This week the proposed measure for moving forward with enabling women to become bishops was lost by the narrowest of margins at General synod. This is bad news, for all of us.
It is bad news for those of us who believe that, taken in context, those verses that in English translations appear to place certain limits on the roles of women not only do no such thing but cannot possibly do so (the context of the Big Picture of Scripture; the context of the wider line of thought in which they are set; the missiological context into which they are spoken; the linguistic context of what words can and could and don’t mean), and who long to see women released into the same freedom as men.
It is bad news for those of us who believe that in the Scriptural trajectory of moving from captivity to freedom, this is the prophetic moment. That the trajectory must accommodate certain captivity in order to progress (the writings of the New Testament accommodate slavery, not because captivity is better than freedom, but because the thought of dismantled slavery within the Roman Empire is akin to chaos, and in the end true freedom never flourishes in chaos; and so slavery is accommodated – though not without significant modification in the light of the bigger trajectory) but that if we fail to set people free at the prophetic moment (that is, the point where it calls for change, but imaginable change: the Wilberforce moment, the MLK moment) we resist God’s call and move from accommodating captivity to advancing it.
It is bad news for the very many women among Church of England clergy who feel that judgement has been passed on them as less than – less than men, and less than many women who have been airbrushed out of church history.
It is also bad news for those of us who, in conscience, cannot accept women bishops. After much reflection, prayer and study, the Church of England concluded in the 1970s that there were no doctrinal reasons why women could not be priests or bishops. In 2006, we decided that the time was right to include female priests among those priests who could be asked to serve as bishops. This will happen. But our failure to agree on provision for those who dissent – the rejection of the best provision we could come up with (and no provision or decision can ever be perfect) – simply means that it is far, far more likely that this will happen with no provision made at all.
But this is also bad news for all of us in relation to another issue, that of gay marriage. Until now, women bishops and gay marriage have been two separate things. That is, while they have belonged together for the most conservative and most progressive wings of the Church (and of society), at this time the overwhelming majority of church members are in favour of women bishops and the large majority of church members are not in favour of gay marriage. But now these two issues are locked together. They are locked together because as legislation is progressed into law, the Church will not be granted exemption (there are always exemptions to equality law – for example, a shelter for women who have experienced domestic violence can make a case for employing only female staff – but exemptions must be shown to be reasonable, and responsibly applied), and because the Church has lost the moral authority to speak into the public debate.
This is perhaps a silver lining for those of us who believe that it is (more than) time that we embraced gay marriage. But it is a thin silver lining. This is bad news for us, because we would want to see gay marriage shaped by a Christian rather than an atheist imagination, and by association we have lost much of the credibility to do so.
This is bad news for those of us who are open to gay marriage, but who hoped for more time to do the theological work necessary to be able to fully support gay marriage and to help our congregations and even the (far from unified) wider public reach that place (and who had hoped that resolving the issue of women bishops would free up the space for such work). It is bad news, because we will not have that time. But we will have to get on with it, and we will do so, knowing that if gay marriage is in line with God’s will, it will be one small step forward (and not heaven come on earth), and if it is not in line with God’s will, it will be one small step backward (and not hell opening up beneath our very feet).
And this is bad news for those of us who are categorically opposed to gay marriage. Indeed, it is a disaster. But it is a disaster brought about not by the lobbying of that wing of the Church that argues for gay marriage, but by the lobbying of that wing of the Church that opposes it. It is the perfect irony.
This week is not, as some have suggested, suicide for the Church. It is suicide for those within the Church who, a generation on, cannot accept the will and the (badly communicated) teaching of the Church in relation to women. They will leave, and they will have left in such a way that makes things harder for those who stay.
When the measure was lost on Tuesday, I wrote this:
Before today, I believed that the kingdom of heaven has come, has drawn very near, is delayed in its coming and it is not for us to know when it will arrive, is yet to come, and will one day come in fullness - and that in all this we are called to live within it, to repent and enter it, to be faithful, to help others imagine it, and to hope for what we do not see. Today, I believe that all of the above is still true. Nothing has changed (but neither has it stayed the same).
And that is the good news, the good news that transforms the bad news.
It has been a very painful week for those of us who are called to love and serve the Church of England. We risk the danger of adding very public recrimination to very public disagreement and very public disappointment. This evening at the vicarage we were looking at Matthew 7:1-6 with a few teenagers – we’re working through the Sermon on the Mount together – and while we didn’t speak of the events of this week, these verses felt very pertinent.
“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way that you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” (vv1, 2)
Law is there to lead us to grace: to teach us that we cannot live rightly, in the fullness of freedom God intends for us, in our own strength. Even if the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak – a weakness calls out for compassion, not condemnation. Law is there to lead us to grace, but we cannot receive grace for ourselves while insisting that someone else be judged for failing to meet the requirement of the Law. To do so cuts us off from grace, by our own choice.
“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” (vv3-5)
This image seems random and bizarre to us, because we are so unfamiliar with Torah (the first five, foundational, books of Scripture). But Jesus and his listeners memorised Torah from childhood. Here they would have recognised that Jesus was quoting from God’s warning to his people as they prepared to enter into the Land he was giving them.
“‘But if you do not drive out the inhabitants of the land, those you allow to remain will become barbs in your eyes and thorns in your sides. They will give you trouble in the land where you will live. And then I will do to you what I plan to do to them.’” (Numbers 33:55, 56)
Barbs in your eyes. And planks. Essentially, as I understand it, Jesus is saying, Don’t accuse someone of being led away from closeness with God by the company they keep, having failed to recognise the ways in which the company you keep has led you so far away from closeness with God. This is, after all, precisely what he accuses the Pharisees of doing, believing themselves to be in the right but blind to the distance between them and God. So, take an honest look at your particular tribe first; and then when you look at someone else, someone who belongs to another tribe among the people of God, you’ll be in a position to help them keep close to God – not judge them.
“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls before pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces.” (v 6)
This verse is also bizarre – and these verses don’t really relate to one another – unless we understand that Jesus is again quoting Torah in order to make the same point for a third time (that is, to really make the point): don’t judge.
“‘...You may eat any animal that has a split hoof completely divided and that chews the cud...And the pig, though it has a split hoof completely divided, does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. You must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses; they are unclean for you. Of all the creatures living in the water of the seas and the streams, you may eat any that have fins and scales. But all the creatures in the seas or streams that do not have fins or scales – whether among all the swarming things or among all the other living creatures in the water – you are to detest. And since you are to detest them, you must not eat their meat and you must detest their carcasses. Anything living in the water that does not have fins and scales is to be detestable to you.’” (Leviticus 11:3-12)
Pearls before swine. Pigs are unclean. But so are pearls. Pearls come from oysters, and really God’s people shouldn’t even know about pearls because they shouldn’t even be touching an oyster to open it to discover them. And to buy pearls from the Gentiles is just a neat trick to get around the letter of the Law. Pearls – a symbol of status - are pronounced unclean in the very next breath as pigs. Pearls aren’t mentioned very much in the Bible, and when they are, it tends not to be positive. They are associated with Gentile Empires that oppress God’s people. Jesus does tell a parable about the kingdom of heaven as being like a merchant searching for fine pearls – which is not to say that pearls are good, but that the kingdom of heaven is scandalous, pursues scandalous ends – and this utterly scandalous nature is underlined at the very end of the Bible where the gates to the New Jerusalem are made of single pearls. But to return to Matthew 7:6, Jesus’ point seems to be, don’t misuse Scripture to your benefit (allowing you privilege that is not God’s best for his people) while putting others down (calling them unclean) – if you do, it may very well turn out badly for you.
I think by now I really ought to be able to post some reflections on Skyfall, on the basis that if you have not yet seen it and wish to do so without spoilers, you don’t have to read any further.
The film opens with a chase scene that goes from on foot to car to motorbike to train. Against the backdrop of Istanbul, it is visually stunning and over-stimulating; but it does so much more than set the adrenalin going. It introduces three motifs that will recur throughout the film: desperate problem-solving, falling from height/into depth, and characters wrestling with the order to sacrifice a colleague for the greater good; the first a metaphor for identity crisis, the second a metaphor for death and resurrection, the third a narrative device that combines the other two.
This sequence is followed by the title song. Sung by Adele, it re-boots iconic Bond by combining the comfortingly familiar – evoking the great themes sung by Shirley Bassey – with the disconcertingly unfamiliar: this is M’s love song, expressing her complicated but completely non-sexual love for Bond.
Throughout the film, other iconic Bond elements are re-booted in similar fashion: a young, geek-chic Quartermaster (Q); a black Moneypenny who demonstrates herself to be an able field operative but chooses for herself to serve from a desk; a new M, with familiar hat-stand and leather-padded door (we move from distrusting his motives to trusting his intentions).
In one of the few truly hostile reviews, Giles Coren slams the film for its portrayal of women, and its implied portrayal of contemporary Britain. In his self-righteous journalist’s anger, he fails to recognise that M chooses to die (chooses not to withhold from herself the cost she has asked of others), and Moneypenny chooses a desk (feminism is growing up, becoming more diverse). But most of his anger is directed at Bond – a character who is supposed to represent all that is heroic about Britain – cynically having sex with a woman whom he knew had been trafficked into prostitution and then forced to be a gangsters trophy, simply because he was ‘bored,’ and then choosing not to intervene to save her when she is murdered by said gangster. It is true that both these scenes are disturbing: but for precisely that reason, I am glad that they are there. Bond, too, is getting a re-boot: he is depicted neither as hero (as Coren wrongly assumes and rightly rejects) nor villain (as Coren wrongly deems him to actually be) but as anti-hero. Here is a deeply damaged man, with his own psychological baggage; whose actions are deeply conflicted; who has a moral compass, but perhaps not my moral compass or Giles Coren’s moral compass; who is caught in an identity-crisis, but who, in a morally complex and often ambiguous world, holds on to the possibility of redemption and resurrection.
In this, Daniel Craig’s portrayal of Bond is both a very accurate reflection of British identity in 2012 and a very hopeful depiction. Some commentators have rightly seen in the film a crisis of confidence in Britain’s role in the world; but there is also the promise that there is still a role for us, one that is not what it was but is in continuity with who we are, a resurrected life, a re-booting that combines the familiar with the new. It is a fitting way to mark 50 years of Bond on the screen.
Skyfall is a visually beautiful film (the use of blue light and glass in the scene in a Shanghai skyscraper is cinematic painting at its best), and a great action movie, and I don’t think there is one bad performance among the cast. But it goes to work at a far deeper level than escapism or mindless entertainment. Skyfall poses challenging questions about our own brokenness – at both the personal level and as a society; about our role in the world – at both the personal level and as a society; about our need for one another and commitment to one another – and the risk inherent in that need and that commitment...I don’t come out of the cinema seduced into wanting to be James Bond (though I wouldn’t mind sharing his tailor, or taking better care of his Aston Martin BD5), but knowing that he and I are already part of the same British Everyman: and that before I pass judgement on him, I need to allow him to interrogate me – and maybe even teach me a thing or two about how to face the unfinished future...
The rest of the world doesn’t get to vote in US Presidential elections, but what happens in the US has an impact on all of us, and what is truly good for their citizens is (must be) truly good for everyone else. While the domestic outcome was close, scanning global media and social media both in the run up to and in response to the outcome of yesterday’s election suggests that public opinion across the rest of the world is far more in favour of Obama and the Democrats than Romney and the Republicans. Both sides of America’s deeply partisan population would do well to reflect on this.
Every nation has a lifespan, and the defining characteristics of its culture very much reflect the stage in that lifespan that it has reached. The USA is an adolescent nation. This is not intended as a negative comment, but simply as an observation of where the USA is in its lifespan, with every season having its positive and negative aspects.
American culture displays adolescent arrogance – the self-confident belief, at individual and corporate levels, that they know better than anyone else and don’t need anyone else; adolescent insecurity – the need to be adored and longed-for; adolescent myopia – the belief that the challenges they face are greater than any faced, and overcome, by previous generations; adolescent concerns – strength and youthful beauty and self-indulgence, and the corresponding denial of sickness and aging and poverty; and adolescent potential – hope and vitality, questioning and questing, and many years ahead of them.
If arrogance and insecurity and the like sound negative, I do not intend to be judgemental: they are in fact inevitable, at every stage; and if they can be mastered (as opposed to allowed to master us) they are in fact essential to us in progressing to the (inevitable) next stage well.
Britain, on the other hand, is a much older nation: not yet in its terminal decline, by any means, but at that stage of early retirement where we see people trying to redefine their role in life. Like adolescence, it is a particular fraught ‘transitional’ season. British culture displays ‘active retired’ arrogance – the belief that we are indispensible; active retired insecurity – the need to be needed; active retired myopia – here the particular problem is not that our vision becomes less flexible with age (this is perfectly natural and should be perfectly acceptable) but the vanity that refuses to wear spectacles, or benefit from correcting lenses that help us see with clarity; active retired concerns – how to extend our independence and resist encroaching dependency on others; and active retired potential – experience, and the energy to share it.
Of course, we see ‘active retired’ behaviour in America (helicopter parents) and ‘adolescent’ behaviour in Britain (last summer’s riots; the growing cult of celebrity), because societies are made up of people of every stage; but I am attempting to paint a big-picture of our respective dominant cultures, which change over long periods.
One of the key reasons, I believe, why Obama’s re-election is so widely welcomed outside of America is this: that most of the world does, indeed, love America and wants to see all her adolescent potential blossom into a mature culture; and for a host of reasons (some, undoubtedly, misguided) we identify Democrat policies and electing Democrat Presidents with America daring to grow up, and Republican policies and electing Republican Presidents with America retreating to the safe familiarity of adolescence. (I’d suggest that Carter, Clinton and Obama are all more respected internationally – for domestic as well as foreign policy – than Reagan, Bush Senior or Bush Junior.)
This is, surely, worth reflecting on, whether you are a Republican who fears the worst for your nation’s future – you can fight growing up, but you can’t fight growing older, and what served you well as adolescents won’t serve you well as mature adults – or a Democrat who hopes that the best is still to come – you will make a host of bad decisions along the way, and then discover that new challenges, as well as opportunities, await.
It is also worth reflecting on as the rest of the world, because the USA will be an adolescent culture for a long while yet, whoever comes and goes in the Oval Office, as it negotiates this (deeply and bitterly contested) transition; and we must enjoy the gift of adolescent America among the family of nations, and live in such a way that helps her grow to maturity, neither fearing her nor disapproving of her, but supporting her with humility, patience, encouragement, celebration, correction, wonder, prayers...
The goal of remembering is reconciliation.
Remember: to bring to mind in the present that which took place in the past.
Re-member: to stitch back together that which has been torn apart; to unite what has been separated.
The goal of remembering is reconciliation, because by and with and in Christ, God is at work to make all things new, to restore all that has been lost, to reconcile all that has been estranged, to bring harmony out of discord.
This takes time.
This takes time, because it requires of us that we remember rightly, in order to re-member rightly. It requires of us that we recognise ourselves and our enemies honestly. That we refuse to deal in generalisation or stereotype or misrepresentation, neither painting ourselves as innocent nor our enemy as without cause. That we recognise where we have fallen short of loving our neighbour, and where we have trespassed onto and claimed for ourselves that which God has given to them; that we ask God – and where possible, our enemy – for forgiveness; that we seek forgiveness for where we have accused our enemy falsely, in our propaganda. That we identify where our enemy has trespassed against us – and that we choose to forgive them, and choose to forgive them, and choose to forgive them, for as long as it takes for receiving and extending forgiveness to do its work in our lives. When forgiveness’ work is done, we are left with the scars that tell the story from which we have been redeemed, but we discover that the wound is healed.
That in my generation, British and German and Japanese can be friends.
That in my grandchildren’s generation, post-Christian Westerners and Eastern Muslims might be friends.
That the descendents of abusers and the descendents of the abused, living in a culture that has turned a blind eye to abuse and then turned-about into a witch hunt, might bear one another no animosity.
All this requires of us that we put to death false memories, the pseudo-memory folklore that stokes the fires of resentment.
This is why this short Season of remembrance – which, in the northern hemisphere coincides with the evenings drawing in –
All Saints (November 1), where those of every tribe and tongue may be re-membered; and
All Souls (November 2), where those of different generations may be re-membered; and
Bonfire Night (November 5), where (here in the UK) those of different religious belief may be re-membered; and
Armistice Day (November 11), where those of different nationalities may be re-membered –
is so important, is such a precious gift.
Today is the Feast of St Luke, which is a good opportunity to consider the assumptions we bring to reading the story of Scripture.
Luke is attributed with writing the two-volume work known as the Gospel According to Luke, and The Acts of the Apostles (though, in fact, neither work mentions the name Luke, though both are introduced as letters).
Paul mentions a Luke three times in his letters, and on one of those occasions identifies him as Luke, the doctor.
On the strength of this, most commentators assume that Luke was a doctor – the Anglican prayer for the Feast of St Luke* goes to town on it – although this assumption only works if we assume that there was only one person known, to be fair well known, to Paul who was named Luke; and if we rule out the reasonable possibility that Paul identifies a Luke as Luke, the doctor, in order to distinguish him from another Luke well known to those he is writing to.
On the basis of this assumption, many commentators point out how Luke’s account of healings, as compared to the accounts of the other Gospel writers, show the particular perspective, interest and specialist knowledge of a physician. The problem with this argument is that Luke’s account of healings – and, indeed, Luke’s account of the crucifixion – show no such thing. It just isn’t there, and the commentators are simply seeing what they want to see.
On the other hand, where the Luke who is attributed with writing Luke-Acts does show particular perspective, interest and specialist knowledge is whenever he writes about sea voyages. But the view that he was more likely a seafarer is a minority one (I like minority readings, and am thankful to Elizabeth Fisher for this particular one).
Of course, at one level it does not matter who wrote Luke-Acts. Why it is worth mentioning is this: if we bring such unquestioned assumptions over something that doesn’t matter, what unquestioned assumptions prejudice our reading of those things that we have more invested in?
*Almighty God, you called Luke the physician, whose praise is in the gospel, to be an evangelist and physician of the soul: by the grace of the Spirit and through the wholesome medicine of the gospel, give your Church the same love and power to heal; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who is alive and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.
I came across Douglas Coupland’s latest project – to “try and isolate what is already different in the twenty-first century mind as opposed to the twentieth.” – from my friend Steve Taylor (a kiwi living in Australia). I have always found Coupland to be an interesting observer of culture. Of his ‘Slogans for the Twenty-first Century,’ the one that strikes me most is: LIVES ARE NO LONGER FEELING LIKE STORIES.
Here are my reflections:
My generation saw the failure of the dominant meta-narratives of our cultures – the American Dream; post-Empire Britain as still the greatest nation; etc. – and responded by making a couple of moves. We stepped-out of those meta-narratives on a long-term basis; and we constructed small, personal stories that did not connect with meta-narratives (in this sense, they were, ironically, more heroic – and doomed to failure – than we knew).
The following generation saw the first move as opting-out, and the second as creating and offering a very far from desirable alternative. Gen X watched metaphorical skyscrapers fall (long before we watched the Twin Towers collapse) and lived in post-apocalyptic shanty towns. Gen Y wonders why we settle for that (trauma is why), and set out to rebuild. Some, to rebuild skyscrapers – we have a cultural tendency to reject the values of the generation before us, and to co-opt (not return to) the values of the generation before them (for example, British PM David Cameron co-opts the values of the generation that rebuilt Britain after WWII – though I can’t imagine the NHS coming into existence on his watch). (We could describe it in this way: as the structures of one generation falls, the following generation stays away from the unstable building because it is dangerous, while the next generation returns to the settled ruins to claim anything they can plunder.) Others, to rebuild on a smaller, more human scale – there are signs of reclaiming family life.
So we have three surviving generations for whom lives are no longer feeling like stories: Boomers, because their stories (e.g. we get more and more wealthy through time) have fallen; X-ers, because over time the (metaphorical) poverty of (metaphorical) shanty-towns takes its toll on the human spirit; and Gen-Y, because stories feels like escapism (and money and celebrity status like a better escapism).
Here’s the thing: we are embedded in story – in several stories simultaneously – whether we are aware of it or not. Story is the medium we move in, breath in, just as water is the medium fish move and breath in.
I find my story within the Story that is told in the Bible. And within that Story, the way in which stories are inhabited is instructional to me. The Old Testament, in the form in which it comes down to us, was very largely shaped while the people were living in exile in Babylon – a culture built on a very different story from their own. Within this context, they needed to tell their story – indeed, to rediscover their story, for they had forgotten it (which is how and why they ended up in exile in the first place), and then to tell it, over and over, so that it shaped their own lives as they lived them out in a particular (and hostile) place and time. For them, story was not escapism: it taught them how to live; how to make sense of present circumstances which, on the surface, made no sense; and what to hope for.
This is what story looked like. They lived within the Babylonian story. But they took one day in every seven to remind themselves of their own story. That is, unlike Gen-X, they didn’t remove themselves from a story they found to be false (indeed, God told them to embed themselves in that society and to seek to bless it), but guarded moments to ‘step out’ in order to evaluate that story in the light of their own.
Lives don’t feel like stories, whether stories we write for ourselves as Masters of our own Destiny, or stories written for us by others who have power over our lives. Life is too hard, and too real, and too demanding, and too fast, and too overwhelming, and too randomly violent, and too short to be a series of stories. That is why we micro-story: Facebook statuses and twitter updates. (That is, perhaps, why I am writing blog posts of increasing length, rather than micro-blogging?)
And that is precisely why I feel the weight of the forgotten Story.
Today (10 October) is World Mental Health Day.
According to the World Health Organisation:
‘World Mental Health Day raises public awareness about mental health issues. The day promotes open discussion of mental disorders, and investments in prevention, promotion and treatment services. This year the theme for the day is “Depression: A Global Crisis”.
‘Depression affects more than 350 million people of all ages, in all communities, and is a significant contributor to the global burden of disease. Although there are known effective treatments for depression, access to treatment is a problem in most countries and in some countries fewer than 10% of those who need it receive such treatment.’
I suffered from depression throughout my teens. In my first year at high school, I was relatively popular, equally so among boys and girls. On the eve of my twelfth birthday (first term of second year), I experienced an almost overwhelming sadness and had to physically fight against suicidal thoughts. I struggled with cycles of depression for years, which were particularly focused on the same time of year (my birthday is in November). I withdrew from friends – and was given the nickname Edd (Ever-Depressed Dowsett) – and lost confidence. And I spoke to nobody about what I was going through. Sometime around my seventeenth birthday, staying in a house in a forest with a group of friends (I did have some!), I had a suicidal breakdown. They listened, and took me back to Glasgow, not home but to the home of a psychiatrist we knew, who helped me to talk to my parents. Things hidden in darkness brought into the light can be addressed. My GP helped establish a platform on which I could find enough stability to stand – a platform that could in time be dismantled, and indeed that needed to be temporarily rebuilt at a much later date. There is no shame in taking appropriate medication for depression, any more than there is in taking appropriate medication to fight cancer.
Two years later, in my first term at university, I discovered something of how common it was for people to live with depression: I was not alone. But the help I had received enabled me to hold out hope and point to help for others.
On one occasion, I was sat on my bed. I was aware of myself – somehow outside of my body, or perhaps inside my body – curled in a foetal ball in a pitch dark room only just big enough to contain me. At some point I must have become ‘conscious’ that the walls had retreated – though I was still in darkness – and also become aware of the presence of Jesus sat next to me, in silence. After some time, he got up, held out his hand to me, and said, “Come on. Let’s walk away from here.” And we did. That, too, was a significant event in the process of healing. (And my name is not Edd: it is Andrew Christopher, the man who follows Christ...)
I was free of depression for many years. When I was put forward for selection for ordination, my mental health history came under scrutiny. I suggested that, as 80% of the population will personally experience some form of mental health issue (and 100% of the population will be touched by mental health issues), my experience – both of depression, and of the hope of life after depression – was a positive thing: indeed, God had already used it over and over to help others. Nonetheless, I was sent to The Priory in London for psychiatric assessment, where my fitness was endorsed in the strongest of terms. Ironically, this despite having to tell the psychiatrist that I was, at that time, back on anti-depressants to help deal with the fairly appalling manner in which representatives of the Church were treating me.
As it happens, I have not needed to be on medication since: though I may need to in the future; and while I have certainly continued to struggle with ‘low mood’ on a fairly regular basis (the appalling ways in which people in the Church treat other people at times is a large part of this; the lack of sunshine certainly doesn’t help; and I know that my own brokenness contributes). Other members of my family have needed to be on medication for depression and other mental health issues, for a variety of reasons.
Anyway, all this to say that I am grateful for all the ways through which God has moved to liberate me from depression (friendship, trained counsel, medication) and from any sense of shame or failure or disappointment with myself or judgement by others; and for the ways in which he has worked through me to bring a similar liberation to others. Depression is a word that intimidates us Not To Speak Its Name. There is a greater name – the name of Jesus. Depression will play its part in our death, whether directly or indirectly. But neither it nor death itself will have the final word.
For now, depression is indeed a global crisis. We don’t have to settle for that. We can stand up and be counted. We can speak out for those who cannot speak out for themselves. In so doing, we bring light to the darkness; and in so doing, others may be encouraged – literally, given the courage they need – to step into the light.
I’ve been sitting with Mark 10:17-31.
Jesus’ invitation/challenge to Peter mirrors God’s invitation/challenge to Abram (Genesis 12) to leave his country, his people, and his father’s household –
those things in which have given him a story;
a story that has given him an identity;
an identity that has given him security;
security that has given him confidence to become a wealthy in possessions and ownership of others and livestock –
and to step-into the story of God; there to receive an identity, identity that will give him security, security that will give him confidence to trust God for a new land, a new nation, a new name, that through him God would bless all the peoples of the earth.
Jesus’ invitation/challenge to Peter is to leave wealth, and home, and family, and fields, in order to step-into the story of God; so to receive them back in a new way, through which – Peter would come to understand – all peoples would be blessed as we enter-into the work of all things being reconciled by and in and through Jesus, the one killed by men and exalted by God.
What, then, is Jesus’ invitation/challenge to us, in relation to these things?
Wealth
Kevin Lewis writes well on the political discourse of the ‘hardworking’ here. Some will want to agree that we cannot simply divide between ‘hardworking’ and ‘lazy,’ but the underlying assumptions run so deep that we feel the need to differentiate between the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor (less readily between the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ rich).
Jesus’ invitation/challenge: no-one in need.
Home
We believe in the ‘property ladder’ – the need to buy a house, in order to buy a bigger house – as the most desirable aspiration, while recognising that the ladder is, at this moment in time, somewhat congested. We believe that “An Englishman’s home is his castle.” We have found something new to believe: that it is better for adult children that they do not leave home; that as parents we never lose a duty to protect our children from the world. This is justified by the perceived financial cost of leaving (ignoring the hidden financial costs of staying). We have a generation of parents who are afraid to discover who they are post the parenting stage of life, and who have kept their children as children in adult bodies; and a generation of young adults who are afraid to discover who they are post the parented stage of life, and who prolong their adolescence in an unprecedented way. This is a most frightening co-dependency. I am quite sure that this will sound harsh to some, but I’d ask you, take a long, honest look around you.
Jesus’ invitation/challenge: home as rest on the journey, Sabbath celebration, place to extend hospitality.
Family
We have moved from the extended family as primary unit (not just biological; those in domestic service functioned as extended family. Note that extended family is stronger than other forms, but no less dysfunctional: I’m not advocating it) through the nuclear family as primary unit (probably 1950s-1980s) to the atomic family. Of course we still see both extended and nuclear family structures, but the primary unit is now the individual, making temporary combinations, with commitment to self taking priority over commitment to others.
Jesus’ invitation/challenge: to be part of God’s family, the gift of a large family, recognising one another.
Fields
We believe in food production, a term that has undertones of the factory; that demands maximum efficiency; that denies food as God’s provision. We demand that the field be a place of exploitation, where the supermarkets extort food from farmers at below-cost because we do not want to pay a fair price. This year – drought in the spring, floods in the summer – our fields in this country have become places of devastation, with unusual if not unprecedented crop failure. We fight against the warnings that present climate change is to a significant degree the consequence of our own pursuit of power (in more than one sense) and convenience.
Jesus’ invitation/challenge: fields are a reminder to us of our connectedness to everything else; of God’s provision; and of his setting limits on the consequences of our sin (yes, there are consequences) (Genesis 3:17-19). All things are being reconciled by and in and through Jesus. How might we take responsibility for fields without owning the land?
How might we help one another leave false constructions of wealth, home, family, and fields, and receive – by participating in – a new construction of these things, which is in both quantity and quality ‘a hundred times’ greater?
[Two pitfalls to avoid: understanding the 100x to relate to our existing false constructions, and so reinforcing them by acquisition; and spiritualising ‘wealth, home, family, and fields,’ so failing to follow Jesus in his reconstruction of these embodied things.]
One of the questions I get asked a lot is, why would someone who considers themselves to be a missionary in a post-Christendom context choose to be an Anglican priest? Isn’t the Established Church a Constantinian corruption? Why I embarked on the whole selection process that leads to ordination was simply in obedience to what I – and others – believed God was saying, and I think Scripture shows us that he is not answerable to us. That said, what is my self-understanding of my calling? It has a lot to do with my understanding of exile and empire.
I am an exile, both in terms of kin – my father’s people are all Southerners, spread north-south from East-Anglia to Kent and east-west from London to Bristol; but I grew up in Scotland, and have lived my whole adult life in the North or Midlands of England – and in terms of faith - as a follower of Jesus in a post-Christian, post-Secular pluralist society.
At various times in the history of God’s people, they found themselves living as exiles within Empires. Through the prophet Jeremiah (Jeremiah 29), God instructs his people in Babylon to settle, to build a life, to seek the peace and prosperity of the place to which he has sent them, to seek to bless their host nation and leave their own being blessed to God. This principle articulates what we see supremely in three different stories set in different Empires at different times: that of Joseph/Zaphenath-Paneah, in Egypt; Daniel/Belteshazzar, Hananiah/Shadrach, Mishael/Meshach, and Azariah/Abednego in Babylon; and Esther/Hadassah and Mordecai in Persia. Each is thoroughly embedded in the Establishment of the Empires to which God had sent them. (Except Mordecai) Each is known by a name that speaks of that culture and its gods, as well as by names that speak of the Hebrew culture and god. Joseph’s father-in-law is a priest within a religion of Empire, and Joseph himself observes cultic practices that are alien to the practices of his own people. Daniel’s friends are civil servants and he is a senior political figure, and while they refuse to observe certain cultic practices, they nonetheless embed themselves within the politico-religious dynamic. Esther is called to live within the harem of a Xerxes, a king who has as many gods as he has wives and concubines, while Mordecai is elevated to second in rank to Xerxes.
Two other stories are pertinent here. One is the story of the prophet Elisha and the Syrian general Naaman. When Naaman informs Elisha that he wishes to worship, Yahweh, the god of Elisha’s people, within the cultic observances of Rimmon-worship, Elisha does not tell him he cannot, but sends him on his way with peace – right relationship with God and neighbour. The other is the story of the first two churches planted in Europe: the mission-focus of one being providing purple clothing for Roman senators, the mission-focus of the other being detaining prisoners of the Roman Empire.
There is a sense in which the Church of England is part of the one true Church, no less or more so than any other tradition within the Church. Whenever men have set out from the corrupt church to establish a pure church it has failed, sooner or later. This is God’s judgement on our folly. Jesus said “I will build my church” – and he will not allow us to build it. Whenever we seek to build the church, rather than to do what we were told to do – to go and make disciples – it is doomed to failure (in this sense, there would be nothing to be gained by my stepping outside of the Church of England). Every member of the Church is both chosen/elect (‘clergy’) and the people of God (‘laity’): not two different groups, but two different ways of describing a trans-national people set apart as priests to mediate between God and the nations.
But there is also a sense in which the Anglican Church – the Anglican Communion – is the religion of the British Empire. This is so, even though both the British Empire and the Church of England no longer enjoy their former place of privilege and power: and in this sense, it is as false as the religions of the Egyptian, Babylonian, and Persian Empires. It is, I would suggest, within this sense that we have public worship services, as opposed to the underground gatherings of Christians in ancient Rome or today’s China. And it is within this sense that I understand my Anglican priesthood: that I serve God within the cultic practices of a particular people group; that I seek the peace and prosperity of that nation, not least in blessing the people at significant rite-of-passage moments (but also through my promise to serve the monarch in all things lawful, God being my helper); and habitually doing so, am there when they seek help to deal with processing their response to the abduction of a young girl, the murders of police officers, the events that shake their world to the foundations. My personal name is ‘Andrew Christopher,’ which means ‘the man who follows Christ’ but in the Empire I am conferred the name ‘Reverend Doctor,’ or, Belteshazzar, or...
That I see the Church of England as both part of the one true Church and a false religion of Empire is neither schizophrenia nor pragmatism, but paradox – both/and which we are invited to live with without either/or resolution.
Some people hold the view that all God’s people are priests – mediators between God and people – to the surrounding culture, and the ‘clergy’ are priests to the priests. My own view is that all God’s people are priests in that they are sent to mediate between God and people, and that the ‘clergy’ (that is, those who are clergy in the way that we practice ordination in my context) do so specifically within the cultic structures of the Empire. The congregation I serve do not need me as a priest (they need a High Priest, and that is Jesus). In a time where they have all but lost the Story of which they are part, they need me as a story-teller.
Why would I dare to see myself as in any way comparable to Joseph or Esther or Daniel, rather than the nameless Israelites? In large part because of where God has sent me: first to a top independent school, a Scottish school that produced two Westminster Prime Ministers (I know some Christians who believe that Christians should not be in such school contexts, but God sends where God sends), then to university education as far as PhD level. From childhood, I have been trained to serve the Establishment of the land God has set me in; all the while knowing that God will not allow it to last forever, and that, living in its decline, there is even the possibility that I might outlive its fall.
Is this risky? Undoubtedly. But God is the most breath-taking of risk-takers. It is only possible to make what Michael Frost calls ‘dangerous promises’ to the Empire (we will bless you, however greatly you sin against us) without losing our own identity if we also tell ‘dangerous stories’ (the scandalous Story of Scripture, which has been all but lost to my own community), engage in ‘dangerous practices’ (I’d argue that Sabbath rest in a 24/7 society is even more politically subversive than Communion; and that the Command to observe Sabbath is the command most broken by most priests within the religion of this post-Judeo-Christian empire), and sing ‘dangerous songs’ (edgy, raw Psalms, not sentimental mush).
I am aware that this will be for many of my brothers and sisters a thoroughly unsatisfactory answer to the question, why on earth am I a priest within the Church of England? But satisfactory or not, I hope it can be respected.
I’m reflecting on the encounter between Jesus and the rich young man, Mark 10:17-31. Essentially, Jesus says “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” is the wrong question - the right question is, am I prepared to follow him in his creating a new humanity? How did we come to make the wrong question THE question, and the right question at best an optional extra?
The good news we are to proclaim is not personal salvation. The good news is this: that God has made Jesus, who was crucified, both Lord and Christ (as Peter proclaims in Acts 2:36; or, the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God, as Stephen puts it in Acts 7:56; or the man God has appointed to judge the world with justice, having raised him from the dead, as Paul puts it in Acts 17:31; or the one through whom the Gentiles will be rescued from the power of Satan, receive forgiveness of sins, and be given a place among those set apart, as Paul puts it in Acts 26:18). This is good news because Jesus has broken the power of death, of physical decay, of accusation, of sin, of division...good news made manifest contextually through those who mourn being comforted, the sick being healed, the oppressed experiencing deliverance, the hungry fed, the widow and orphan finding family, and all this (opposed at every turn) as a foretaste of what is yet to be (yet to be resolved).
And it asks of us, will you follow? Not, here is how you can cheat death, but, here is something, someone, worth dying for.
The personal salvation question puts me at the centre. The Jesus made Lord and Christ question puts the vision of all things that have been made being reconciled – to one another as created beings and to our Creator – by and in and through Jesus at the centre.
The personal salvation question sets me on a quest to save my life; a quest whose end, according to Jesus, is that we lose our life. The Jesus made Lord and Christ question invites me to follow him on a journey where I will lose my life, and having lost it, will receive it back again a hundred-fold.
In fact, pursuing the personal salvation question ironically results in my removing God entirely – as Jesus’ silence on the first four commandments weightily implies that the rich young man has done, most likely quite unintentionally.
Whatever personal salvation means (and I don’t think there is much in the story of Scripture to support the average western understanding, whether of those who attend church faithfully or those who would never think to do so), it is to be found in participating in a community that re-imagines and embodies a new way of constructing wealth (neither capitalism nor communism but meeting one another’s needs) and home (rest on the way, Sabbath in the week) and family (wider than, and at times in conflict with, kinship) and place (not local v global, but glo-cal), by dying to the false image of these good gifts (and embracing persecution for doing so). That is costly, and in the short-term and even the medium-term it is hardly worth embarking on - which is perhaps why so many become discouraged and walk away, while so many more settle for something so much less. But this, too, is good news, for those who have been shut-out from our god- and neighbour-forsaking cultural constructions of wealth and home and family and place, which are being shaken by God and found wanting, quite inadequate in their foundations. Take, for example, Generation Y. Generation X (my generation) watched their parents’ generation’s marriages (not necessarily their own parents’ marriage) collapse like viewing the Twin Towers implode over and over in slow-mo, and vowed they would not go there, substituting family for friends and commitment for passing relationships. Generation Y, while recognising the importance of friends, sees through the hurt-reflex of rejecting family, the inadequacy of my generation’s refugee camp, and are seeking to rebuild permanent structures, in human-scale community.
Such a vision requires all that we bring we are and all that we have, holding nothing back. In the church, it confronts both the poverty spirit that entices us to believe that we have not enough and must at all costs hold on to what we still have, and the prosperity spirit that entices us to believe that we are rich and have all we need (these two apparently contradictory spirits tend to co-habit quite happily). At the margin of the church, it disturbs the belief that observing Christendom rituals benefits us in any way. Outside the church, it exposes the emptiness of being spiritual-but-not-religious, and the poverty of any New Atheist vision for humanity...
With man this is impossible, but not with God; all things are possible with God.
Who is welcome in our community? Who is not welcome? Who is welcome conditionally, on the basis that they first change, or are making certain changes? Whose presence in our midst makes us feel uncomfortable, concerned that we might in some way be contaminated by sharing bread and wine with them at Jesus’ table (despite Jesus clearly stating that it is not what goes into a person [certain foods] that makes them unclean but what comes out of them [certain speech, the outworking of certain attitudes]; despite Jesus’ own practice of eating with Pharisees and sinners)? The Church is invited to believe that everything that has been made is being reconciled – to one another as created beings and to our Creator – by and in and through Jesus...and challenged to live into this new reality. And yet, the Church is fraught with division and worry over who we can or should not embrace...those we disapprove of, and those we disapprove of because of who they disapprove of whom we affirm...
One of the most precious gifts God gave me last week was the opportunity to listen to Deb Hirsch (Los Angeles), and Sean Gladding (Lexington), each share their radical Christ-centred compassion.
Here are some observations/reflections/discussions that resonated with my spirit:
We are all sinners. There is no hierarchy of sin (though there are sins that harm the body as well as the soul); to break one part of the Law is to break it all.
We come to Jesus because it is him alone who can transform us, can cleanse us of our stains and heal us of our brokenness. We come on level ground, invited to the same table, and who are we to demand that we be welcome while demanding that someone else be turned away?
Our job is to point people towards Jesus – whether they are far away from him or very close, for the journey to him starts a long way off and the journey away from him can start as close as his first disciples, indeed as close as our own heart – and to leave the rest to him.
Moving towards Jesus is a journey. Can we really only affirm movement towards Jesus when it gets to a certain point? And can we really only affirm movement towards Jesus when it gets to a certain point, while adding barriers to getting to that point?! For example, an orthodox Christian view of sexual behaviour advocates marriage for heterosexuals and celibacy for homosexuals: while this is not the only view held by Christians, can those who hold it affirm the move from promiscuity to monogamy – from A to B, but not yet to C – as movement towards Jesus? Who are we to judge against those we believe to be moving away from Jesus, when we also wilfully or unwittingly turn our backs on him; when what is lost is to be sought and found and brought back and celebrated? And who are we to judge whether another person is ‘genuinely’ seeking to follow Jesus?
This is how sanctification works: when the Holy Spirit convicts us of sin in our lives, we cannot help but repent - Isaiah says “Woe is me!” and Simon Peter says “Get away from me, Lord!” – and believe, not because repentance and belief are coerced but because conviction is compelling. So if someone does not feel convicted that some part of their life we believe to be sinful (and it may be) is sin, rather than telling them that they are wrong and that they need to address this sin in their life before we can go any further, we do better to ask them, “Where in your life do you feel convicted of sin?” and to offer, to the best of our own provisional understanding and ongoing experience, to help a fellow child of God repent and believe and so enter into the experience of the kingdom of heaven. (Thanks, Sean Gladding, for sharing this profound observation.)
Who are we to say in what order God should address the brokenness in another person’s life? We might want him to start with the thing we feel most uncomfortable about; but God might want, or need – and he knows better than me – to start somewhere else or proceed in a different order to my agenda.
Every one of us is broken, in more ways than we are aware, and through a tangled mess of the consequences of those things we have done that we ought not to have done, those things we ought to have done that we have not done, wilfully or unwittingly, those things others have done to us that they ought not to have done, those things others have not done to us that they ought to have done, wilfully or unwittingly, and indeed the wider consequences of these things having been played out throughout history...The careful experience of being healed has begun for us, but every one of us will enter eternity broken and only be fully alive, fully free, fully comforted, fully healed when Jesus makes all things new. So who are we to decide what aspect of another’s brokenness must be made whole this side of then, or before any other?
If our theology prevents us from the embrace of another (sinner); from sitting down at table with another and breaking bread with them to remind ourselves that God comes to set his people free and to offer ourselves to live as those who have been freed; if our theology causes us to keep anyone from coming to Jesus (as the disciples tried to keep mothers from bringing their children to Jesus); then our theology is wrong and we bear false witness to the One we claim to love.
Perfect love drives out fear; and fear flourishes where we shut out perfect love. By whom am I afraid to be embraced? Where do I need to welcome Love? Where do I need to welcome Jesus, in the face of the person excluded for being gay/Muslim/alcoholic/racist/Reformed/autistic/[insert] – someone who bears the imago dei and who, with me, may be transformed into the imago Christi as we gaze together on his face, not least in each other’s eyes?
For me, personally, one of the hardest choices is to choose to welcome those who create a theological hierarchy of men over women. On this, I profoundly disagree with them, and am deeply saddened by their behaviour, by the impact of their behaviour not only on women but also on men who look to such leaders for their lead. I know where I stand – and it is important to know where we stand, while knowing that we have not arrived. But I also need to know that welcome is not the same as condoning their actions, any more than God welcoming any sinner condones any sin. If I will not love what is not lovely, I can have no part in Jesus. Sometimes, that is a very hard thing to do. But whoever thought that the great vision of reconciling all things – the state of glory, which Jesus chooses to share with us – was a small matter?
In a Church that seems intent on devouring one another in front of a world that looks on with bewilderment and curses Christ’s name, the wisdom, grace, and courage I have witnessed these past days strengthens my hope for what we do not yet see, and invites and challenges me to go and do likewise. For this, I am deeply thankful.
This morning I sat in a quiet house overlooking a wooded creek, reading, praying, drinking coffee, and thinking about covenant.
Covenant is never only about personal relationship with God, or another person, but about creating a community (absolute minimum of two persons) that is robust enough to live beyond judgement. It moves from the particular (personal) starting point to bless and embrace others.
Future judgement and future blessing both break-into the present. So we can speak of the crises facing the Church and the wider society to whom we are sent as just judgement on God's people and the world for failing to love God and our neighbour. In this context, covenant creates community robust enough to live after the cultural earthquake.
This is how covenant is depicted biblically, whether after the Great Flood; or when Joshua renews the covenant between the people and God after he has brought them out of Egypt (judgement), dealt with them in the wilderness (judgement), and displaced other nations to give them the Land (judgement); or when Jesus initiates a remnant community that will survive the fall of Jerusalem (judgement on God's people) and the fall of Rome (judgement on the world) - a remnant that will embrace both Jews and Gentiles.
Therefore our covenant relationships - whether marriage covenant, or other forms - provide us with the means to live in a world that has been violently shaken, as would be an accurate description of our society in double recession and great upheaval, albeit the positive celebrations of this summer (celebrations which express covenant between a monarch and get subjects, and the youth of the world, as it happens).
It does so by (as the marriage service vows articulate it) the sharing of all that we are and all that we have, within the love of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The offering of who we are today, each day, as we change/grow; given to another so that they might grow more fully into the person they were created to be; in order that others are blessed beyond and outside of the covenant relationship in question. The sharing of resources. All held within the height and depth and width and length of God's love that goes beyond all we could ask or imagine. So, my marriage should not only bless my wife, but also our children, and as many others as we come into contact with.
And likewise my church community.
Is that how we understand ourselves, our calling in the world? Or are we overwhelmed by the earthquake?
I'm in America to attend the Sentralized Conference, and with a rest day between travelling and the conference beginning, I'm thinking about some of the differences between US and UK culture and what that means for church culture. My point is not that either culture should become more like the other, but that stepping outside of our own culture often helps us to critique it better.
A friend of mine who has lived in both countries recently told me that Americans invest in land, while the British invest in property. You can see this in our respective houses. As I walk around here, the houses are temporary structures. Every element will only last so long, but they are easily and inexpensively replaced. This allows for extending or remodelling or even building/re-building. Home is important, and when you enter an American home, the way it is decorated will tell you the values of the family that lives there (in a much less self-conscious manner than back home). But the structure is far less important. Family is the principle, and the house adapts to meet the changing needs of the family.
In contrast, in the UK we buy houses that are built to last, but come with high maintenance costs and are expensive to adapt. The family almost always adapts to fit the constraints of the house (with perhaps one big last-a-lifetime extension/conversion project).
If you have seen the period drama Downtown Abbey, you might be forgiven for assuming that Americans are more pragmatic, while the British are more principled. In fact, we operate according to different (often unspoken and certainly usually unchallenged) principles, each requiring their own different pragmatisms (US adapt, UK conserve).
This has an impact on our churches. Here I am concerned with my own British context. Rather than starting with the church family as it is now and as we perceive it is most likely to develop next, and asking what shape our structures need to be to hold this, we start with our structures and ask, how can our present family inhabit these existing structures? Who will take responsibility for this room or that room?
This takes us back to Downtown Abbey, and the challenge of running a Pre-WWI house after the cultural crisis (not to mention population loss) of that world-changing event. It can't continue as it was. This is the challenge facing us in our own different moment of equally rapid and discontinuous change.
It isn't sustainable.
The Americans invest in land, not property. Funnily enough, Anglicans also invest in land, at least in theory: long-term commitment to the parish. The problem arises where we see our role as preserving a building and/or set of practices.
My own interest is in asking, who are we? Recognising a continuity with the past and a responsibility to pass on what has been entrusted to us, yes: but not seeing that in inflexible terms. If anything, our preoccupation with the structures (the physical building and the institutional roles) prevents us from engaging in being family on mission to bless the world as it is now (in need of a family who will bless others) not how it was.
The American church faces its own challenges. In the UK church, we need to invest in more provisional and adaptable structures, seeing the family not as guardians of a way of life but as those who are alive, whose God-given life guarantees life.
Lately I have been pondering the difficult business of apologies.
One of the controversies of the recent London Paralympics involved the South African double below-knee amputee sprinter Oscar Pistorius. Pistorius had fought for the right to compete against able-bodied athletes, against claims that his blades gave him an advantage over them; and this summer he competed in both the Olympic and Paralympic Games. But in the Paralympic T44 200m he finished in second, behind Alan Oliveira – a shock result. Interviewed immediately after the race, he claimed that Oliveira’s blades gave the Brazilian sprinter the unfair advantage of a longer stride, dismissing the achievement of another athlete who had always looked up to him, and being dismissive of the International Paralympic Committee. In fact, Pistorius didn’t have a leg to stand on: not only did he run the 200m in fewer strides than Oliveira, suggesting that Pistorius had the longer stride (and anyway, blades are scaled to the athlete wearing them, and no-one claims that Usain Bolt should be penalised for having a longer stride than his competitors) but Pistorius ran faster in his semi-final than either athlete ran in the final. The following day Pistorius apologised for the timing of his comments. Not for the comments themselves; for the timing. So, when is an apology not an apology?
Then, and with the Paralympic Games as back-drop, the German-based company responsible for the morning-sickness drug Thalidomide issued an apology – for the first time, fifty years after the drug was withdrawn – along with an appeal for understanding and forgiveness: an apology deemed insincere and insulting by some campaigners but welcomed conditionally by others, who have extended the invitation to further progress towards reconciliation.
Yesterday, the Hillsborough Independent Panel published its Report into the Hillsborough Disaster and its aftermath. Yesterday and today have seen a flurry of apologies made by politicians, senior police officers, journalists. Some have been welcomed, others rejected as too little too late.
Of course, there are almost daily examples I could draw on. When it comes to apologies, it would seem that you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
So here are some thoughts:
Saying sorry is perhaps the hardest thing we ever do.
We generally demand a swifter and fuller apology of others than we are willing to give to others...
The more we trust the person or people to whom we owe an apology to have our best interests at heart and to be looking for the win-win of reconciliation rather than the win-over-you of vindication, the fuller the apology we will be able to give.
Likewise, the less we trust the person or people to whom we owe an apology, the more guarded and limited our apology is likely to be.
Offer the apology that you are able to offer.
Be as clear as you can as to the apology you are making.
Be as honest as you can about the apology that you owe but are not (yet) able to make. This opens the door for a degree of reconciliation, which opens the door to the fuller completion of the apology.
Be as generous as you can in accepting another person’s apology. Is it really too little too late, or has it taken great courage to get this far while needing something in return in order to go further?
An apology that is not freely given is empty, so ask for an apology by all means, but don’t dictate what it should contain: if you do, you rob yourself of the apology you are looking for, and the other person of the apology that they might otherwise be able to move towards in time.
Only the person making an apology can truly know whether they are being sincere or not. Passing judgement on their sincerity makes you less human than you were created to be, because it builds a barrier between us. Accepting an insincere apology does not reveal you to be gullible; it reveals you to be the more fully whole person (at least in this instance), by denying the opportunity to build a barrier and, instead, moving for reconciliation.
Our unwillingness or inability to accept an apology reveals the extent to which we harbour brokenness – and, therefore, the extent to which we need to accept the apology being held out to us.
Don’t retract an apology – and don’t retract the acceptance of an apology.
Don’t apologise more than once (unless you need to apologise to more than one person or group and can’t do that on one occasion), unless you are able to extend your apology beyond what you have apologised for. An apology – whether accepted or rejected – is an end to the matter (though it may need to be followed by taking consequences, and/or by attempting to make amends). To keep apologising for the same thing is to believe that we are unworthy of forgiveness or acceptance. Likewise, to demand that someone apologises repeatedly is to demonstrate that we do not believe that they are worthy of forgiveness or acceptance (and if that is so, that is our problem, not theirs).
Accepting an apology is perhaps the hardest thing we ever do.
[I have lived within sight and sound of both Hillsborough and Anfield; was sent forward for ordination by Sheffield Diocese and received by Liverpool Diocese, ordained in Liverpool Cathedral.]
Today the Hillsborough Independent Panel, chaired by the Bishop of Liverpool, has published its Report. Today is a significant moment for the families of the 96 who died, for the cities of Liverpool and Sheffield, and for the whole nation. Things have been brought into the light, which have been hidden for twenty-three years.
Jesus said, “If you hold on to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31, 32)
Today we have a greater access to significant relevant information concerning the Hillsborough Disaster. Today we are able to point to deliberate attempts to cover information with misinformation, long suspected but until now not established. Today we can identify failure on the part of individuals and organisations, and shared degrees of culpability. Today we know something, which we need to know in order to experience freedom. But none of this is, in itself, the truth that will set us free.
If we are to experience freedom, we need to see ourselves in the eyes of our enemies; we need to forgive them; we need to love them. We need to discover that – though justice must be done – mercy must triumph over judgement.
Liverpool supporters have been vindicated. They were not responsible for what happened, and, indeed, they worked to alleviate suffering and were vilified for it. They were not responsible for what happened, but they could have been: not because Scousers are scum who can’t be trusted, but because the impulse to exonerate ourselves by shifting the blame for our short-falling – whether the short-falling is wilful or unintended, doing what we ought not to do or failing to do what we ought to have done – is a universal human impulse as old as conscious thought. I do it, and often – and I hate myself for it. We fall short of our responsibility towards our neighbour; hide, driven by shame; and create a web of lies to cover our tracks.
When we look at the list of individuals and organisations that are rightfully indicted by this Report, we need the honesty to say, It could have been me in their shoes. In this regard – as is invariably the case in tragedy that causes outrage – the families of those who died have shown a dignity that has not been shared by everyone who has called for justice for the 96, by those who have called for vengeance that goes beyond justice...and so violates the very possibility of justice, by ruling witness statements calling for mercy to be inadmissible evidence.
For while there are legal consequences (such as prison sentences) and public consequences (such as the redesigning of football stadia and the rethinking of policing), as well as psychological consequences (such as having people’s deaths on your hands), that need to be borne, we also need to forgive. Unless we can forgive, we remain pinned under the weight of a barrier that crushes the life out of us. Yes, this is easier said than done – but done it must be.
Today is an opportunity to move through justice (as yet, incomplete) towards reconciliation (as yet, a long way off). Perhaps we can learn lessons from South Africa in this regard. Only when we can love our enemies – when, from the heart, we can wish them no evil, only good; when we bless them, asking God to bring life out of the ashes of their lives, rather than curse them, asking God to cut their potential and their future short – can we live freely: free from the shame of our own short-comings, and the fear that they too will be publically exposed; free from the hatred that posses as pre-emptive defensive strike; free from the pain of our scars, which we will always bear but which we do not have to bear raw. Only then will the memory of the 96 be able to rest in peace; only then will the people of Liverpool, and Sheffield, and wider, be able to rest in peace.
When Jesus told his disciples that they must love their enemies (Matthew 5:43-48), and forgive those who were in their debt by renouncing any claim to what they could not repay anyway (Matthew 6:12), he knew these three things: that they absolutely needed to, for the alternative is too costly to live with; that it is possible; and that they wouldn’t be able to do so alone. Jesus gave, and continues to give, himself so that we are not left alone, so that we don’t have to fall back on our finite resources. In the words over the gate at Anfield, and on the replica gate in the Memorial Garden in Hillsborough Park, You’ll Never Walk Alone.
Jesus revealed a kingdom-of-heaven principle to his disciples, one they struggled to understand: that the way to multiply what you have is to give it up – for only when we reach the end of our resources can we receive from God his unlimited resources. It works like this: choose to forgive who you are only just able to forgive, choose to love who you are only just able to love, and if you are open God will increase your capacity to forgive and to love those you cannot, at this moment in time, imagine being able to forgive and to love. If you want to know where you are in that process, listen to the imaginary conversation in your head with the key players. The process is costly, and laborious, and messy, and through it heaven breaks into our world as untouchable outcasts are embraced within community, to the mutual restoration of both.
Today is a momentous day. But it is not the End. It is, if we will receive it, a new Beginning. Lord, have mercy on us all.
I love the turning of seasons, that moment, ripe with potential, when one thing gives way to another. In particular, I like the turning-point from summer into late summer, bursting with fruitfulness. Today our children went back to school. For the boys, a return; for Susannah, the first day at high school. Here she is; and also a photo of all three with my parents, taken in our garden last week.
