in order to produce much fruit. The stunning glory of the resurrection: with all its mystery and wonder. These are things that surely no human mind could have conceived. God, the author and finisher, has been at work.

As I have already stated, what can be said of Christ, the Head, should be said of his body, the church. The incarnation continues and thus, the marks of incarnation, the very thumbprint of God, should be visible in the church. Locally we should touch our communities with these marks. Globally, we should shape and guide our world towards the creator.

Having said this, I do believe that we have so misrepresented our mission by the use of symbols of notoriety that we are in danger of misunderstanding the role of the incarnation in shaping the church.

It seems to me that the context of the incarnation has significance. In Hebrews chapter 13, verse 8 we see Jesus describe as being the same ‘yesterday, today and forever’. At first glance it seems that change is out of the question. Yet we also know that change took place. The Word ‘became’ flesh.

The unchanging nature of Jesus is to be seen in his essential character. His goodness, his truth and his faithfulness are all undiminished by the passage of time. In fact, he is completely unaffected by the constraints of time other than in his own choice to be self-limited. The kenosis, or emptying of himself, is the expression of this absolute commitment to his mission. The act of ‘becoming’ is the important factor for us here. We are being shown in graphic and eternal terms how we, the church, are to ‘become’. The eternal, creative Word has become flesh in order to fulfil the will of God. We, the church, are to follow a similar path.

Compare this with the picture we often find of a church fixed in its position fighting against the tide of change. Churches with a more conservative history, and I would include my own group here, have a tendency towards becoming entrenched in positions that they believe are essential parts of the gospel or mission, only to reassess these in later years to find that some of the things that they considered fundamental are culturally invested rather than theologically absolute.

It is easy to see how groups become revisionist in their view of history; often creating fantasies of a former time when people where more holy, more aware of God, and perhaps more Christian. Of course this doesn't just happen in church. An older generation's mythological idea that 'when I was a lad you could leave your doors open and no one would steal from you' falls apart when you consider the size of the black market in England during World War Two and the fact that very few people owned things that were worth stealing.

These over sentimentalised views very rarely stand up to scrutiny. It might be true that fewer people attend church today than in previous generations, but there has not been a golden era when full communities were church goers. Even where you find pockets of almost full attendance you don't always find behaviour that is fully in keeping with the basic tenets of Christianity (20).

Still, groups that feel under siege tend to demonise the other and create safe enclaves, metaphorically if not physically, for the practice of their religion. Even the more dynamic movements that have a headline narrative declaring that they will 'take this land for Jesus' still have a subtext that suggest taking the land is somehow the same as Christianising parts of culture that have seemed off limits to previous generations. This, of course, has all the appearance of development; it looks to all intents and purposes like the church is changing. Yet the creating of enclaves is still happening. The demonising of the other still takes place; in fact it is far easier to keep people attending church if you paint the other in a more negative light. Statements like 'not in church, not in the will of God. Simple!' by the Pentecostal church leader Derek Smith (21) add to the idea that the church, and your place in it, are synonymous with being in the will of God.

In light of this what does change mean for the church if it is to use the incarnation as a model? I really don't have all the answers to that question: I just know that we need to be willing to change.

In the gospels Jesus is shown to learn, grow, hunger, cry and feel fatigue: it seems he was acquainted with the full range of human experience. This means that the incarnation was not merely some singular event but a pilgrimage.

Evangelicals in general tend towards a gospel that calls for people to move from being 'lost' to becoming 'found'. I do recognise that this is the experience of many within evangelicalism. I have often explained my own journey in similar terms.

This over statement about there being definitive states that one might move 'from' and 'to', however, continues to suggest that the main role of the church is to offer a safe alternative place to the 'other' but only when the 'other' becomes like 'us'.

I will cover more of this later but I want to point out that I am not suggesting that regeneration is not important or that people are unable to know that they have been 'saved' in the way that we suggest in our churches. Here I am suggesting that the model of church that makes such moments the primary goal, is not reflecting the fuller sense of what the incarnation brings to us.

At this point I simply want to affirm that, in the incarnational model, pilgrimage is essential. We expect it of our natural children when we encourage them to explore ideas and learn about themselves and the world around them. Parents and teachers consider the appropriate lessons that need to be considered at each stage of the growing process. So it is with those of us who come to faith and begin a journey within the community of the church.

Richter and Francis (22) speak of the importance of journey in their writings dealing with those who leave the church. ‘The church that is best at retaining its members is one that presupposes that individuals grow in faith, in their own time and in their own way.’ This is often a difficulty for evangelically minded churches. As with other revival movements a great deal of emphasis is laid upon the crisis of conversion. Even where there is talk and consideration given to discipleship it is often done in very narrow terms with the emphasis placed heavily upon conformity of belief. People find acceptance when they jump through a series of evangelical hoops and so even where doubt exists, there is a pressure to conform.

Pilgrimage, however, is a life giving experience. It is possible to both hold to the idea of a cross encounter whilst encouraging an Emmaus road journey.

Our pilgrimage is mainly set on the Emmaus road with occasional moments on the road to Damascus

Sea & Islands Post 7

The Ends can Never Justify the Means

Having been involved in church leadership for the best part of three decades my wife and I have seen our fair share of debate and controversy. Not too long ago such discussions took place in colleges, conferences, and the letters section of journals, but now we have a greater level of access to the various opinions on offer through the internet.

Even with these changes there is an aspect of debate that seems ever so familiar: when the discussion is in full flow it seems that some people are all too ready to suggest that the good that is done by a particular church, preacher, or ministry should somehow protect them from criticism; it seems that, for some, the ends justifies the means. This can take many forms but most recently Beverley and I came across it when debating on the internet the relative merits of a particular mega church pastor's teaching and the possible negative effect upon the lives of many people.

"But just look how big his church is!" we were offered, followed by "But what about all of the people who have been saved through his ministry?"

For most well meaning Christians it almost seems churlish to argue with such reasoning; as if the call for peace reflects some well quoted passage from Corinthians. Perhaps such an idea, however, requires further scrutiny.

How much good needs to be done by the preacher for them to reach the point of being free from criticism? Is there a formula we can use to deduce that the correct level of positive outcome has been achieved, thus rendering any damage done as no longer significant? If so, what would such an equation look like? If more people are helped than hindered should we just remain silent?

Perhaps I could suggest this to be an accurate assessment of the way we often view such things:

(Number of people helped) divided by (Number of people hurt) multiplied by (the number of the preacher's books we own)

(Note - I wonder whether our investment in product makes it more difficult to be critical for fear of being wrong.)

Unfortunately, I haven't found anyone to offer such help when questioned further on the idea of the ends justifying the means. It seems that if good can be found, however anecdotally it is offered, then the rest of us should just remain silent for fear of rocking the boat.

Professor John Kay (11) of Warwick University said 'The pursuit of our goals is inextricable from the mechanism by which we achieve them.'

His comments were aimed at the business world in order to suggest that the pursuit of profit at all cost is not always productive. He goes on to suggest that it is more often the oblique approach that produces the best results.

What does this mean for the church in regard to the way we both understand success and offer a critique of bad practice and theology?

The evangelical church has had a long history of being crucicentric, with the cross being emphasised almost to the exclusion of other parts of the gospel story. We have therefore had to import ideas about the incarnation from other traditions in order to flesh out our understanding. Perhaps this narrowness of view has led us towards the idea that the cross is more important than any other part of the work of Christ; as if everything else is incidental. In this regard we could be forgiven for thinking that the incarnation is little more than a convenient means to a soteriological end.

Surely this cannot be the case. We see how purposeful God was, in Christ, in announcing and bringing in the kingdom. We must conclude that every encounter that Jesus made was more than an incidental subplot to the main narrative of the cross and the resurrection. The teaching of Jesus confirms this idea when he speaks of leaving the ninety-nine (12) in order to find the one. This imperative to search for the 'one' offers a radical questioning of both the cultural values of first century Palestine and of our own highly corporatised world.

In this teaching Jesus shows his followers that not only is the 'one' highly esteemed, but that any value the ninety-nine might claim for themselves is only of significance in relation to the 'one' who remains lost. In a sense the 'lostness' is transferred to them by the actions of the shepherd.

Now compare this to a notion that suggests we should not critique the shepherds (church leaders) when they have taken care of their own constituency (a metaphorical ninety-nine) rather than looking out for the 'one' who is in need. It just doesn't hold together.

In the kingdom of God, where the cross sits like a jewel immovable from its setting in the incarnation, the ends can never justify the means. Having said the above I realise that even when we are forced into extreme measures in order to offer hope to the downtrodden, we can never allow the result to free us from the need for self-reflection and to analyse whether we may have crossed the line from defender to attacker.

Indeed, given a different set of circumstances and another context, the preacher we choose to critique may so easily be the one that we need to aid.

This does not mean that our voices should be silent when we see those who have the responsibility to look after the 'one' who is lost choose the safety of the applause given by the ninety-nine.

It is worth noting that in the teaching of Christ it seems the direction of his challenge is of vital importance. Towards those already downtrodden and vulnerable he offers grace and hope; to those who occupy the seats of power he reveals both their advantage and their responsibility to care for those who are lost.

After several decades in leadership I find this call to inhabit the place of tension between leading the crowd and leaving them to be an awesome challenge. If we don't take seriously the call to offer a critique on behalf of those who are most hurt by the church, we are possibly in danger of:

(i) Allowing leaders to raise funds without any need to declare how the money is spent.

(ii) Letting churches and leaders cover up abuse in the name of church unity.

(iii) Leaving vulnerable people to the mercy of leaders who extract personal stories only to use them against those in most need.

(iv) Making church members believe that leaving an unhealthy church is the same as disobeying God.

(v) Supporting, by our silence, theology that dehumanises those who are already treated as second class in society.

If you care to look, you will soon realise that all of these things exist; sometimes in even the most successful looking churches and movements. We can chose to remain silent in the hope that the good done will outweigh any harm, but we need to be aware that in the kingdom of God the ends can never justify the means.

The God who humbled himself is not glorified by leaders who promote themselves