I'm moving my blog over to WordPress, as it seems easier to engage with other blogs with a WordPress profile. All the past content has moved over, and new stuff will be up there - so the address you need is:
See you over there!
Claire xx
Friday, 5 April 2013
I'm moving...
Hi all,
I'm moving my blog over to WordPress, as it seems easier to engage with other blogs with a WordPress profile. All the past content has moved over, and new stuff will be up there - so the address you need is:
Claire xx
I'm moving my blog over to WordPress, as it seems easier to engage with other blogs with a WordPress profile. All the past content has moved over, and new stuff will be up there - so the address you need is:
Claire xx
Sunday, 31 March 2013
Big questions #1: Heart half full or half empty?
When you grow up evangelical, you grow up believing that that is what Christianity is. I guess because we don't tend to label ourselves particularly, except possibly with words like "Bible-believing Christians" (as opposed to all those other Christians who think Jesus spoke a load of rubbish but follow him anyway...) I think as evangelicals, and particularly those on the 'conservative' side, we don't tend to be very self critical and we tend to think we're doing Christianity properly, more seriously than others - that is, if we think they're really Christians at all! All of that has troubled me in recent months and I was pleased to stumble across a definition from Ridley Hall, Cambridge, of their ethos of 'open evangelicalism' - you can read the page here but one bit that stood out for me was this:
Here's my first big question - how optimistic a view can we take on the human condition? And what impact does that optimism or pessimism have on the rest of our theology and experience? Does it affect the way we treat people, think of ourselves, and relate to God?
None of these are new questions. Augustine and Pelagius (if I remember rightly from first year Patristics essays!) wrestled with similar subjects in the when they argued over the whether people had the ability to choose to do good, or whether we're born with original sin. One of the five points of Calvinism is total depravity, the assertion that we're totally enslaved to sin and totally unable to choose God for ourselves. It can become a bit of caricature about evangelicals, that we're so pessimistic about humanity - we talk about sin in every other sentence, not just as the things we do but as the orientation of our hearts, we point out that there's no difference between a fascist dictator and a selfless saint when it comes to our own righteousness before God left to our own devices.
This is what I've grown up with and I think it can have varying effects - on the one hand, it can lead to a deep personal humility, a determination not to judge others because we're all in the same boat, a real appreciation of and dependence on the grace of God, and a security in knowing we're loved and saved not conditionally on anything we do, but unconditionally and eternally. On the other hand, I find myself wondering if those with this view of humanity are often missing a lot - it's a view that doesn't chime well with most people (though obviously popularity is not the same as truth!) because we see good in others and even in ourselves. We want to celebrate achievement and selflessness and love where we see it. It's a view of humanity that can stifle much of our self-expression, our creativity and artistic expression and our spontaneity and initiative because we think that at heart, our humanity is corrupt and bad, so expressing it freely is dangerous. Unconditional love and acceptance despite ourselves might make us more grateful and humble, even more secure, but might it also significantly damage our sense of worth and value for who we are?
There are some more optimistic views of humanity that say we're actually fine, we don't really do wrong, we just make mistakes and grow through them, it's all part of a process for which we don't really need to take responsibility as long as we're well meaning at heart. This is the kind of view evangelicals react strongly against, because it denies the reality of our sin and so downplays the importance of Christ's death for us - it seems the whole Christian message falls apart with this kind understanding of our humanity. But I wonder if we can be optimistic without denying our need for grace? The Iona community seem to capture something of this in their liturgy (© The Iona Community, from the Iona Abbey Worship Book, published by Wild Goose Publications) :
The Iona ethos is not about denying our brokenness and sinfulness, those words in the worship book come right after a confession and prayer for God's forgiveness and help. But it affirms that the corruption of our human nature is not the deepest thing in us, that being made in the image of God is even more a part of us that our tendency to sin. I guess the effects of that can be all those things that a pessimistic view denies - an encouragement towards creativity, the valuing of individuals and of our contribution to the world. It might allow us to respond to absolutely anyone, whoever they are and whatever they believe, with welcome and acceptance rather than any kind of suspicion. But what are the dangers? Perhaps we find ourselves getting complacent, or feeling responsible for contributing to our own salvation. Perhaps it raises many more questions about who might be saved, or what that even means. There's risk in moving away from something which starts with everyone evil and condemned before they express faith in Jesus - might we start seeing God's grace in the lives of those who don't acknowledge it? There might be knock on effects for the rest of our theology. Is that a 'Biblical' way to understand God's grace at work?
Any thoughts? How should we understand the inherent corruption of humanity, or the deep image of God and his goodness planted in us? Have I misrepresented any particular view? What other effects might either of those two views have? What are the dangers? Are dangers enough reason to avoid something? Are there other options that I haven't suggested?
Open to God's work in other Christian traditions. Evangelicals do not have a monopoly on the truth, and through partnership and dialogue we seek to be open to learn from what God has done and is doing in other parts of his Church. This refers to other Christians in our own Western setting, but must also increasingly include the voices of our fellow believers in the Two-Thirds World.So, I've been trying to pay attention to what we can learn from other Christian traditions, what aspects of evangelical culture or even theology might be rightfully challenged by others, where we might be missing out, and where we can simply learn from the differences. Naturally, I'm gaining more questions than answers at the moment... But I quite like the uncertainty! I'd love to hear what others think about some of these though, both from those who consider themselves evangelical (however you want to define that!) or of another sort of Christian tradition, or not Christian at all.
Here's my first big question - how optimistic a view can we take on the human condition? And what impact does that optimism or pessimism have on the rest of our theology and experience? Does it affect the way we treat people, think of ourselves, and relate to God?
 |
| Fallen humanity...? |
This is what I've grown up with and I think it can have varying effects - on the one hand, it can lead to a deep personal humility, a determination not to judge others because we're all in the same boat, a real appreciation of and dependence on the grace of God, and a security in knowing we're loved and saved not conditionally on anything we do, but unconditionally and eternally. On the other hand, I find myself wondering if those with this view of humanity are often missing a lot - it's a view that doesn't chime well with most people (though obviously popularity is not the same as truth!) because we see good in others and even in ourselves. We want to celebrate achievement and selflessness and love where we see it. It's a view of humanity that can stifle much of our self-expression, our creativity and artistic expression and our spontaneity and initiative because we think that at heart, our humanity is corrupt and bad, so expressing it freely is dangerous. Unconditional love and acceptance despite ourselves might make us more grateful and humble, even more secure, but might it also significantly damage our sense of worth and value for who we are?
There are some more optimistic views of humanity that say we're actually fine, we don't really do wrong, we just make mistakes and grow through them, it's all part of a process for which we don't really need to take responsibility as long as we're well meaning at heart. This is the kind of view evangelicals react strongly against, because it denies the reality of our sin and so downplays the importance of Christ's death for us - it seems the whole Christian message falls apart with this kind understanding of our humanity. But I wonder if we can be optimistic without denying our need for grace? The Iona community seem to capture something of this in their liturgy (© The Iona Community, from the Iona Abbey Worship Book, published by Wild Goose Publications) :
"We affirm God's goodness at the heart of humanity, planted more deeply than all that is wrong."
 |
| ...Or good at heart? |
Any thoughts? How should we understand the inherent corruption of humanity, or the deep image of God and his goodness planted in us? Have I misrepresented any particular view? What other effects might either of those two views have? What are the dangers? Are dangers enough reason to avoid something? Are there other options that I haven't suggested?
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
"...that distinction would always belong to a woman."
I think every family has silly sayings which seem perfectly normal to those on the inside but a bit odd to the rest of the world. In our family, one of those is "When Dad's queen..." because Dad often has better ideas about how to run the country than those who do, and plans to implement them as queen. As a heads up if you're interested, when Dad does gain the crown children won't go to school till they're 7, and all bananas will be sold with names on them according to how many there are in the bunch, such as Paul, John, George and Ringo on bananas sold in bunches of four.
I prefer to play "when I'm Archbishop", or in my humbler moments, "when I'm vicar". My latest round of this was inspired by the book I'm reading, which I may or may not have raved to you about already, "A Year of Biblical Womanhood" by Rachel Held Evans. She was noting the privileged role given to Mary Magdalene as the first witness to the resurrection, and how she was the one to announce the news to the apostles despite the fact that as a woman, her testimony would have counted for nothing in that context. She points out that in most churches on Easter Sunday, a man stands up at front and announces "Christ is risen!" but that if we really wanted to do justice to the biblical story, "that distinction would always belong to a woman".
That got me thinking. That would be a striking way to commemorate Mary and in fact all the women whose faith played such an important role in Jesus' ministry and in spreading the good news of his resurrection. In churches where women are rarely stood at the front, let alone preaching the good news, to have a woman speak those history-shaping words on Easter morning would be both an encouragement to the women in those churches that their ministry is noticed and valued, and a challenge to remember that in trusting this task to a woman, Jesus defied all social and religious expectations about what women were worthy or capable of doing. In the new community of those who follow the risen Christ, there are no social hierarchies, no-one above needing to hear the news and no-one beneath preaching it.
 |
| Mary Magdalene, apostle to the apostles. |
But if I was a vicar, there'd be nothing too striking about a woman standing at the front and announcing that Christ is risen. Fortunately, in a lot of churches no-one would bat an eyelid that it was a woman speaking those words, and that's great - it shows us that those cultural expectations which Jesus began to challenge have continued to be challenged and changed to the extent where it's not so crazy to believe something a woman tells us.
So if I was vicar, how would I commemorate Mary Magdelene on Easter Sunday, how would I demonstrate that destruction of social hierarchy and the invitation for all to come and be part of announcing the good news? I think each Easter, I'd ask someone to take that role who is looked down on or disadvantaged by others in society for any kind of reason, because of class or race or sexual orientation or poverty or disability or age or anything else - we're so good at creating hierarchies and telling people they're not good enough, both inside and outside the church, that it shouldn't be a problem to think of many people who could well represent Mary and take the honour given to her by Jesus. Maybe one year I'd ask the single teenage mum, maybe another year the long term alcoholic. Then the next year I'd ask the child of asylum seekers, and then the next year the great-grandmother with Alzheimers. Another year the trans* woman, and the next year the guy who just came out of prison.
I'd be worried that to ask those people to make the Easter announcement might be insulting or patronising, as if trying to label them as people as the bottom of social hierarchies. But in reality, it's not about creating "us and them" groups but about recognising that none of the many reasons we look down on others and think ourselves above them makes any difference in this post-Easter community. It's about knowing how much we all need to hear the great news that Jesus is alive, and that we're all invited to be part of passing it on. It's about celebrating that news as a whole community, knowing that its not only for the privileged, the wealthy, educated, married, white, Western European men, but for the Mary Magdelenes too. It's for all of us.
Monday, 18 March 2013
Nostalgic for the tough times
Nostalgia is meant to be about warm fuzzy feelings.
Memories of harmonious family days out, or streets safe enough to play on, or TV with only four channels to choose from and everyone settling down to Blind Date. It's meant to be about home cooked Sunday roasts and board games and laughing till it hurts. Or at least, that's what I feel like nostalgia should be.
So it was strange to notice, as I walked home on a cool, sunny evening last week, that I felt strangely nostalgic as I listened to old songs on my iPod that reminded me of difficult times and difficult feelings from when I was a teenager. They took me straight back to walking my paper round route, at a similar time each evening when I was 13, 14, 15.
As I walked, there was always something on my mind. It was my time to process whatever was going on at home and at school, in my friendships, in my relationships. I used to hardly notice the houses I was delivering papers to or the roads I was crossing, because I was playing over old conversations in my head, playing out future scenes as I thought they might go, wrestling with questions and coming to few conclusions. Some of the things I thought about were situations beyond my control - they were family problems, things that happened to me and around me, without my permission and without my input. I wanted to think through how best to react, and how to do good in a bad situation. I tried to figure out which of my feelings about it all were justified, which were helpful feelings and which I should bury completely. I spent a lot of time feeling trapped, feeling powerless.
Some other situations that I used to think about were brought upon myself. I made mistakes as I tried to work out how relationships worked, I struggled to understand myself or other people a lot of the time. Sometimes I hurt people by accident, sometimes I felt like I knew what I was doing and did it anyway, which confused me all the more. I hated that I did things I didn't want to do, I hated how little control I seemed to have over the parts of my life I should be able to control. I used to talk things through with my youth worker sometimes, and we'd have the same conversation over and over. I'd make decisions and go back on them in a day, I'd have new start after new start, determined to get things right this time. It was exhausting and apparently fruitless.
And somewhere in amongst it all, there was a faith growing in me. I've given my testimony a few times now, and tried to work out each time which were the significant points where God showed me I needed him, or that I could trust him, or he did things and used people to bring me a step closer to him - and there were those significant points, plenty of them. But actually, I think a lot of the time in those years, faith was growing in the background, quietly. Or not so quietly. As much as through the people who spoke to me and the sermons I heard, faith grew through the songs I listened to on my old Walkman, from Dad's old worship CDs and from bands I'd heard at Greenbelt and Spring Harvest. It was the words of other people, singing about the God they knew in difficult times as well as good ones, which helped me to connect up the crap going on at home and in my relationships with the message I knew about a God who loved me, and sent his Son so I could know him. They gave me words to articulate that crap, not just as load of stuff to deal with, but as stuff that God could use to help me depend on him. They gave me words to start understanding the habits I couldn't shake and the parts of me I didn't like as things that God could transform, to see in myself potential rather than hopelessness.
A South African band I saw at Greenbelt called Tree63 had a song that seemed to sum up my frustrations at my own behaviour. Overdue went like this:
You conceived a flame
Memories of harmonious family days out, or streets safe enough to play on, or TV with only four channels to choose from and everyone settling down to Blind Date. It's meant to be about home cooked Sunday roasts and board games and laughing till it hurts. Or at least, that's what I feel like nostalgia should be.
So it was strange to notice, as I walked home on a cool, sunny evening last week, that I felt strangely nostalgic as I listened to old songs on my iPod that reminded me of difficult times and difficult feelings from when I was a teenager. They took me straight back to walking my paper round route, at a similar time each evening when I was 13, 14, 15.
As I walked, there was always something on my mind. It was my time to process whatever was going on at home and at school, in my friendships, in my relationships. I used to hardly notice the houses I was delivering papers to or the roads I was crossing, because I was playing over old conversations in my head, playing out future scenes as I thought they might go, wrestling with questions and coming to few conclusions. Some of the things I thought about were situations beyond my control - they were family problems, things that happened to me and around me, without my permission and without my input. I wanted to think through how best to react, and how to do good in a bad situation. I tried to figure out which of my feelings about it all were justified, which were helpful feelings and which I should bury completely. I spent a lot of time feeling trapped, feeling powerless.
Some other situations that I used to think about were brought upon myself. I made mistakes as I tried to work out how relationships worked, I struggled to understand myself or other people a lot of the time. Sometimes I hurt people by accident, sometimes I felt like I knew what I was doing and did it anyway, which confused me all the more. I hated that I did things I didn't want to do, I hated how little control I seemed to have over the parts of my life I should be able to control. I used to talk things through with my youth worker sometimes, and we'd have the same conversation over and over. I'd make decisions and go back on them in a day, I'd have new start after new start, determined to get things right this time. It was exhausting and apparently fruitless.
And somewhere in amongst it all, there was a faith growing in me. I've given my testimony a few times now, and tried to work out each time which were the significant points where God showed me I needed him, or that I could trust him, or he did things and used people to bring me a step closer to him - and there were those significant points, plenty of them. But actually, I think a lot of the time in those years, faith was growing in the background, quietly. Or not so quietly. As much as through the people who spoke to me and the sermons I heard, faith grew through the songs I listened to on my old Walkman, from Dad's old worship CDs and from bands I'd heard at Greenbelt and Spring Harvest. It was the words of other people, singing about the God they knew in difficult times as well as good ones, which helped me to connect up the crap going on at home and in my relationships with the message I knew about a God who loved me, and sent his Son so I could know him. They gave me words to articulate that crap, not just as load of stuff to deal with, but as stuff that God could use to help me depend on him. They gave me words to start understanding the habits I couldn't shake and the parts of me I didn't like as things that God could transform, to see in myself potential rather than hopelessness.
A South African band I saw at Greenbelt called Tree63 had a song that seemed to sum up my frustrations at my own behaviour. Overdue went like this:
Struck by lightning once
You conceived a flame
Now every waking second
I'm waiting
for the blaze
But is it ever going to come?
But is it ever going to come?
What am I supposed to do
When everything I could
become is overdue?
Out of frustration
Out of frustration
Comes a patient man
I'm on the verge of something
End of what
you began
But is it ever going to come?
What am I supposed to do
When everything I could become is overdue?
It told me my experiences of frustration with myself even after those significant moments with God, weren't unique to me and didn't mean I couldn't be a Christian. They didn't make me a failure in God's eyes. But it encouraged me to keep up the struggle. The final words of that song went: Just the smallest spark, it set my world on fire. I see you in my dreams. In hearing other people voice my frustrations, I learnt that I had potential to be all that God made me to be, and that was worth struggling for.
There was another sort of song too which challenged me a lot as a teenager. It was the sort that told me no matter what my circumstances, God was still God, still reliable, still faithful, still in control, and still worth living my whole life for, whatever the cost. Another Tree63 song, I Stand for You (hear it on YouTube) taught me that. I remember listening to it through tears and with gritted teeth as I sat on a park swing struggling with the implications of being a Christian. I thought about the need to commit to unconditional forgiveness, and experienced the cost of that where I was being hurt again and again. I thought about the rejection following Jesus might bring, and felt the sting of it. But I got to the line that said "Guilty of disgrace, but you took my place. So Jesus, I'll always stand for you", and was convinced it was worth it.
Perhaps the songs that most grew my faith in the difficult places though were the ones that spoke of God being right in there with me, of his nearness in suffering as well as in in joy. There was an old Matt Redman song from the 90s called The Friendship and the Fear, and it spoke of God as one who whispers in our ear as we try to live for him. It said, You confide in those who fear you, share the secrets of your heart. I learnt of a God I could know, really know, and who really knew me. It made all the difference. It didn't stop crap times being crap. It didn't change the situations going on. But occasionally, it gave them profound meaning. Often I forgot to turn to God with difficulty, but the times that I did were special, and they've stuck with me. I have no idea who it was (please take credit if it was you!), but someone said to me very recently that worshipping God in times of suffering is something we'll only get to do this side of heaven. It doesn't mean that suffering is a good thing, but part of the privilege of being human is that God can profoundly meet us in it, and that changes us.
So why nostalgic? I'm not entirely sure. It's not that life is perfect now, although so many parts of it are in fact brilliant. Maybe it's that I don't tend to listen to those old songs much any more, and old music has a way of making you feel nostalgic. But more than that, I think there's probably something in the way I handle both the general difficulties of life, and the frustrations that I still have with my own bad decisions and habits, which is different now to when I was 14 or 15. At 22, I feel like I should be self-sufficient. I've worked a few more things out. I've leant therapy-language to work through my emotions. I know how to talk to people about what I feel, I know how to cope with some situations that were overwhelming as a teenager. And I've gained a kind of pride which means those parts of me I used to struggle with and really fight with, because I knew God could transform me in to who I was meant to be, well I don't struggle with them so much any more. The sense of my own potential I used to have has become a sense of pride that I'm fine just as I am, and it means I make excuses for myself.
There's a line from the rhyming genius that was my 15 year old self, from a poem I called Lilac Walls, which said "I wish I could go back there, though life could be pretty crap there." It's not that I want those same circumstances back. But I'm nostalgic for the dependence on God that I used to know, the knowledge that however hard the circumstance, I needed him all the more. I'm nostalgic for the vulnerability of singing those songs through the pain, with no idea what to do about it except bring it to God. I miss the Saturday afternoon walks to Wesley Owen to buy a new CD, ready for my whole perspective on God, life and myself to be grown and challenged through a few songs. I'm ready to shake off some of the pride and cynicism, some of the dependence on myself and other people that I've collected over 6 or 7 years, and go back to the struggling with God through suffering when it does come. I don't want to give up on believing I could be more than who I am, that God has big plans, that he wants to change me through every circumstance of life. C.S. Lewis said, "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." Perhaps its time I learned to pay attention again.
Sunday, 10 March 2013
When "Biblical" won't do.
 |
| Unpopular, yes. Christian...? |
Really?
Well, sort of... Those linked verses above do tell us to expect some persecution as Christians, some unpopularity, some opposition to the message. But that doesn't mean that all of it is a good thing and to our credit! Importantly, Jesus says "blessed are you when people...falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me." That doesn't account for the times when those people might be right. It doesn't mean that everything that we say which is counter-cultural or offensive is necessarily good or true! In particular, just because something we say is at odds with contemporary British culture, it doesn't mean we're avoiding being affected by cultural values - it might just mean we're being influenced by different cultural values.
Here's what I mean. My church had a guest service today, with a well-known evangelist preaching to a packed church. I like and respect him very much, and I know he has helped many people come to faith in Christ through his preaching and in his every day life, he's a really gifted man. But I was disappointed today that in his talk, I felt him to equate "believing the Bible" and "Biblical values" with what I'd consider to be a particular cultural expression of those values, a particular set of social or political values that rightly or wrongly often go hand in hand with conservative evangelicalism. As a Christian who doesn't share those same political views and doesn't believe that particular cultural expression of the gospel is completely appropriate in our culture, I felt alienated, so I wonder what those who had come as 'guests' to Church made of it all. If they were offended, or put off, I'm not sure it would be the gospel message (which was also faithfully preached) which made them wince but these trappings that came with it, the values which are presented as "the Biblical view" but which I'm not sure are very much to do with the gospel message at all.
The particular example which featured in this mornings talk was marriage - the news that the Queen is expected to show support for gay rights was referred to as a saddening break away from the Biblical view of marriage. But it also extends to gender issues in general. I'm currently reading Rachel Held Evans' book, "A Year of Biblical Womanhood", which is a response to the 'Biblical manhood and womanhood' movement. She seeks to show that the idea that there is a single, 'Biblical' model of how to be a woman comes less from the Bible and more from the elevation of cultural ideals, like the 1950s housewife. She looks at various women in the Bible who by no means fit that model, which renders the idea of the Biblical woman as fairly empty. She also begins to put into practice some of the other suggestions, commands and models for Biblical women which are not mentioned by those who claim to hold to the Biblical view on gender - such as the example of Sarah, who called her husband 'Master', not a practice continued by many now (I hope).
 |
| Biblical marriage? |
The same goes for marriage. The most common model of marriage in the Old Testament is for men to have multiple wives, as well as concubines and slaves with whom they have children (which has got to either challenge our view of marriage, or of sex outside of marriage!) This is the case for some of our Old Testament heroes, such as Abraham, Jacob, David and Solomon. There is provision made for this in the laws, such as in Exodus 21:10. Some would argue that the commands in the New Testament that church leaders should be "the husband of but one wife" suggest that polygamy was still practised by some in the Church, but was only prohibited for its leaders.
I hope you won't misunderstand me: I'm not suggesting polygamy as a good model for marriage. I'm not saying we've picked the wrong 'Biblical' of marriage and we should switch to that one. I'm just trying to suggest that if we take the Bible seriously as a book written over a period of centuries, in many times and places, in a number of cultural contexts, it would be strange to expect it to produce a single model of gender roles, relationships, marriage, or a whole manner of other things actually. When we stop looking at the Bible as if it should offer us a single, coherent picture of these things and allow each part to speak in its own cultural context and for its own purposes, we see a lot more diversity than we thought. It probes us to consider our own values for gender and marriage and so on as our attempts to apply the values we find in the Bible, but not to hold them as the Biblical ideal. In the same way, when it comes to considering the questions of our society today - questions such as reproductive rights, or sex education, or same sex relationships, the idea that there is a clear, obvious, Biblical view on these questions just doesn't make sense to me. For all the many cultural contexts that the Biblical texts were written in, Britain in 2013 was not one of them. What we do when we try to think about how to answer these questions as Christians is to try our best to apply what we know about the character of God and the kingdom of God to a new situation - and we'll probably differ on the best way to do that.
That's fine, and I'm all for more conversation, listening to each other and getting constructive dialogue going. I'm all for people coming to their tentative conclusions while being willing to listen to others who are equally trying seek God's will and consider their responses as Christians. What I'm not okay with is the use of the word "Biblical" to apply to a social or political view which simply didn't exist when the Bible was being written. I'm not okay with "Biblical" as a description of a cultural ideal of the nuclear family, complete with "stay-at-home Mom" and breadwinning, emotionally distant father as the only model for family life. Or Biblical as a perception of masculinity as active or dominant and femininity as passive and quiet. It's not helpful for our culture, it puts people off the gospel, but most importantly, I'm convinced it does a great injustice to the diverse, complex, sometimes difficult but often amazing men and women and their rich variety of experiences depicted in the Bible. It won't do to reduce them to an easy, cultural ideal, whether it's counter cultural here and now or not.
Sometimes unpopularity isn't a cause for rejoicing at our suffering for the sake of the gospel. Sometimes it just means we're getting something wrong.
Monday, 18 February 2013
Cracked heels and broken nails
I've got mixed feelings about my hands and feet. They don't look a lot like this for a start:
My feet - never much of a fan. I mean, I don't have a foot phobia like a couple of friends I could mention, but I've never found anyone's feet very attractive and I don't particularly rate my own. That's probably all the detail I'll go into on that.
My hands - feelings vary. I quite like my hands for being little, except when it gets me mocked, and I like that a bit of skin is different colour, and that there's still a red dot there from the anaesthetic needle that went in when I was four. But really, how I feel about my hands depends a lot on the state of my nails. If you saw my last post, you'll have seen a picture of my nails when they were doing fairly well. When they're bitten and nasty, I'd rather keep my hands out of sight.
My feelings might change though if I thought of them as Christ's hands and feet.
The idea has been on my mind since our last Core Group meeting for the Church of England Youth Council, in which we were discussing how to incorporate social justice issues into a theme for the next full council meeting in April. The theme that we settled on was "Hands and Feet of Christ", and we wanted to make sure there was time in the day to unpick what that means for us and what it would look like.
As well as being obviously related to Paul's image of the Church as the body of Christ (presumably including hands and feet!), the image is taken from a poem by St Teresa of Avila, written in the 16th century:
Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.
It's one thing to think in general, abstract terms that as the Church we're Christ's ambassadors in the world. I tend to think that means it's my job to look mildly offended on his behalf when someone uses his name irreverently. We're Christ's body, sure. That's a handy metaphor to remind us that we've all got different roles to play. For instance, for a normal Sunday morning, one person makes the Powerpoint of song words, another clicks through it during the songs, and another apologises afterwards for the wrong verses being shown at the wrong time. It's Christian team work. It's easy to think in those terms about being Christ's representatives or his body.
But Teresa's poem catapults the idea uncomfortably close to home. I can see my hands now. I can see my feet. These physical limbs, bits of body that I use constantly, all day every day, these are the pieces of bone and muscle and blood and stuff that Christ has chosen to use to do his work on earth. Fortunately, not only these ones; thank goodness for the rest of the Church. But all the same, he's chosen these ones.
So if Christ were to have exclusive use of my hands, what would he use them for? If he were living my life just as it is, what would he be doing with them? Would he be writing a blog post right now? Or would he be working in the local homeless shelter? Would he be holding the book I'm meant to be reading for tomorrow morning's class? Or would he be texting back the friend I haven't spoken to in so long?
What about my feet? Would he walk as quickly to lectures as I do, swerving in and out of the crowds on Cornmarket to avoid as many charity collectors as possible? Would he be walking towards people or away from people? To friends or strangers? Would he use my feet to be more committed to getting places on time and keeping commitments? Or would he use them to stop, to be interruptible whenever people need time? Would he walk alone around my college lake more often, to get space to really talk with his Father? Or would he invite another wherever he could so as not to waste an opportunity to love and encourage?
That's all just for now... Where on earth would he take them next year? Would he take these feet travelling around the world, using the hands to serve as many people as the feet took him to? Would he reaching out with human touch and comfort to forgotten children across the globe, taking them food and walking alongside them? Or would his steps be a little more contained within a parish, walking from house to house and stopping a while to really spend time with people? Perhaps he'd rather walk the same route each day to an office, using his hands to earn money, so he could give and serve with much more than before.
If you can see obvious answers to those questions, I'd love to hear your thoughts; if the answers are there, I'm missing them at the moment. What strikes me though is the sheer number of opportunities I have to use my hands and feet in the every day to show compassion and to bless. Which particular opportunity I pick at any one time seems to matter less than just picking something and doing it. Many aren't mutually exclusive, and perhaps if I were to start thinking just at one point in a day, "how might Jesus choose to use my hands and my feet in this particular situation, journey, opportunity?" then I might just find myself thinking that way more naturally. Perhaps I'd learn to live a life in which my hands and feet were constantly tools for Christ's work, when I was consciously thinking about it and when I wasn't. In the mean time, I'll need to start asking that question more consciously. Where would you start? Does it matter what we choose to do with them in any one moment, or just that we do something through which Christ encourages and blesses and serves and loves?
My feet are really nothing special to look at (hence the lack of photo of my own...) and my hands don't look out of the ordinary either. But if I were to allow them to be used in each moment as very ordinary, physical, weak, vulnerable, human hands and feet of Christ, then they'd be something really remarkable. Perhaps then each broken nail, cracked heel and little toe rubbed raw and blistered wouldn't just be embarrassing imperfections on my limbs. They'd be signs that Jesus was getting good use out of them.
My feet - never much of a fan. I mean, I don't have a foot phobia like a couple of friends I could mention, but I've never found anyone's feet very attractive and I don't particularly rate my own. That's probably all the detail I'll go into on that.
My hands - feelings vary. I quite like my hands for being little, except when it gets me mocked, and I like that a bit of skin is different colour, and that there's still a red dot there from the anaesthetic needle that went in when I was four. But really, how I feel about my hands depends a lot on the state of my nails. If you saw my last post, you'll have seen a picture of my nails when they were doing fairly well. When they're bitten and nasty, I'd rather keep my hands out of sight.
My feelings might change though if I thought of them as Christ's hands and feet.
The idea has been on my mind since our last Core Group meeting for the Church of England Youth Council, in which we were discussing how to incorporate social justice issues into a theme for the next full council meeting in April. The theme that we settled on was "Hands and Feet of Christ", and we wanted to make sure there was time in the day to unpick what that means for us and what it would look like.
As well as being obviously related to Paul's image of the Church as the body of Christ (presumably including hands and feet!), the image is taken from a poem by St Teresa of Avila, written in the 16th century:
Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.
It's one thing to think in general, abstract terms that as the Church we're Christ's ambassadors in the world. I tend to think that means it's my job to look mildly offended on his behalf when someone uses his name irreverently. We're Christ's body, sure. That's a handy metaphor to remind us that we've all got different roles to play. For instance, for a normal Sunday morning, one person makes the Powerpoint of song words, another clicks through it during the songs, and another apologises afterwards for the wrong verses being shown at the wrong time. It's Christian team work. It's easy to think in those terms about being Christ's representatives or his body.
But Teresa's poem catapults the idea uncomfortably close to home. I can see my hands now. I can see my feet. These physical limbs, bits of body that I use constantly, all day every day, these are the pieces of bone and muscle and blood and stuff that Christ has chosen to use to do his work on earth. Fortunately, not only these ones; thank goodness for the rest of the Church. But all the same, he's chosen these ones.
So if Christ were to have exclusive use of my hands, what would he use them for? If he were living my life just as it is, what would he be doing with them? Would he be writing a blog post right now? Or would he be working in the local homeless shelter? Would he be holding the book I'm meant to be reading for tomorrow morning's class? Or would he be texting back the friend I haven't spoken to in so long?
What about my feet? Would he walk as quickly to lectures as I do, swerving in and out of the crowds on Cornmarket to avoid as many charity collectors as possible? Would he be walking towards people or away from people? To friends or strangers? Would he use my feet to be more committed to getting places on time and keeping commitments? Or would he use them to stop, to be interruptible whenever people need time? Would he walk alone around my college lake more often, to get space to really talk with his Father? Or would he invite another wherever he could so as not to waste an opportunity to love and encourage?
That's all just for now... Where on earth would he take them next year? Would he take these feet travelling around the world, using the hands to serve as many people as the feet took him to? Would he reaching out with human touch and comfort to forgotten children across the globe, taking them food and walking alongside them? Or would his steps be a little more contained within a parish, walking from house to house and stopping a while to really spend time with people? Perhaps he'd rather walk the same route each day to an office, using his hands to earn money, so he could give and serve with much more than before.
If you can see obvious answers to those questions, I'd love to hear your thoughts; if the answers are there, I'm missing them at the moment. What strikes me though is the sheer number of opportunities I have to use my hands and feet in the every day to show compassion and to bless. Which particular opportunity I pick at any one time seems to matter less than just picking something and doing it. Many aren't mutually exclusive, and perhaps if I were to start thinking just at one point in a day, "how might Jesus choose to use my hands and my feet in this particular situation, journey, opportunity?" then I might just find myself thinking that way more naturally. Perhaps I'd learn to live a life in which my hands and feet were constantly tools for Christ's work, when I was consciously thinking about it and when I wasn't. In the mean time, I'll need to start asking that question more consciously. Where would you start? Does it matter what we choose to do with them in any one moment, or just that we do something through which Christ encourages and blesses and serves and loves?
My feet are really nothing special to look at (hence the lack of photo of my own...) and my hands don't look out of the ordinary either. But if I were to allow them to be used in each moment as very ordinary, physical, weak, vulnerable, human hands and feet of Christ, then they'd be something really remarkable. Perhaps then each broken nail, cracked heel and little toe rubbed raw and blistered wouldn't just be embarrassing imperfections on my limbs. They'd be signs that Jesus was getting good use out of them.
Saturday, 16 February 2013
Are there star charts in the Kingdom?
I want to tell you a secret. Promise you won't use it against me though, right? We'll assume you just promised, so here you are. I am incredibly trainable. Far more than any dog (or other animal) I've come across, I respond very well to praise. So you could basically train me to do anything you wanted, if you rewarded me with praise at strategic moments. Chocolate works well as a reward to accompany verbal praise, a bit like when Sheldon tries to train Penny on the Big Bang Theory. But the most useful tool of all, for training me to do absolutely anything, is the star chart. Yes, that age old trick for making kids eat their veg, flush the toilet or tidy their rooms, is close to 100% effective on me. This picture should serve as proof:
I've been a nail biter all my life, and having small hands (and therefore tiny nails) anyway, it used to look like there was hardly anything there where my fingernails should have been, it was gross. Then when I was 19, my boyfriend at the time made me this amazing star chart to help me stop. He made a picture of a garden with a night sky background that I could stick stars onto each day I didn't bite my nails, and in the garden was an apple tree with twelve removable apples on it. For each month of stars which I stuck in the sky, I'd get to pick an apple, turn it over, and see what reward was written on the back. They were great, I got meals out, iTunes vouchers, clothes bought for me, Chinese take-aways, girly films and even foot spas. It worked a treat, for the first time ever I managed to stop biting my nails, with the help of this elaborate star chart. Then, 6 or 7 months in, we started to forget about the chart. He'd forget to put stars up for me when I wasn't at his house, and I'd forget to keep count of days and catch the sky up when I was there. That was when I stopped caring about my nails, and little by little, they returned to being a bitten mess.
Fast-forward to about two years later, I was in second year and determined that if I could stop biting my nails once, I could do it again. I made the decision to stop, I painted my nails to remind me, and I told my lovely friend Emily all about the star chart I'd had a couple of years earlier. The next day, I checked my pigeon hole and found a beautifully hand-made star chart for the term, and a motivational "Keep Calm and Don't Chew" poster. I'd colour in the days myself, and each weekend, text the Star Chart Fairy (c/o Emily, naturally) to say I'd managed another full week. Emily would be all encouraging and proud, and a sugary reward would find its way to my pidge the next day. It was one of the sweetest things a friend could do for me, and Emily knew me well - my nails in the photo above were the result of her praise and rewards! 9 months or so later, and except for the odd blip, I haven't looked back.
I'm not the first person in the world to be so driven by other people's praise. I might be a particularly good example of it, but there's something in human nature that loves to impress others, show off our achievements and have them affirmed by other people. Our achievements of Christian life are no different, although we might dress it up in different language. If my 'Quiet Times' in the mornings, time reading the Bible and praying, are going well during any given period, there's an easy way to tell. I'll probably have told you, in some obviously modest way. In a Bible study, "you know this reminds me of a part of Habbakuk I've been reading recently, a couple of chapters ago. Actually, the notes I've been reading alongside it have been really helpful on the subject too..." Or in prayer request time: "Praise God that I've been having such great quiet times, pray that this will be an encouragement to [insert name of struggling friend]." Or as casual anecdote: "I walked in half way through a lecture today, first time I've been that late! It was only because my prayer time over-ran though, you know how you lose track of time when there's just so much to bring to the Lord..."
Anyway, the point is, most of us want our achievements noticed and affirmed by other people.
That was certainly the case for the "fake-pietists"[1] of whom Jesus spoke in Matthew 6:1-18. Giving their money, prayer, and fasting were all good things, 'pillars of Jewish devotional life'.[2] And much like me and my Quiet Times, they couldn't resist the urge to let everyone know how well they were doing at these religious activities. They loved to be noticed, to hear people commenting on their exemplary prayer style, or to note their kind generosity to the poor. I imagine they wouldn't have been averse to a public star chart in the market square either, accompanied by a hearty "well done, you!" and a packet of sweets every week. They got the praise they wanted, the reward they were setting themselves up for. And that was the end of it, for them.
See, I think Jesus is drawing a link between our motivation for doing something, and the outcome of it. If my motivation in working at my Quiet Times is that everyone else will know it and praise me, well that can happen. Simple. But I won't gain anything else from it. If my motivation to pray is that I can tick it off my to do list and feel like a successful Christian, then fine. I can do that. But I won't gain anything more. But if my motivation for any of these things, those which Jesus mentions in this passage and the other 'religious' activities I might want to add to his examples, is to do with relating to my Father, well that's a different matter entirely. If my aim is to "be perfect therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect", and I want to act like him to see the family likeness grow; if I want to really bless the people I'm giving to rather than myself, because I know I'm the child of a generous God; if I pray because I love to talk to him and get to know him better and hear all he has to say too.... then I'll carry out these activities very differently, caring about no-one who could be watching except for God. The outcome will certainly be different, too. Rather than a pat on the back from fellow do-gooders and perhaps a look of admiration from those struggling with their own piety, I'll get what I aimed for. My motivation will work itself out in the outcome. I'll grow in the likeness of God. I'll get to spend time with him and hear from him. I'll have real confidence in my identity in him. Here's the reward that God gives, the reward for those whose motivation is their Father himself.
So no, I don't have a Quiet Time star chart (though if Emily reads this... only kidding!) or a prayer or giving star chart. I shouldn't want or need others to stroke my ego and tell me how well I'm doing. That's not the reward I'm looking for. Instead, if my motivations for doing good are right, I'll gain more than I ever expected. In acting just a bit more like God, privately and where no-one else can notice, I'll be changed that little bit more into his likeness. I'll walk that step closer to him, trusting his character better and enjoying spending time with him more and more. That beats all the rewards I've have on my star charts so far, and that's really saying something.
_______________________________________________________________________________
[1] This is from Nick King's translation of the New Testament, and it's great. You should probably read it.
[2] Nick again. Each section has a handy little commentary-cum-devotional-guide with it which explains everything.
I've been a nail biter all my life, and having small hands (and therefore tiny nails) anyway, it used to look like there was hardly anything there where my fingernails should have been, it was gross. Then when I was 19, my boyfriend at the time made me this amazing star chart to help me stop. He made a picture of a garden with a night sky background that I could stick stars onto each day I didn't bite my nails, and in the garden was an apple tree with twelve removable apples on it. For each month of stars which I stuck in the sky, I'd get to pick an apple, turn it over, and see what reward was written on the back. They were great, I got meals out, iTunes vouchers, clothes bought for me, Chinese take-aways, girly films and even foot spas. It worked a treat, for the first time ever I managed to stop biting my nails, with the help of this elaborate star chart. Then, 6 or 7 months in, we started to forget about the chart. He'd forget to put stars up for me when I wasn't at his house, and I'd forget to keep count of days and catch the sky up when I was there. That was when I stopped caring about my nails, and little by little, they returned to being a bitten mess.
Fast-forward to about two years later, I was in second year and determined that if I could stop biting my nails once, I could do it again. I made the decision to stop, I painted my nails to remind me, and I told my lovely friend Emily all about the star chart I'd had a couple of years earlier. The next day, I checked my pigeon hole and found a beautifully hand-made star chart for the term, and a motivational "Keep Calm and Don't Chew" poster. I'd colour in the days myself, and each weekend, text the Star Chart Fairy (c/o Emily, naturally) to say I'd managed another full week. Emily would be all encouraging and proud, and a sugary reward would find its way to my pidge the next day. It was one of the sweetest things a friend could do for me, and Emily knew me well - my nails in the photo above were the result of her praise and rewards! 9 months or so later, and except for the odd blip, I haven't looked back.
I'm not the first person in the world to be so driven by other people's praise. I might be a particularly good example of it, but there's something in human nature that loves to impress others, show off our achievements and have them affirmed by other people. Our achievements of Christian life are no different, although we might dress it up in different language. If my 'Quiet Times' in the mornings, time reading the Bible and praying, are going well during any given period, there's an easy way to tell. I'll probably have told you, in some obviously modest way. In a Bible study, "you know this reminds me of a part of Habbakuk I've been reading recently, a couple of chapters ago. Actually, the notes I've been reading alongside it have been really helpful on the subject too..." Or in prayer request time: "Praise God that I've been having such great quiet times, pray that this will be an encouragement to [insert name of struggling friend]." Or as casual anecdote: "I walked in half way through a lecture today, first time I've been that late! It was only because my prayer time over-ran though, you know how you lose track of time when there's just so much to bring to the Lord..."
Anyway, the point is, most of us want our achievements noticed and affirmed by other people.
That was certainly the case for the "fake-pietists"[1] of whom Jesus spoke in Matthew 6:1-18. Giving their money, prayer, and fasting were all good things, 'pillars of Jewish devotional life'.[2] And much like me and my Quiet Times, they couldn't resist the urge to let everyone know how well they were doing at these religious activities. They loved to be noticed, to hear people commenting on their exemplary prayer style, or to note their kind generosity to the poor. I imagine they wouldn't have been averse to a public star chart in the market square either, accompanied by a hearty "well done, you!" and a packet of sweets every week. They got the praise they wanted, the reward they were setting themselves up for. And that was the end of it, for them.
See, I think Jesus is drawing a link between our motivation for doing something, and the outcome of it. If my motivation in working at my Quiet Times is that everyone else will know it and praise me, well that can happen. Simple. But I won't gain anything else from it. If my motivation to pray is that I can tick it off my to do list and feel like a successful Christian, then fine. I can do that. But I won't gain anything more. But if my motivation for any of these things, those which Jesus mentions in this passage and the other 'religious' activities I might want to add to his examples, is to do with relating to my Father, well that's a different matter entirely. If my aim is to "be perfect therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect", and I want to act like him to see the family likeness grow; if I want to really bless the people I'm giving to rather than myself, because I know I'm the child of a generous God; if I pray because I love to talk to him and get to know him better and hear all he has to say too.... then I'll carry out these activities very differently, caring about no-one who could be watching except for God. The outcome will certainly be different, too. Rather than a pat on the back from fellow do-gooders and perhaps a look of admiration from those struggling with their own piety, I'll get what I aimed for. My motivation will work itself out in the outcome. I'll grow in the likeness of God. I'll get to spend time with him and hear from him. I'll have real confidence in my identity in him. Here's the reward that God gives, the reward for those whose motivation is their Father himself.
So no, I don't have a Quiet Time star chart (though if Emily reads this... only kidding!) or a prayer or giving star chart. I shouldn't want or need others to stroke my ego and tell me how well I'm doing. That's not the reward I'm looking for. Instead, if my motivations for doing good are right, I'll gain more than I ever expected. In acting just a bit more like God, privately and where no-one else can notice, I'll be changed that little bit more into his likeness. I'll walk that step closer to him, trusting his character better and enjoying spending time with him more and more. That beats all the rewards I've have on my star charts so far, and that's really saying something.
_______________________________________________________________________________
[1] This is from Nick King's translation of the New Testament, and it's great. You should probably read it.
[2] Nick again. Each section has a handy little commentary-cum-devotional-guide with it which explains everything.
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