lurchersontheedge

A Story: Ethel and Tom

Sometimes what is happening is not immediately clear

This is the case in our Gospel reading for the day.

Firstly, Jesus in v35 declares that he is the bread of life; the bread that gives life; the bread that is the staple diet of living. Related to this is that Jesus offers this bread to all who will come. There is an open invitation to all who would come. One of the staggering things about the ministry of Jesus was his capacity to welcome and include all those who wanted to follow him. Thus zealots and tax collectors, fishermen and prostitutes, rich as well as poor found themselves being taught by the carpenter from Nazareth.

Whilst Jesus embraced all who would come, he also expected people who followed him to change; repent, if you will: do an about turn.

–       Zealots were to lay down their arms

–       Tax collectors were no longer to take more than their due

–       James and John, the sons of thunder, were to keep a check on their temper

–       Those who were wealthy were to make sure their wealth did not keep the poor in chains

–       The Pharisee was not to stop keeping the law, but not to make it (the Torah way) a burden for others.

Jesus challenged the ethics of how people lived their lives; on a practical; and yes, moral level.

Secondly, the writer of the Fourth Gospel, who I do take to be John, the son of Zebedee, has the Jews to begin to grumble about Jesus, and in particular that he claims to be the bread of life. They grumble for two reasons, one they seem to know who Jesus is; his relatives still live amongst them, and here Jesus is (this comparatively young man) claiming to be from heaven. The second reason they grumble is that Jesus does not fit their expectations of what messiah was to be. Welcoming all and touching those who were untouchable, spending time with the unclean, and being prepared to heal the servants of their roman oppressors, was not the kind of thing the messiah was supposed to do. The sort of messiah Jesus was could not be boxed.

Within this passage, the writer is using the experience of the people of Israel in the wilderness as a backdrop against which to interpret the life of Jesus. In the wilderness, the people were fed manna (from heaven) each day. The people also started to grumble against Moses for leading them out of slavery in Egypt. This wilderness experience was not what they expected of being free. God did not fit their particular box.

I wonder how many times we create God in our own image, and find ourselves frustrated to learn from experience that God cannot be sealed in a specific space.

Thirdly, in his response to their grumblings, Jesus too evokes the experience of their spiritual ancestors; reminding those with him of God’s care and provision of the past. He then breaks with the past, by declaring that the bread on offer now, gives life: and those who eat it will not die.

The author of the Fourth Gospel does not describe the events of the Last Supper or the institution of the Eucharist a la the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark and Luke). In this chapter, the writer does come close to developing his own understanding of the Eucharist with his description of Jesus as the bread of life.

The Eucharist is open to all who will come.

Jesus offers the bread of life to all who will come.

The Eucharist is open to all who will come as they are.

Jesus offers the bread of life to all who will come as they are.

The Eucharist is open to all who choose to have faith or believe.

Jesus offers the bread of life to all who have faith or choose to believe.

Receiving the Eucharist is not, nor ever should be, a neutral act. Indeed within our Anglican tradition, it is the great feast in which heaven and earth unite and Christ is the host; which of course can mean a number of things.

Fourthly, welcome, inclusion and grace are all hallmarks of the Christian community; but they are complemented by faith and belief. At the end of John 6, many who hear Jesus choose to leave and not follow him. They do so because sometimes the simplest of things; faith in Jesus can be the most difficult.

Jesus does not keep us captive if we would rather not follow him. Peter’s response to Jesus’ question as to whether the closest of his disciples too want to leave is informative

 “Lord, there is no one else that we can go to! Your words give eternal life. We have faith in you, and we are sure that you are God’s Holy One.”

Thus in conclusion, through today’s gospel reading

We understand that Jesus welcomes. The story of God in both the Hebrew Bible and New Testament is one of inclusion and embrace, from the calling of Israel to the contents of the Parables.

We understand that Jesus calls for faith and change. It was Dietrich Bonheoffer, a German pastor and martyr, who said the call of Jesus was the challenge to ‘come and die’; putting Christ before all else. No wonder many in Jesus’ own day found it difficult to follow.

Let us pray for grace and courage to follow the way of Jesus today.

When still in Sheffield, I first came across the musical talents of Adrian Snell. I was particularly engrossed in his Alpha and Omega album, and the track Messiah mask. The song, from my addled memory banks, talks about evil masquerading as good, which is a particular hallmark of NT eschatology, especially the Revelation of St John the Divine.

Interestingly enough, I am discovering that I have a priestly mask. I don’t mean a professional face that I rightly put on to deal with the stuff of life; but sometimes a mask that is worn in which I can pretend to be something I am not. Sometimes that is inevitable, a priest sometimes does inevitably have to switch from being Clark Kent to Superman at a moment’s notice. Priestly ministry is not unique in this respect. Other walks of life do exactly the same; teachers, healthcare professionals, shop assistants et al. Those differing ‘professions’ though do not usually convince themselves that they have ‘holy’, ‘loving’ and ‘true’ as part of their job description. These words are descriptions of the divine, rather than the human; but too often I am ensnared with tendency to feel that I need to be like god for people. That is not though why I wear a mask; although it may explain why I work crazy hours, allowing little room for human flourishing and necessary relationships. I wear a mask because sometimes it is difficult to be myself.

Why is this? There may well be a number of reasons. First, I forget what it is at the heart of the Judaeo-Christian tradition that love and grace are central to every fibre of the universe. I swallow the pill that by own efforts I can make a difference to the fact that God, in Christ, loves me to bits. When that particular medicine takes effect, I am left with the awful reality that I can never be good enough in and of myself. I am left with half of the hymn writer, John Newton’s famous dictum, ‘I am a great sinner’ and miss the wondrous second part, ‘but Christ is a great saviour’. Second, when I lose sight of how much I am loved by the Creator of the universe; I find myself needing to pretend to be someone that I am not. That has the potential to lead to many and varied different scenarios, usually most of them have unhealthy conclusions. Third, I expect too much of myself, rather than acknowleding that whilst I have the capacity for theiosis; I am more ashes than stardust. Fourth, I misunderstand what Paul meant by saying he was all things for all people; and end up doing my best to please people; and get tangled up in my over enthusiastic efforts to be liked.

How is it possible to break out of such a place? I have only just begun to do so. First of all, throw the mask away and look squarely in the mirror, repeating the Jesus Prayer, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me’; acknowledging how great a saviour he is. In that I rediscover the idea of grace alone and justification by faith. Second, I keep short accounts with myself; daily acknowledging when I blow it, and when I get it right. Third – and this is the hardest, lose the priestly mask; remembering it was Kevin who was ordained, fragile old me, and not someone I think I should be. 

Please take a moment to be silent, and offer a prayer for me and for yourself.

I am child of an urban estate and a priest on an urban estate. Thus this paper is at one and the same time an attempt to make sense of Christian sacred texts on largely white outer council estates and an almost cathartic exercise as I explain my own relationship with the Book that enabled me to escape from an estate. Thus, there are two narratives which dance around each other as the paper unfolds, sometimes touching, and often not. The two stories are namely, how are the Scriptures to be used to bring shalom/wholeness to contexts both personal and corporate to those living on outer council estates; and secondly, my own relationship with the working class identity in which I was, for the most part, formed. All theology is of necessity personal; this endeavour is more personal than I thought when it was conceived. The additional piece of biographical information that may be worthwhile is that I am a biblical scholar, holding a New Testament Ph.D. who is slowly learning to be a practical or pastoral theologian.

It is as a biblical theologian that I was introduced to the works of Liberation theologians such as Gustavo Gutierrez and Leonardo Boff, and became acquainted with Gerald West’s Academy of the Poor; and with them notions of doing theology with those who might be deemed to be on the margins.[1]

The Joseph Rowntree Foundation in its report on white working class neighbourhoods made the following conclusions which I trust serve to underline the fact that such estates/areas are usually both on the margins as well as their communities marginalised. The report notes that those interviewed spoke of ‘low self-esteem’, a perception that they were not ‘listen to’; yet bound together with the values of ‘hard-work and reciprocity’ and a ‘commitment to the place in which they live, even if no one else is’.[2] It is interesting to note that policy makers and media commentators acknowledge the former rather than the latter. Much more could be said in terms of under-achievement at school when compared to more affluent areas, as well as reduced life-expectancy. Such features, deemed increasingly to be product of poor life choices seem to be the hallmark of poverty, both economic and asparational, which can be passed down the family line, even to the third and fourth generation to throw in a biblical allusion.

It was through engaging with the contextual theologies of Boff, Gutierrez, Rowland and West and experiencing ministry in such places are part of my own training for ordination that I have felt it appropriate to minister on urban estates, firstly in Gloucester, then in Cumbria – on the west coast, and now, more latterly in Birmingham. Indeed, I have suggested elsewhere that to be a contextual theologian; one who bridges the gap between the stories of the scriptures and present day context is a, if not the, primary function of the ordained minister.[3]

The current Ordinal read out at the ordination of Priests would seem to bear this out

With all God’s people, they are to tell the story of God’s love. They are to baptize new disciples… and to walk with them in the way of Christ, nurturing them in the faith. They are to unfold the Scriptures, to preach the word…and to declare the mighty acts of God.

Wesley Carr long ago insisted that offering good models of theological praxis to people was ‘the basic activity of everyday ministry’.[4]

The context of the urban estates does however present us with a number of challenges prior to asking how the Scriptures can be used well. Firstly, it has been noted that there can be a greater dissonance between church and those who might be described as working class than with other sections of British society. Grace Davie writing in 1994 noted: ‘The discrepancy between believing and belonging… is at its sharpest in urban working class areas. Here belief persists, but the expected reluctance to practice religion is compounded by a further factor, a mistrust of institutional life of whatever kind, the churches included’.[5] My own observation based on three different contexts over the last decade is that, belief has diminished as much as belonging. This is true even within the urban pockets of Cumbria, where between 65-70% of babies are baptised.

Secondly, in common with English culture as a whole, the connection between the storylines of holy writ and those both inside and outside of the life of the Church grows further apart. This means that there is a substantial difference between the communities in which I am seeking to serve and those who (say) West was working on the margins of post-apartheid South Africa. This is demonstrated in his observations concerning ‘re-membering the Bible’. Observing that the sacred stories are not neutral; having been used to oppress as well as liberate the Black majority, West goes on to say how the normal models of liberationist exegesis were subverted by illiterate working class poor, who developed a playful and loose interpretation of the Scriptures, which placed their experiences in front of the biblical text. in the South African context, the Scriptures and their stories were known and experienced (even if negatively); for the most part within our context; the narrative of the Bible is unknown, thus making it highly unlikely that Britain’s poor would be able to improvise when interpreting the Scriptures. To improvise, as in the musical genre Jazz, necessitates some understanding of the contours of the story, rather than particular sound bites. Thus, those on our estates do not believe, belong nor necessarily know intellectually and/or emotionally the sacred narratives which, for many, help define what it mean to be a Christian community.

This is perhaps made more acute for white working class people on outer estates; they increasingly (in general) have no positive story to tell and just as importantly told about themselves. Such an observation is borne out for several reasons. Firstly, many working class communities were formed around industries that have long since disappeared; and with their disappearance has been the perhaps inevitable decline of some of the social apparatus which held such groups of people together, whether that be social clubs, unions and indeed chapels. Secondly, it would be a considerable mistake to believe that those living on estates are a homogeneous group. There will inevitably be a mixture of those who have lived there since the houses were built, and will remember the halcyon days of community events to those who newly arrived. Peppered throughout will be a number who wish to move, usually to ‘better themselves’. Hanley writes, ‘A population that is constantly trying to move on… will never settle down and build the kind of community that is strong enough to withstand economic and social shocks’.[6] With the decline of the economic powerhouses that contributed to their living together, working class communities have lost the overarching story that held them together. One of my childhood memories as of the demolition of the estate in which I was born, and the seemingly forced separation of my friends as we were flung into different parts of the city coupled with the disappearance of employment for my father’s generation.

This has (thirdly) led to a political or media led classification of such in demeaning and mean-spirited ways, which have included terms such as ‘underclass’ and ‘chav’, being used to described those dependent on benefit. This observation was is not only popular with Janet Daly and Peter Mandelson, but expressed by Philip (Y7 pupil at BGS); ‘those who are poor deserve to be; they just do not help themselves’.

The Stories of Scripture as Redemptive acts

The stories of the Scriptures can have a formidable effect on individuals. Indeed, it has been my experience that individuals when introduced to timeless stories can be liberated in profound ways. An immediate example is the story of Carmel who when introduced to stories of humanity being made in the image of God from both Genesis and the Psalms blossomed in quite a profound way. A woman in her early 40s who had suffered low self-esteem since childhood suddenly saw a chink of light. It is not because of biblical examples that she suddenly learnt to ride a bike, got a new job or had confidence to read in Church, the change was much more profound than that; however, as she acknowledges herself the stories gave her a new story to live by.

The Psalter can be used effectively in groups. It is easy to see why, for ‘down the centuries the people of God have found in the Psalms the language of praise and complaint, trust and doubt, petition and thanks, which have nourished their relationship with God’.[7] The Psalms, as Walter Brueggemann has shown, have the ability to both orientate and disorientate the worshipper. In both, Matson and Maryport, small groups of (usually) elderly believers have discovered that they are able to express their sorrows and woes, joys and delights, and the sometimes dreary monotony of daily life through engaging with the Psalms. As sometimes arthritic hands have used play-dough to make incarnate what they are feeling the Psalms have come alive. Each model, simple yet intricate in design, brought much to life, from Sylvia’s praying hands; representing the agony of unanswered prayer or Syd’s trowel representing his commitment to building community went far beyond what a simple word-based study could have achieved.

The spectrum of the Psalms from thanksgiving to lament enables a kaleidoscope of emotions to be released. Whilst, as a parish priest, I am involved in a collision with the Psalms and their writers on a daily basis; the introduction of some of the not-so-nice, and therefore not-so-safe, Psalms can be eye opening and risky. When people are allowed to hear these ancient texts; I am never sure where the journey will take us. More often than not it is to a place where there is open and honest acknowledgement that life is not nice; and that the God of the Psalmist inhabits the hard places rather than changing them. Redemptive acts are not always comfortable or immediately obviously salvific.

Billy was 11 years old when I first encountered him. He was in and out of school. Billy indulged in some inappropriate behaviour, and therefore has had a number of exclusions. The SENCO at his local school acknowledges that he needed specialist input, as did the learning mentor. The social services were involved with the family as were Banardos, in seeking to provide parenting training. A statement was applied for half way through his reception year, was granted at the end of Y5. Billy came from a broken home, where he is repeatedly told that he is useless. The local PCSO believed then that if Billy followed the trajectory his life seemed to be heading, then he was likely to be in and out of custodial institutions.

Yet, in conversation with Billy it is clear that he is bright and articulate; and wants to get a ‘good job’, but thinks that his chances of getting one are pretty slim. Billy expresses these things a little differently. They are slim because no one in his family has had a job to his knowledge. That is to say neither his parents nor grandparents have had employment within Billy’s lifetime. His imagination of the possibilities that life might have for him is therefore stunted. The story of Billy’s family can indeed be told as one in which no one works, and a dependency culture has been created. Billy’s story can also be told as one where he has been let down repeatedly by those around him: family, education and social services.[8]

I got to know Billy through a lunch-time club, which for half-term explored the theme of forgiveness through the use of DVD, clips both the Miracle Maker and Toy Story, and some of the Parables of Jesus. His response to the messages of grace were deep and emotive; ‘it is too bloody stupid to be true’. Yet, there was a beginning for Billy, to the point where he is predicted to get 5 A-Cs in English and Maths; and hopes eventually to move away from the estate in which lives. Billy’s earthy response was echoed by one of my Cumbrian Churchwardens who when after a sermon I gave on the Parable of the Lost Sons, commented: ‘the problem with grace is that you never know where it will lead; I would have put him in the coal shed’. I have deliberately rendered the choice of his language more monochrome than the technicolour he used.

Such an observation does underscore the fact that many within our churches as well as those outside are not familiar with the overarching message of the Bible. The Bible can be used well with individuals, and portions of the Scriptures can be utilised effectively in small groups. A cogent example of this was an Advent study on the Revelation, where as a result of looking at the demands for justice in the text, a Fair Trade stall was established that still is in existence several years later.

Notwithstanding these important individual stories, it is true that within the biblical narrative as a whole, there is just as much interest, if not more, in acts of redemption that transform communities (and even nations) as there is in individual salvific acts. The grand drama, that has been brought to fore by biblical scholars such as Brueggemann and Wright speak of the story that weaves Hebrew Bible and New Testament as an overarching meta-narrative involving creation, exodus, exile, restoration and incarnation.[9] Within the Old Testament, some of the Psalms were a re-enactment of the creation narrative; binding together communities as their sense of nationhood developed and contributing to their sense of hope in the exile. , Faithful Jews re-enact still today the story of the Exodus, as a present reality. Within Christianity, there is a collision between individual salvation and cosmic renewal, which has been played out by theologians from Paul through the Fathers, Reformers and into the present day. The use of story as a source of liberation and hope is well-known within all forms of theology.

The Church on estates does have an opportunity to share its story, and to contribute to weaving new stories of hope, inclusivity and generosity. This is because it is there. The Headteacher of one of my secondary schools, who happens not to be a person of faith, cherishes the relationship her school has with the church, for there is a mutual recognition that in an area in which unemployment is embedded within generations, hopes are often crushed and esteem brittle; local church and school can be the constants who are working for the common good. Organizations may come in and have brilliant short-term impacts, but are perceived not to say. The contribution of the church to the school is articulated through governance, mentoring, intervention work, reading with pupils, creating a public space for pieces of art to be displayed, telling local stories and speaking with a local dialect. Schools in deprived areas, of necessity, have to create a bubble away that is distinct from the local area; the Church need not do so. However, this flags up a particular problem with telling the stories of Scripture on estates, churches are often enclaves; hidden away from the rest of the community.

Sylvia of St Faith’s: ‘I come up the hill to get away from the estate with its fighting and greyness, St Faith’s is beautiful. I want to keep it that way’.

Tracy of All Souls: ‘We have tried and tried, but they do not come. I like my faith and my church as it has always been’.

Daphne of StChad’s: ‘We are prepared to change, but slowly. Most of us work and give and give some more in order to keep things going. I think I will be long gone before the families return to Church’

Creating new stories: narratives for redemption

The first step in using the scriptures well is for local churches to rediscover their own story through engagement with the biblical stories and the narratives of the communities around them. Too often churches can be perceived as either creating an oasis of colour amidst the monochrome of daily existence, hence Sylvia’s comment or have held periodic raids proclaiming faith only to retreat with one or two additions to their numbers. Whilst this may be a huge caricature of both catholic and evangelical attitudes to their ministries; there may well be a grain of truth within it. Local churches in working class estates are not to be blamed necessarily for being enclaves, they have seen other ‘third sector’ organisations decline and disappear; for example social clubs, shops, community groups; thus to focus on the divine drudgery of keeping going can consume all the energy key individuals and church congregation have. However, it is my experience that by doing two things over a committed period of time that the local church can engage with the community; celebrating its story, namely, rediscovering what the church is for (an inclusive community where stories of redemption are heard and lived), and persuading church communities that there are gifts to be given (and received) by engagement with the wider estate. For me it has always begun with sharing the stories of the Scriptures of those who come to worship; with no specific methods of exegesis, but simply telling the stories again and again.

In the village of Flimby, which is an ex-mining village on Solway coast, between Maryport and Workington, there was a faithful congregation of between 18 and 22. After 2-3 years of telling stories of that became known as stories of outrageous grace; particularly the Parables, and allowing people to tell their own stories and have them cherished and valued, the congregation were persuaded to hold two events. They began to grow in confidence that they had a story to tell. Such endeavours revolved around a simple approach of, ‘this is how it was, what does it mean’. The people of a small village church with the odd formal academic qualification between them ‘began to grow in grace and learn to be God’s people once again’ to quote the Easter Eucharistic preface.

The first was to host an art exhibition in October 2008 entitled Hungry and Thirsty displaying the work of Gloucester based artist, Paul Hobbs[10]. The exhibition attracted 422 people through the doors of the building over the course of 8 days. Adults and children alike were captivated by art work that touched on issues that related to them. One in particular, “where has my daddy gone” touched on “absent fathers”, which was particularly poignant on an estate where the local school statistics suggested 35% of its pupils had little or no contact with a male role model. Church members gently stood to one side, sharing stories of hope like the Prodigal son, demonstrating what they thought God as Father was like. This was not evangelistic in any conventional sense, but did proclaim good news that life had the potential of being different.

The second event was a photographic history of the village. Members of the congregation and community gathered photographs. The result was an exhibition that told again the story of the village, and with that the church community visibly saw that their own story was intertwined with that of the wider community.

In Bartley Green, there has been a re-discovery that gifts are received and shared. This was enabled in part by looking at stories of the Bible, following carefully through a short series entitled; Jesus: portrait of outrageous grace; but also through encouraging people that they could make a difference, and remaining with them whilst they began to do it.

Part of the learning to share gifts has been learning to share sacred space. The church does not have a monopoly on trying to be heralds of good news. Over the last 3 years, acts of witness around Remembrance Sunday have grown significantly. This is in large part because of the local schools coming together to remember. In 2011, 300 primary school children walked in silence with wreaths from one church to another in order to pay their respects. Another attribute of this has been to rediscover the theology of the nave. In times past, the nave in the church belonged to the people; therefore we have watched people grow by exhibiting art work, as well as welcoming others to provide displays.

The second step is to keep telling and re-telling the story of the scriptures, even when numbers do not increase. Redemption does not follow a particular course, nor does it necessarily mean an increase in numerical worshippers. Only when a story is told over and over again will it be possible for it to be owned and shaped. Just as the Passover Haggadah has shaped the nature and meaning of Passover, churches on estates need to find ways of making the stories their own. They need to become a people who lament, celebrate; can be frustrated, confused, angry, irritable and filled with wonder; capturing the emotional and spiritual pathos of the text.

To do this, there is no substitute for three particular movements to take place; willingness to theologically resource an area (this will call into question how ordination training is currently done), a commitment to celebrate the achievements of people; and a dogged determination to remain in a place; so that place, as well as people, might be redeemed. For only people who are committed to the place will be able to challenge injustice and allow more than individuals to fly.

The third step is to ensure that the stories people tell are their own, rather than solely that of the story-teller. This is something that I find particularly difficult. There is no doubt that within my own biographical narrative the bible was a key component for me moving away from an estate and (to my mind) blossoming. I therefore tell its stories in a particular way. The stories need to live themselves in order to become incarnate in the lives of others. Only then will such texts become redemptive; rather than medicine that temporarily can alleviate pain.

Just beginning

Texts of Redemption: using the Scriptures well on urban estates

I am child of an urban estate and a priest on an urban estate. Thus this paper at one and the same time is an attempt to make sense of Christian sacred texts on a largely white outer estate in Birmingham and an almost cathartic exercise as I explain my own relationship with the Book that enabled me to escape from an estate.

Any comments on this beginning would be welcomed.

It is some time since I mused about bumbling. This in part because I have been a little too busy to bumble; and also because it is frowned upon by some of my colleagues and friends, who like focus and consistency.

When I arrived in Bartley Green on 21 September 2009, little did I know that I would be involved in selling a church building and drawing a line on a significant piece of ministry. St Francis Church and Community Centre in Woodgate Valley is part of my Parish. St Francis started life as a local ecumenical project, jointly ‘owned’ by the Church of England and Methodist Church. It had its own congregation, which dwindled over time through people moving away, sadly dying, moving to other churches. Worship as a regular Sunday morning activity lapsed around 8 years ago.

As providence may or may not have had it, an opportunity arose to pass on the responsibility of the building to another church. The practicalities of the sale went well, but consumed much brain power. The pastoral side did not go as well. When you get bogged down in paper, people seem to have less of a priority. The trouble is when the paper is dealt with; people’s pain can be far more acute than it otherwise would have been.

The work on Woodgate Valley will continue without a building; indeed the Youth Project is partnering with a number of other organisations with the Church as a, if not the, leading player. The Community Work will continue. Thus the outcome could be better than it was.

Service of Thanksgiving and Commitment

I have learnt though that it is better to bumble, and to bumbling I shall return.

In the Name of God, revealed as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Announcement of Good News can be uncomfortable as well as bringing comfort. This is particularly true if the news involves change, and good personal news always has the habit of creating something new. The words ‘change’ and ‘new’ are full of life and vibrancy; and therefore as such can bring a measure of chaos.

I well remember going into Firth Park Comprehensive School in Sheffield to get my ‘A’ level grades. In those days, no sealed envelope but displayed in public on the science prefab window. I had passed. In the midst of the pleasure, it had been a long road, 12 months earlier the words ‘O’ and ‘F’ had been written alongside my name; there was a slight unease; what was I do now. This is not unnatural. Good News often involves choices.

The prophet Isaiah announces good news to the people of Israel. Judgement is finished. Salvation has come. Comfort, comfort my people, declares the Lord God. It is a pivotal moment in the Book of Isaiah, and a turning point in God’s dealings with his people and his world.

The prophet declares that it is now a time of hope for the people of Israel; rather than one of judgement. The people of Israel had been humiliated. They had been taken (some of them) to the city of Babylon, exiled away from their homes, cultures, and place of worship. By the rivers of Babylon: they had wept, and found it impossible, (at first) to sing songs of praise. In exile, the people had discovered afresh, what their ancestors had told them: God, their Yahweh, was king and God. Isaiah adds a new dimension to this narrative: God has conquered Babylon. Their humiliation was over.

Words of comfort and hope give the possibility for change; of life being different. This is not always an easy message to hear. ‘Good News’ can be too much! On that August day when I saw my ‘A’ level grades, it was too much. I remember freezing with fear rather than thinking of those around me of the opportunity for University. The people of Israel too had the possibility for allowing themselves to imagine themselves as God intended them to be. If there is one prayer that I have for us as a Christian community it would be that we would be willing to imagine together that God truly is on our side. Good News creates choices.

Births – and indeed the lack of them – have the capacity to cause frustration, joy, angst and indeed confusion. John the Baptist was born into a family who desperately wanted him. His parents, Zechariah and Elizabeth were considered past the age for children, and according to Luke’s story of Jesus, the archangel Gabriel had informed Zechariah that he and his wife were to have a child, and call him; John.

Zechariah did not greet this message with joy. This was not because he did not want a child. Indeed, he and his wife would have known much social shame in not having children. There would have been the sympathetic look as well as the furrowed brow, unhelpful advice and unwise platitudes. Zechariah had learnt to live with all of this; serving God without bitterness and anger.

The words of the archangel are met with disbelief. Zechariah could not imagine them to be true. He could not move into a place of hope. Too often, we are like Zechariah unable to move into a place of hope.

When I was on placement when training for ordination, I had opportunity to work with Stephen and Esther. Esther was extraordinarily nervous; and many things had contributed to this. I remember doing a session on being made in God’s image. Her response was personal and unusual, she skipped church the following Sunday to ride a bike in the local park. She had never been deemed ‘good enough’ to have a bike as a child and for her to ride was liberation. Imagining what it might be to be made in the image of God had a powerful effect on Esther. I trust imagining that we might be the people of God for Bartley Green will have a similarly galvanising effect.

Zechariah and Elizabeth though were to receive the gift of no ordinary son; but one who would herald the Messiah. It would he who would baptise Jesus and encourage people to follow him.

John by doing this imagined a different future for himself. As the firstborn son of a priest, he might have been expected to serve in the Temple. Instead, he opted to spend time in the wilderness. He learnt not to be constrained by expectations and follow his own. His parents allowed this by giving him his name. For Luke, John’s name was no accident.

I am called Kevin because my father when he went to register my birth simply had forgotten the name he and my mum had agreed. It could have been worse, I suppose; he could have called my Lynn which is what I would have been called if I had been a girl.

John was the name the archangel had said he was to be called, and in confirming this; Zechariah was freed to speak.

The Baptist is comforting yet uncomfortable figure. By this I do not refer to his healthy eating habits or his desire for the latest chic design in camel skins. Nor his oratory, which was both simple and effective calling politicians, religious leaders and a monarch to account. I refer to his relationship with Jesus.

‘He must increase; I must decrease’ was his maxim. This is a phrase that John seems to have embraced and meant.

My prayer for myself is that I mean it too. That I might be shaped by my desire to serve Christ, whatever the cost and wherever he wills. I pray that beginning in this parish of Bartley Green, we might be able to point to Jesus, and say to others: ‘Look, there is the one who meets all your needs’ or to put in the words of the Baptist, ‘Behold, the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world’.

Many moons ago I was part of the Religious and Theological Studies Fellowship (RTSF). It started life as the Theological Students Fellowship (TSF) and was part of the Universities and Colleges Christian Fellowship (UCCF). Through my involvement with the UCCF movement, I was – and still perhaps am – involved in the Tyndale Fellowship for Biblical and Theological Research (TF) which is also part of the UCCF family. I was its erstwhile Secretary for around three years. I say this because I remember that one of the tenets of the UCCF was “Commitment to Truth”. For UCCF, there was, and still is, a notion of objective truth. I actually still believe truth can be objective as well as subjective, and am comfortable with the notion that Christ Jesus is the only way there is to salvation; but content with the fact that such a proposition is for more flexible in divine hands rather than my human ones.

I remember whilst a member of the RTSF Executive Committee – how we thought it was grand in those heady student days to be on a committee of national significance – attending a conference in Malvern (I believe it was celebrating the work of Archbishop William Temple), encountering members of the Student Christian Movement (SCM). I went along to their meetings to find that (to me) they defined themselves over against the UCCF. This is not surprising given that the roots of the SCM and UCCF sprang from the same place. They are in fact siblings, and thus allowed to quarrel. Even 20+ years ago, the issue for the folks within SCM was the perceived injustices of UCCF Christians to those involved in same-sex relationships. I endured what I remember to have been three rather antagonistic conversations where I was ‘tried’ for the perceived crimes of evangelicalism. This is how I remember it rather than perhaps the reality of what happened. When I reported this to my UCCF and RTSF colleagues, the views of those from SCM were dismissed as ‘liberal’ and thus had nothing to offer. I was a rare bird even then, going to both groups happily enough.  I find that I go to neither grouping now, or derivatives of them, whether Affirming Catholicism or a DBF. I associate with Fulcrum (www.fulcrum-anglican.org.uk) because it seems to me to be a safe place for all, and a space for evangelicals, like me, to be themselves and express themselves.

A little earlier, I lamented that people from the different tribes of the Church no longer had a place or space or even inclination to meet. Why ever this is, it is a sad loss.

There is a NT model for remaining in unity despite diversity. Actually, it would be fairer to say that there are NT models for doing so. We do not realise this because we have forgotten how read, hear and engage with the NT, gently dispensing with bits of it we do not like. Perhaps sadly I might add, we do not make time to read it.

I do not for example suppose that the Apostles Paul and Peter had much in common. Nor do I believe that the theologies of Paul and James, the brother of Jesus overlapped entirely. I do think though within the NT there are examples of differences being embraced. There are models to do it; we just need to be brave enough to see them.

When I was 10 years old, I went to St James and St Christopher’s Church, Shiregreen. Stan and Henry had been wardens for generations, and George had replaced Henry. When the time came for Stan to be replaced, Janet stood for election. I had heard several men offering the opinion that it was not right for a woman to be a Churchwarden. Being brave and foolish, I offered this opinion to Janet myself. Janet completed disarmed me. She bent down, hugged me and planted a great big smacker on my lips. I am not sure what child protection policies this would breach today, but my older less brave male worshippers duly observed what had happened; and Janet served as Warden for several years. As far as I know, she did the job in an exemplary way.

When I was training for ordination. I spent lots of time on placement. I worked alongside a woman incumbent. I remember vividly in September 2000, going into school, and being introduced as “Kevin, and he is training to be a vicar”. This was met with some incredulity by an eight year old girl; as pricelessly she said, ‘but he is a man’. In her limited experience, all this girl had known was Hilary the Vicar.

The Church of England General Synod has the opportunity in July 2012 to proceed with the consecration of women priests as bishops. I am a simple theologian really; and it seems to me that a priest can be a bishop if that priest is called to be a bishop. Whilst it is politically understandable why a previous Synod did not choose to say women could be bishops as well as priests, it is a theological nonsense.

General Synod should pass the Measure overwhelmingly. It has the support of the Dioceses of the Church of England. The stumbling block seems to be an amendment passed by the House of Bishops. In a nutshell this amendment seems to suggest that those opposed to the consecration of women priests as bishops can request that a male bishop who shares their theological objections can have oversight over their parish.

I do have sympathy with those who cannot in conscience accept the ordained ministry of women. I have particular concern for those ordained prior to the decision to ordain women as priests. I simply do not understand why the Church of England continues to ordain to the priesthood those who do not believe women can be ordained. There is theological breadth and generosity, which is gloriously Anglican – and creating a recipe for disaster. It is perfectly possible to allow people to remain as faithful Anglicans without the bells and whistles of legislation, and for there be graciousness for this to happen. There is no such thing as two integrities within the Church of England, which appears to suggest that there can be two churches in one. This was not the wording nor intention of the legislation. What there is, is one theological belief and the grace and space to allow folks to disagree with integrity.

I do not argue that women priests should be allowed to be bishops out of a concern for justice or equality; but because the essence of the Gospel is found in the ancient baptismal declaration: There is no Jew nor Greek…. male nor female….; all are one in Christ Jesus.

It is Christ who makes us all whole. Let us do this; and then get on with the important stuff of being a Church to the nation; otherwise that Janet might come after me again.

The Church of England has had an interesting week. It has conducted countless funerals, weddings and baptisms. It has visited many in need, sat with the dying, taken acts of collective worship in church and community schools, prayed in people’s homes, offered prayers in churches, sat on church councils and the committees of other agencies. It has been behind the creation of a number of food banks and community initiatives. All of this has gone on relatively unnoticed and perhaps under appreciated; except by people who have directly been in contact with the church by law established in its various guises.

The Church of England made a statement. Suddenly everyone noticed. Peoples wagged their fingers, even some of those who thought they were the Church of England thought that the statement should not have been made.

I refer of course the Church of England response to the government’s consultation on possible legislation concerning the marriage of same-sex couples. I am an Agnostic concerning this matter. I admit firstly that some of my fellow evangelical Christians have treated gay people as less than human. I am ashamed of that. Secondly, I am aware that some Christians appear to want to jettison years of Christian doctrine, ethics, understanding our sacred texts almost without a pause for breath. I despair about that.

I am aware that many of my friends have signed the ‘not in my name’ response to the Church of England’s response to the consultation. I have not done so. It is not because the manner of the response was appropriate. It was not. It is not because I cannot try to empathise with those who long to have their relationship blessed in the sight of God; marriage in Church is what (I think) those who are gay and Christian want. For me it is because of opprobrium heaped on those who put out the report by those who did not like it.

I also struggle with the fact that we have lost the ability to disagree with grace. It may be that the Church of England’s capability of holding together divergent views has diminished. If it has been permanently lost, then I would argue that would be of far more significance than reaction to a response to a consultation. It should not surprise us that we have lost the ability to gracefully disagree; we no longer go out of way to move beyond our tribal groups. People on both sides of the debate talk at rather than with each other. In my email inbox this week, that has been the accusation made (of me) that I do not ‘get the need for justice’ and from another perspective that ‘I risk compromising my standing (what standing?) as an evangelical interpreter of the scriptures’. Without personal relationships, we will make statements that cannot be understood nor appreciated because we will never have shared hospitality with those whom we disagree with. When the Church of England can no longer provide a place to do that; it will cease to be the Church of and for England.

I realise that the consultation and its response are important. I do not belittle that. A much bigger question might be, when was the last time you sat down and spent time with, and listened to those you disagree with. There might be a gospel imperative to that from time to time.

It will always be easier to shout and write leaders columns than to offer hospitality and time to those you disagree with.

I have found myself sat in the cafe of the Creation skate park in Moseley, Birmingham as my 10 year old demonstrates his prowess on his scooter, and devises ever more interesting ways to persuade me to enhance his scooter.

I am supposed to be writing for the Grove Booklet Educational Series on schools and churches working in partnership. I sink a little lower in the excuses for not getting on and doing it; by reading. I am reading Crossover City, which is edited by Andrew Davey. Its subtitle Resources for Urban Mission and Transformation whets my appetite. I find myself impressed by Bishop Laurie Green’s almost autobiographical piece, devour the chapter on the connections between the Eucharist and ‘Bring and Share’ by Mandy Ford; and finally come (in terms of the book backwards) to the chapter by Peter Robinson on evangelism in the urban context. I find Robinson readable and for the most part persuasive.

I come across one particular quotation that has meant that I have turned on the laptop, skipped past note on the desktop which cries out ‘get on and write for Grove’ and begin another blog. Robinson writes:

“In baptism, regular Eucharist and the cycle of the Christian calendar, worshipping communities come to understand the patterns of devotion and ethical behaviour that are consistent with the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The worshipping community in the midst of the diversity and vulnerability of human life represents an alternative means of engagement with the complexities of the contemporary city”.

The theologian, pastor and prophet in me all leap for joy as I read and type these words; and then I think how untrue such a statement is in reality. It is not that I do not want it to be true; I most certainly do; but it just does not seem to be, for me, that is. It is not true because in my experience, we have lost sight of the big picture. I am not convinced that those who are regular members of our worshipping community actually know enough, experience enough, feel enough of the big picture to even know that they can connect up their community with the overarching narrative of the Incarnation and Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Indeed, why should they, when a good number of the people I know who are in authorised ministry (my pool is limited to the British Isles) would not be able to paint their own lives in the context that Robinson alludes to.

We are unable to do this because we have lost the ability to tell the story of God. Churches are able now with great eloquence to tell the stories of their local communities. Churches can speak with a local dialect – and that is brilliant, and should have us dancing whatever our favourite particular jig is. Let me be straight: it is not that we have lost confidence in the story; we just no longer know the narrative.

This brings me back to half a thought that I had yesterday at the same skateboard park when trying to pen some words for Grove. The recent Chadwick report comments that schools should be part of the package which provide children and young people ‘with a life-enhancing encounter with the Christian faith and the person of Jesus Christ’.[1] When I read that I wondered how many teachers, governors et al would feel equipped to do just that. Reflecting on Robinson’s words, I wonder how our people will ever be able to connect up to the big picture, when we train leaders who no longer know the story.

I want to go on to suggest some answers, but the truth is all laments should begin, once stated, with silence – and those other words ‘get on and write for Grove’ on becoming more and more insistent.