Walking through walls

Prague is an interesting city. Whether you see it as the "city of 100 spires" or the city of the never-ending stag-night, you can't escape the amazing mix of fantastic old buildings and of people. There is both the very ancient - long before the brave stories of early Reformers burnt at the stake or "defenestrated" (thrown out of windows!) - and the very new, with all the High Street shops you'd expect to see in the UK, and this fascinating wall reminding us that, when people were under Soviet rule, they were attracted to John Lennon, the peace-lover. A game of cat and mouse ensued, as the wall was covered with messages of peace and then whitewashed by the authorities, but now it remains - with Lennon's head coming through to meet us ... Overturning totalitarian governments, or making world peace, is somewhat like walking through walls: it's just not something that happens ... is it? And yet it is. Again I find myself drawn to the distinction between optimism (which can naively pretend the walls don't exist) and pessimism (which gloomily sees only the obstacle) - and to the conviction that Hope is far more radical than mere optimism, because it sees the wall squarely, head-on, for all its utter concreteness (the stubbornness of societal systems, of human attitudes, of violence and division), but still determines to walk through it, whatever the cost. So let's get to it - let's walk through walls.

A Climate for Debate

I'll refer to it as an example - but to do so, I have to spell out the importance of the issue: Climate Change. It's high time we in the churches got serious about science, not so that we simply accept whatever scientists say or do (because there are issues which call for ethical guidance as well as theological frameworks), but certainly so that we at least appreciate the seriousness with which science is undertaken. For it seems that many 'religionists' treat science as though it is 'mere propaganda', a distorted mindset, whereas its strict method and due sense of openness to ongoing discovery mean that it ought to be better described as the exposure of propaganda. The scientific method requires evidence, tested and tested - so when well over 90% of relevant scientists tell us that it is virtually certain that warmer climates are going to suffer more famines, more insect outbreaks, more deaths due to a 2 degree rise in temperature, certainly exacerbated by human activity, then we should listen - and although Britain itself can possibly afford to delay, we should be far more concerned about those who cannot afford to do so. Poorer people will suffer more. What this requires is a "climate of debate", i) with Christian communities daring to give more time to the big issues facing humanity than to the details of church preservation, ii) with us supporting each other to discover ways of tackling the issues in our daily lives - to help us live sustainably, how we might address our own consumerism and wastefulness, and iii) with us learning how to converse with other disciplines and other communities ... but instead, we preoccupy ourselves with churchiness and talk to ourselves, hiding fearfully behind our walls, or no better, behind doctrinal assertions. I suspect God is no respecter of such walls or assertions, when a climate of debate and conversation demands lives which dare to imagine a different future.

Secular Faith?

I'm not quite sure if this is the right title for this blog-entry, but the point is this: It is said, with good intentions, that Christians should affirm that we have more in common with other 'people of faith' than with 'secularists', but I am sure that this is not always the case! By saying this, I am certainly not attacking the interfaith movement, because that is essential in its own terms, not least because it is a properly Christian concern to build relationships and share in conversations with those who are 'other', those from whom we can learn, those from whom we appreciate how we are seen ourselves, those with whom we can work for justice and peace. However, I am aware that there are issues on which I wish to stand firm with so-called secularists (even if they are wrapped up in western Enlightenment assumptions! for I certainly do not wish to throw out the wisdom of the Enlightenment with its dirty water) in the face of dubious religiosity. I am thinking of science, respect for its methods and (tentative) findings, the concern for 'secular' human rights, the importance of secular education, the value of a church-state divide (for the good of both) and generally the need for religion to be exposed to secular suspicions. After all, I am convinced that, if God is for religion, God is also for the secular - not unconditionally, since God is not unconditionally for religion either! - because God has high hopes for humanity's capacity to critique bad or dubious religion. We are given prophetic resources within our religious tradition(s), to critique our concretions of anti-secular ideologies, but we must also be open - dare to be open - to those extra-religious voices which criticise our religious ideologies. This is not merely because I read The Guardian, as though I give more credence to it than 'The Gospel' (as some sneering religionists might suggest), but because our Good News is fundamentally self-critical, a living, organic tradition, which takes seriously humanity's God-given quest for truth in all its multi-facetedness. This does not make me reductionistic (not always, anyway!), or debilitate my ability to criticise secular materialism, but I should remember that some secularists are also critical of materialism, and we must be committed to serious relationship with 'the secular' on such an understanding.

Getting the Easter treatment

The Gospel stories of Jesus' resurrection leave us with an intriguing gap: what might have happened between the disciples' retreat and the discovery of the empty tomb? Matthew tells us there are soldiers sleeping, and angels now guarding the tomb ... but what happened in the gap? 'He is risen,' we are told. 'He is not here' or 'Why look for the living among the dead?' or 'Do not fear, for he has gone ahead of you.' All we know is that we are playing catch-up. He has surprised us again. Just when we could legitimately expect to be 'up to speed', he has exploited the mysterious gap between us again, and gone ahead of us. It is like a frustrating game of 'hide and seek', only the one who is hiding seems to remain ahead of the game, even at the very point that we could justifiably be sure that we had beaten him! Not that we were trying to beat him; we just wanted to do the right thing by him - to bring flowers and spices to his grave. But he has gone. The gap remains - we are destined to be caught off guard, at least as much as the soldiers! So what? It means, contrary to much Christian hyperbole about the confidence we can now claim, that our confidence is shattered - and that is the very grounds of our hope! If we are truly to get and embrace 'the Easter treatment' we must accept that the grounds of our faith will always surprise us and shake us. This is what the story of Jesus shows us: Be ready to un-do even what you deemed to be the most secure concept, to dismantle even the most concrete world-view, to shatter even the strongest rock, to have even the heftiest stone rolled away. Even that which is 'prophesied' in some way will continue to shake and disturb us: it will never be in our grasp, but will call us on, again and again, for the sake of freedom, hope and healing. This is the politics of Easter: the gap between hope and reality is vital, to keep us on our toes, questioning each Power, re-evaluating every presumption, for the sake of all enslaved or de-humanised people and communities ... so be ready ... mind the gap, never take it for granted that it is closed ... for the work goes on and resurrection makes it possible and essential.

An Easter Saturday world

The good thing about religious calendars is that they give us discipline and a shape to help frame our lives, to place the events of 'ordinary' life in the context of God's relatedness with us. But the problem with them is: we know what happens next. There is a lack of surprise. In our church, on Good Friday this year, we prayed for the strength to wait patiently, anticipating that hope will be fulfilled, healing will come, but recognising (at least in our words) that we do not know when ... which is why we need to develop the ability to wait patiently but actively. And this is where we are, as a world, every day: between the depths of what has happened and the hope for what could happen. Of course, many people anticipate only that things will get worse, but the Christian calling is to resist that pessimism, but without retreating into a naivety which denies the awfulness of Good Friday. Many Christians prefer not to attend services on Good Friday, because it is too painful - which on the one hand I find disappointing, because there is a journey to be shared together; but on the other hand, may be the fact that they cannot face it suggests that they already recognise its awfulness ... but the thing is to hope for tomorrow, without assuming it will simply drop into our laps. We must go to the grave, bringing our spices and flowers, to witness the things we would rather forget, and our calendar tells us "tomorrow" will be much better ... but in the meantime, we wait, patiently, actively, loving not only those who show us kindness but also those who would do these awful things to others, hoping, hoping ...

Here I am

Also, concerning slavery, the call of Moses is illuminating. The burning bush, from which Moses hides his face, reminds us that the revelations about slavery today continuing to be frightening; but God is present in them, calling us to respond. This God also recalls history, reminding us of the divine presence with the people of the ages - God was there, and connects us all together. So Moses responds, saying, 'Here I am.' This is the God who makes us realise 'where we are at'. We cannot ignore the present moment or place, the lives of others. This is, after all, also the God who hears the cries of the oppressed (see Exodues 3: 1-12). We too must hear ... and respond.

Unbind them, and let them go

It wasn't necessarily the most obvious Bible text for the subject in question. But actually the story of the raising of Lazarus ended up feeling surprisingly pertinent to the theme of slavery. It is, as we ought to know by now, the 200th anniversary of the abolition of the British slave trade - though obviously slavery continues, trafficking is increasing, and there is still a long way to go since that memorable milestone. But what of Lazarus? Jesus was late. Religious leaders are often late to the crime scene. There are always other things to do, other lessons to teach, which seem more important at the time. But Lazarus died. If Jesus had been earlier, Martha and Mary say, he might not have died. But he comes, and he asks to see where the body is laid. Even if we are late, we must nevertheless dare to ask, 'Can we see the things of death? Take us to the heart of the matter. Show us the reality - in all its awfulness. Where is the body?' So it is with slavery. Many would rather consign it to history, as a terrible chapter in an appalling saga. But no, we must dare to face it, to see it, to witness it, past and present, because history lingers, like the stench of Lazarus. And there is weeping ... so we are told 'Jesus began to weep'. We must weep with those who weep, in solidarity with the stories we would rather not hear. It is our duty. Next, he says 'Take away the stone'. There can be no reconciliation if we do not name and confront and remove the stones which stand in the way: every obstacle to justice which persists. Take it away! And then he speaks to Lazarus, the sinister memory and stench, 'Lazarus, come out!' We must name the forgotten nameless; we must call the enslaved to freedom. And finally, Jesus says to the gathered crowd, 'Unbind him and let him go.' It is our responsibility, too, to play our part. To 'unbind' those burdened by the past, those who dare not remember, those who are enslaved, and ourselves, bound up with the systems of slavery. Unbind us all!

People of simultaneous dusk & dawn

I have a photo of the inside of South Africa's Constitutional Court - a relatively new building, partly built out of the bricks from the old prison where Nelson Mandela and others were held prior to their trials. Inside, the designers have incorporated images of traditional African justice - pillars representing trees, since the traditional judges would sit under trees; high-up skylights, slithers of glass, representing transparency (as opposed to the opaque "justice" under apartheid) and the 'light' breaking in; and so on. I have another photo outside the court, taken when I visited Johannesburg as part of a Global Youth Convention, which captures a red sunset. A sunset and a new dawn, together. Which is how we are called to be - we who are people of faith; we who see, for example, in the person and partnerships of Jesus a new dawn ... we are called to point to the dusk of an old world, right here and now, often hard to spot, but present nonetheless, and to point to the dawn of a new world, right here and now, often hard to spot, but present nonetheless. The practice of faith consists of the art of identifying dusk and dawn, how they occur simultaneously: for whenever the old world crumbles, something new is born. We are called to see where the light is breaking in, how it exposes the old world for its hollowness and inhumanity, how it makes possible the subversion of such things, and the building of hope. We are called simultaneously to be people of the dusk, people who know when "the powers of domination" have had their day, and people of the dawn, celebrating the rising of the sun ...

The Best is yet to come?

I try to be a person of hope. But what makes it hard, is not even the hopelessness of the world; it is more often people's refusal to be hopeful. Hope - it seems to me - runs so deep within the Christian tradition, that I cannot understand the resistance to it; and I don't want to put it down simply to my relative youthful naivety! (Are 31-year olds "youthful"?!) After all, the resistance to hope comes in two forms, one naive, the other more understandable. The naive form may look like hope, but it is false hope, which is almost equivalent to no hope; it is that naive insistance that "all will be well", which particularly manifests itself in terms of "pie in the sky when you die", an unwillingness to grapple with the hopelessness of the world because of a greater belief in something more beautiful waiting for us. It is naive, because it overlooks - even suppresses - some of the messiness of the real world. It is hopeless, because it does not allow for the possibility of deep transformation here and now; it only imagines that the current state of things will not have the last word, without urging people to believe they can help transform them. The other form of resistance to hope is more understandable, because it is borne out of struggle and pain; older people speaking to younger people call it "life experience", that which tells us idealism loses its sharpness in the furnace of a harsh world. But to give up on hope because of experience, is to miss the point: hope may well be the smaller, weaker 'presence' within any harsh experience, but its very presence is sufficient to take on the invincible power of slavery, apartheid, racism and sexism. To believe the best is genuinely yet to come, we must therefore dare to root out and transform both that false hope which says good things come about if we just carry on doing what we do - no, hope demands change, now! And we must dare to root out and transform that pessimism infected by doom-and-gloom, or by cheap fears fuelled by cynical media, which says there's no point trying - no, hope demands commitment to new possibilities, lived as though they will have the last word over their resistance.

Living with spilt milk

I was going to try and be clever. But the words aren't coming. I wanted to link two things: 1) the fact that I've just read on "The Unlikely Evangelist" website (link to be added soon!) about "the end of the world", about how it's not about the destruction of the world, but seeing the world through different eyes amd working for its re-creation now; and 2) a letter I've received angrily criticising me for forgetting to do something. And they are linked - I think. The letter really upset me. It was right - I had forgotten to do something - but its anger was disproportionate, and the attack was personal. So I have to live with that spilt milk, which I did "cry over" briefly, but I felt better after telling one of the most amazing 70-something year-old women who phoned me back and read a prayer over the phone. Of course, this incident is not the end of the world, and yet on the other hand, it is. I must pray for the person who wrote it, if I want to be part of this 'new world', because that begins to break the cycle of bad feeling - but it's bloody hard! In fact, I should want this episode to be the end of the world as we knew it, to be an opportunity (a kairos?!) for something new and braver. Forgetting things is easily done; I'm sure the letter-writer has forgotten a few things too; so "spilt milk" is all around us; but the trick is to live with it in a new way, with new eyes, with a new prayer: God, help me to mop it up.

Telling a progressive story confidently

It's a challenge. Something about the liberal disposition makes it very difficult to escape from reticence. Even though in some respects there can be an air of arrogance and presumptuousness around the religious liberal (like me), nevertheless the greater feeling is one of reticence - I/we get so caught up in the provisionality of things, that sometimes I/we fail to make definite claims; we become embarrassed about the evangelical certainty which sometimes looks like idolatry, as though a human being can pinpoint "the truth" with as much clarity as is apparently claimed. So the challenge is to offer 'a big story', a meta-narrative if you will, which speaks in progressive terms - about peace, social justice, equality, the provisionality of knowledge, the plurality of reality, the quest for reconciliation - but without degenerating into a debilitating relativism. The point is to say, 'Yes, we do have good news, we do believe that our faith can make a difference, we do believe that a faith community has a real and radical contribution to make to the compassionate transformation of the world, yet we do not make our claims imperialistically ...' Where this will differ, perhaps quite fundamentally, from the meta-narratives of religious conservatives, is in terms of the historical debates: what are the foundations of belief? what do we believe were 'the big events' of our faith, which foster our ideological commitments today? Of course, though, from a progressive viewpoint, it is not about asserting that I know what was historical, but that does not mean we can avoid the debates - and we can dare to say that we are not so sure that particular readings of history are coherent or appropriate. This need not make us arrogant; it suggests we want genuine dialogue between faith, history, science, etc. And here I stand, confidently.

A Hopeful Reminder: each lonely butterfly

The last few blogs of mine have been a bit gloomy and questioning - how can faith be set free? how can we address the knowledge inequality? how can we address the gender politics of faith and church etc.? So I return to the first posting on this blog, the explanation for the blog's name, where science's "chaos theory" and theology's "kairos" come together; a reminder of the idea of the lonely butterfly causing a hurricane in another part of the world, or perhaps of a lonely butterfly contributing to the downfall of apartheid ... or something else today. I do get anxious about the churches, our struggle to address the big political issues, our difficulty to see the world of faith in terms of strategies for dismantling systems of domination. But I should remind myself to be hopeful. We're not alone. We have anti-racist butterflies on our side!

Renewal / New wineskins

There's a lot of it about. Renewal is in the air. The Government is talking about it - though different people mean different things by it ... does it mean Gordon Brown, does it mean revising policy, does it mean speaking to the anxieties of the day, does it mean generating solutions tio the big questions of the world, does it mean 'anything but Tony'??? Renewal is a great idea, but very slippery. And so it is with the churches, too. Presumably the many people who have been leaving the churches in recent years mean a whole range of things by their voting-with-their-feet - they may mean that renewal should involve 'becoming less wishy-washy', or others (hopefully!) mean that churchy-ness should start to re-engage them in a way that relates to real lives in the real world. When I say 'hopefully', I don't mean "I hope that has been the churches' failure"! I mean, "I hope that is people's analysis, because it happens to fit with mine!" We all have our agendas, don't we! So how should we renew? It can't be avoided that many growing churches, in the 'west' and in the 'south'/developing world, are 'conservative' - i.e. their 'new wine' message is very traditional, and in many ways quite old! (though the wineskins are changing). So for those of us who find ourselves drinking a different wine, we must revitalise this commitment to new wine as that which brings about "genuine" renewal - but what is it? Isn't it very much to do with "where peace is taking root", "where the hungry are fed", "where equality and dignity are upheld", "where justice is done"? But what do they mean? Social democracy? Or something distinct again?

In search of "balance" (in gender politics etc.)

The story of Jesus visiting two sisters, Martha and Mary (in Luke, chapter 10: verses 38-42), prompts big questions! On the one hand, it's about a teacher dropping in for a cuppa. But on the other hand, it's much more than that - because when Jesus tells Martha to stop fussing (she's busy 'being hospitable', as expected of her), and that she should be with her sister to hear his teaching, there is a double-edge here - not least because of how we read it. I have in mind its gender politics. For is it a man-thing, disproportionately, to revel in this story's critique of busy-ness, as it is all too easy for us to criticise the woman for being busy, since men might often be in the front room with the guest ...? And is it a woman-thing, disproportionately, to feel affronted by this criticism: for busyness is how women are conditioned to be (because of patriarchy)? Of course, such claims risk being overly general; but if there is even an ounce of truth in them, then there is an ideological problem here. On the one hand, Jesus is colluding with male-projected norms - 'it's better to think and learn than to be busy being hospitable' (is it?) - and yet on the other hand, is he commending Mary for subverting the gender roles? Is she a trailblazer for renewing women’s 'roles'?! Whichever it is, it reminds us to be mindful of gender politics – not least because of the need for 'balance'. After all, Luke places this story in the wake of the Parable of the Good Samaritan, so presumably he does not mean us to devalue action. Rather, in order to be Good Samaritans, we may have to subvert our socio-cultural assumptions and expectations, including gender 'roles', to do serious thinking "with Jesus" - and this thinking/acting balance requires constant renewal. And I have, no doubt, overlooked some of my own unconscious orthodoxies, and betrayed some of my own complicity with patriarchy, by how I have explored this double-edged story. So help me too …

We're told to be humble - but what is it?

If we were always humble in the way often taught by the churches, however implicitly, would we ever say anything or offer to do anything? There seems to be something real within church traditions which urges people never to push their own gifts forward. Of course, churches want us to offer our willingness to fulfil the kinds of roles that need to be fulfilled (being secretary, doing the cleaning, helping with the flowers, doing the rotas, etc.), and all of those things give people a sense of purpose (at one level). But I'm talking about something else: after all, to fulfil those roles we are expected to do so humbly, never thinking of our gifts as being too important but contributing to a bigger picture ... but does this mean that genuine creativity, something that might actually destabilise the status quo, is broadly suppressed? Is "Christian Humility" an ideology which basically keeps people in their place, keeps the structures and systems of the church AND of the world largely undisturbed? And within a particular model of Humility, are some roles fulfilled in a way that actually allows the exercise of manipulative power? (Think of the martyrs who cannot be criticised, because they are so committed to the roles.) So what, instead, is a more authentic kind of humility, which still avoids arrogance, but which enables everyone's giftedness to be celebrated in a way that could potentially change the system/s?

What does it mean to say God gives gifts?

Sometimes, we all need to shout out and complain against God. In the Book of Exodus, chapter 16, it says the people of Israel complained against God, because their leaders had helped them escape from slavery, but now they had nothing to eat. Their freedom felt like a death sentence. How this can be true! First, that we take the amazing things of our lives for granted. But secondly, that our faith can put us into new and frightening situations - good news is always double-edged. But what about the idea that follows? God "hears" their complaining, and gives them "manna from heaven" to feed them in their hunger, so they'll believe God is with them. This begs several questions (let alone the historical issues!) First, what does it mean for God to "hear" us? Not only 'hear' in the sense of catching the sounds we make, but in the deeper sense of "I hear you", or 'I get it'. In some sense, presumably God does 'hear' this way, but it's a bit of a mystery, isn't it! But secondly, how does God give us gifts? What does that mean? We might well never enjoy "manna from heaven" in the sense of a miraculous intervention, but still there is 'giftedness' at the heart of the world's life, in which God enables us to participate. What is it?

Christi-anarchy! (I've borrowed it)

Having just checked out an article on the ekklesia website, I'm reminded of the closeness between Christianity and anarchism, which Dave Andrews captured in the brilliantly titled "Christi-Anarchy: a radical spirituality of compassion." The closeness is because Jesus was a prophet against the powers - religious, social and political - just as anarchy means 'without rulers', so urging us to subvert and overcome the status quo. Again, it's radical, it's revolutionary, and even more surprising: it's biblical! After all, the Old Testament has different strands, monarchical and anti-monarchic, priestly and prophetic, and the New Testament too shows different tendencies, though Jesus seems surely to place himself in the anti-domination stream of the prophets - even Paul, often deemed 'conservative', is actually better understood as a critic of Empire. So, again, this begs questions of the church: how well do we practise this kind of faithfulness and discipleship, critiquing 'the Powers', walking the way of humility, empowerment, peace and compassion? Mmm ... the potential is always there ...

Spreading the word? (liberally)

It's a strange tension: the prospect of this "Jesus-movement" changing the world, of it being something truly radical and revolutionary for the sake of the oppressed and marginalised, can be genuinely exciting ... but I am hopeless when it comes to speaking to people who do not know much about it. In fact, my liberal sensibilities are such that I am very reticent, tending to be very wary of what people will make of it - after all, passion is a bit embarrassing, isn't it?! - and there are so many problems with the Church at large, that it is difficult to invite people to be a part of it ... and on the one hand, I don't lose any sleep about this, because I focus on working with the people already committed to the church, and kind of expect them to invite others! So how, if at all, should I set about becoming more able to say "this story is worth it", "this movement really can make a difference - trust me"? And how especially should I do this without being heard as saying "this movement is the best", because I know only too well that other agencies are making invaluable contributions, and other faiths must always be part of the conversations?

Anger Management?

On the day when World Trade Organisation talks have faltered, much to the concern of development agencies, an argument in our church's Bible Study comes to mind. Someone had complained that we're always being told how the world's poverty is "our fault" and we never seem to hear what we've done right ... Well, it's simple - it's because so much of the ongoing hardship of millions of people is because of the intransigence of countries which can afford to make changes but refuse to. So why was this person getting so worked up? It's because the miraculous story of the Feeding of 5000 people raised hard-hitting realisations: things can be done, Jesus expected them to be done, he got disciples involved in seeing them and in doing them, but still we don't like hearing it. I got angry in response - still aware that I don't do enough to follow through on the compassion that is evoked, but angry that such defensiveness can stand in the way of the need for a contemporary miracle. And what would the miracle be? Nothing but managing the anger so to direct it towards building a world in which hungry people are fed.

A new beginning, again!

It was a choice between "chaos theology" and "kairos theory", mixing two interesting ideas. Chaos theory (I think!) is that scientific hypothesis that apparently random events are underpinned by greater connections - for example, perhaps a butterfly flapping its delicate wings in one part of the world could contribute to a hurricane in another part of the world. So what if my or your apparently random acts (of kindness, or whatever) could contribute to much greater events further afield? Wouldn't that be crazy ... and amazing!? And kairos theology is the spin-off of South Africa's 'kairos document', which envisaged a new way of tackling apartheid in the 1980s - neither colluding with it, nor justifying it, nor reacting violently against it, but undermining it by prophetic commitment to justice and peace. The 'kairos' was upon the people of South Africa - the 'time for change', a specific kind of time, not consistent with what had gone before, and yet the eruption of what was hidden ... and so chaos and kairos come together: what if a butterfly flapping its delicate wings can contribute to the demise of apartheid? What if our humble contributions to the world can bring about social and political hurricanes damaging the existing world order? What if we can be part of a story of disruptive good news?