APEST and Anglicans, part 3

Continuing an occasional series of technical posts:

‘APEST’ refers to an understanding of personality profile as a combination of five impulses—apostolic, prophetic, evangelistic, shepherding, and teaching—that interact with the personality profiles of everyone else towards five corresponding functions of human community, culture or society: innovation, agitation/reform, promotion/recruiting, care, and instruction.

The five ‘Marks of Mission’ have been adopted by Anglicans (and, indeed, a number of other church traditions since) as expressing ‘the Anglican Communion’s common commitment to, and understanding of, God’s holistic and integral mission.’ The five marks of mission are:

1. to proclaim the Good News of the Kingdom

2. to teach, baptise and nurture new believers

3. to respond to human need by loving service

4. to transform unjust structures in society, to challenge violence of every kind and pursue peace and reconciliation

5. to strive to safeguard the integrity of creation, and sustain and renew the life of the earth.

Here are some reflections on the interplay between APEST and the Five Marks of Mission.

The five Marks of Mission are not (in my opinion) an organising principle; but they are the evidence of a healthy outworking of unity and diversity in the body of Christ. All five people-gifts—apostles, prophets, evangelists, shepherds and teachers—get to play in each mark of mission; but it may be that different gifts are best suited to help the church by giving a lead in different areas.

The first mark is clearly evangelistic, and here the evangelists might take a lead, but need apostles to open up new frontiers; and, in fact, all the others get to join in.

In the second mark, the teachers might take an obvious lead, supported by the shepherds in a nurturing role. Nonetheless, all the others must be involved, because without them, the mark is incomplete, its ‘outcome’ partial or distorted.

The third mark calls for the shepherds to lead us; but needs the insight of the prophets, and, yet again, the others to join in, not abdicating responsibility for care by outsourcing it to the shepherds alone.

In the fourth mark, the prophets might lead us in engaging social in/justice; supported by the shepherds in order that we move beyond speaking out against injustice to the work of reconciliation. But, yet again, it will take the whole body working together to see true and lasting transformation.

The fifth mark points to an apostolic lead, supported by teachers who might systematise and help embed our learning to live in a new way. The apostolic impulse is concerned with environment and the ‘architecture’ of our lives. Immature expressions of apostolic gifting have pioneered the cultural changes that have been so devastatingly detrimental to the natural environment over the past 100 years (with massive acceleration over the past 30 years). Conversely (perhaps ironically; perhaps, correcting an irony), mature expressions of apostolic gifting will pioneer the cultural changes that are now needed to address this global crisis. Nonetheless, within the church, thinking about apostolic calling remains largely unapplied to safeguarding the integrity of creation: this needs to change.

Essentially, APEST is not a different structure for thinking about mission, one that is ‘other’ or outside from an Anglican perspective; but, rather, healthy APEST diversity-in-unity is essential to the five Marks of Mission becoming a lived experience.

What makes the church the church?

Recently, I asked one of my congregations what made the church the church?

They responded, ‘the people,’ and ‘ritual.’

Important though people are (especially against a backdrop of endemic isolation) and important as ritual is for human flourishing (and all the more-so in chaotic times of rapid, discontinuous upheaval) if this is what makes the church the church then it is no different from (and in so many ways not as good as) the running club.*

When I ask my Iranian sisters and brothers what makes the church the church, they speak of Jesus. Of how Jesus found them; and exchanged their anger for his love, their anxiety for his peace (in, frankly, circumstances that would cause anxiety). And of the church as the community that introduced them to Jesus and helps them to follow him (sometimes, on the good days, by modelling love and peace; and sometimes, on the bad days, by making us angry and anxious and giving opportunity for Jesus to say, again, Let me do your heavy lifting).

If you have been part of the church for seventy-plus years and cannot articulate something about Jesus in answer to the question, What makes the church the church?, then something has gone badly wrong, for most of that time.

No wonder my friends prefer the running club.

*parkrun, for example, is highly ritualistic. We meet at the same time each week. There is a first-timers’ briefing (churches could learn from that). We acknowledge first-timers, visiting tourists, the volunteers making today happen, and milestone runs. We remind ourselves that we are not sole users of the park, that dogs should be kept on a short lead, and that children under the age of eleven must keep within arms-length of their responsible adult. We walk/jog/run 5K, and afterwards we share coffee and eat together. And every parkrun in the world inhabits this prescribed ritual practice in their own way.

Easter Day

Good Friday

When a nameless soldier pushed a spear between Jesus’ ribs, rupturing his heart, Mary’s heart had already been pierced with a sword. Run through as she stood her ground, refusing to move—“What are you going to do? Kill a defenceless woman? You already have.”

Mary was dead. But not just any old dead, not common-or-garden dead. Mary was dead, but unbowed. Still breathing. Walking. Would keep breathing. Death gets to have its day—announced long ago—but not the final word.

If Jesus’ resurrection, on the third day, was a seismic event—and it was—Mary was the foreshock, the warning-sign that it was coming.

I believe in the literal, physical, bodily resurrection of Jesus...and that, one day, we will experience the same gift of divine grace. But I also believe that, as Mary was the foreshock...so, many since have experienced foreshocks. Where your heart has been pierced, may you be one of them.

May you be as Mary today.

Maundy Thursday

A large, framed print of Sieger Köder’s Fußwaschung (The Washing of Feet) hangs on the wall of my study.

I am struck by how Peter simultaneously leans into Jesus and pushes him away...

presses into and pulls away from Jesus...

and in this liminal space, he, like the bread on the paten behind him, is taken, blessed, broken, and given to and for others.

Holy Week, part 5

The more I gaze upon Evetts’ windows, the more I am struck by his use of fired black paint. Of, grime. Of ugliness, if you will. All the grime and ugliness of the world, transcended by the presence of God-with-us. All things reconciled, resulting in beauty.

I am saddened by the call, sounded and taken up by various voices in the wake of the Notre Dame fire, that we should choose justice over beauty. It is hackneyed, a false dichotomy; and, indeed, a heresy. There is no justice without beauty, no beauty without justice. One of the tragedies of the Grenfell fire was that low-income families were not considered worthy of quality materials brought together for the flourishing of life, to the glory of God. Another is that the survivors are still waiting.

(One of the ironies of this social media debate is that it is those prophets who lead with a ‘social issues’ beat who are denouncing those prophets who lead with a ‘creativity’ beat! The prophetic calling has always embraced both. But, more: this is why we need all the voices—apostles, prophets, evangelists, shepherds, and teachers—and not just our own.)

Only when we embrace justice and beauty, beauty and justice, will we tell stories worth telling; stories worthy of women and men, whose lives, diminished by sin, are being redeemed.

Evetts, and self-effacing artists like him, are a gift from God. In company with others, possessing other callings, they help show us the way.

Holy Week, part 4

We might not be a World Heritage Site, but, these windows!

I’m struck by the linen strips.

The new-born Jesus, wrapped in swaddling bands by his mother, Mary, and laid in a manger (which would have been a shallow bowl hollowed from a stone ledge)...

The infant Jesus, still wrapped tight against the night chill, carried off by his parents to Egypt, in search of asylum from a tyrannical ruler. Held close by his mother...

The man Jesus stretched on the execution-scaffold. His linen unravelled, only just (and a-historically) preserving his modesty...

We are not shown the corpse, taken down from the cross; washed and wrapped for one last time in linen strips by his mother; cradled in her arms; carried off to a safe place; laid in the tomb (again, on a shallow depression on a stone ledge: so many echoes); kissed goodnight xxx

But we are led there, in our imagination, step-by-step by-linen-strip by the genius of the artist-of-faith Leonard Evetts.

We are not shown the linen strips left by the risen Lord when he walked out of the tomb. Leaving them as a sign to be discovered, a sign not only of life but also of love.

Then again, perhaps we are.

Holy Week, part 3

Yesterday I sat with a man approaching his seventieth birthday. As a teenaged police cadet, he had been knocked out in a rugby match. When he came around, the first aiders wanted to take him safely home; but he, suffering from concussion, gave them his early childhood address, from where the family had moved many years earlier.

It was stunning—that is, concussion-like—to see a crowd gather in what is arguably the most secular city in the world, to sing hymns and bear witness to the destruction of Our Lady of Paris. Have we not moved on, years ago?

Church buildings are depositories of faith; reliquaries, if you will. I am an icon of Christ, and a True Nail that once held him to the Cross. The church building holds out the gathered Church for the benefit of pilgrims, and tourists; those who come in search of something too great a mystery to articulate, too real a presence to ignore.

Sometimes the building burns, the deposit of faith—in building and pilgrim alike—is tested and purified, like gold in the fire.

Sometimes what we manage to rescue becomes even more precious. And what is lost, opportunity to begin again.

And sometimes concussion brings us to our senses.

This is not the end, for Notre Dame de Paris, or for any of us who gazed upon her terrible glory.

Holy Week, part 2

 

I have been sitting in front of a jug overflowing with ‘water’ and reflecting on Jesus washing his disciples’ feet.

Feet that had followed him, for three years, almost to the end. Feet that would follow him, a little later, to the place where he would be arrested; and then flee. Simon Peter’s feet, that would walk into the very house where Jesus was being tried illegally; would stay as near as he was brave enough to go; and then carry him off in despair. Judas’ feet, that would soon dangle below a suicidal noose.

And Jesus’ hands, washing, and drying their feet. Hands that would soon enough be twisted by giant nails. Jesus’ feet, too.

Feet, and hands. It is a very bodily religion, Christianity. An embodied faith.

The vessel I am sitting in front of is old and tarnished and battered, just like the Church. The water, plentiful, just like the Holy Spirit. We are called to wash one another’s feet, to serve one another. The water, for dusty feet, does not run out.

Today, I have sat with a widow, and a man who lost his son forty years ago, and a man whose wife is very ill. Sat, and listened, to them talk or to the silence. Sat with them, noting their hands and feet. I have sat, praying for them, and asking for the grace to serve them as best I can, as they, indeed, serve others as best as they are able.

A very bodily faith. And one deeply concerned with memory. With memory, carried in the body—both personal and corporate, as we remember together. Our stories, woven into His story, woven into one another’s stories.

Memory and body. Aging bodies, and memory loss. Jars of water, and people willing to remember together and to embrace the indignity of serving another, or of being served by another.

It’s not a faith for those who aren’t interested in bodies or memory, those who choose to live in the moment as though they were immortal. No, being a Christian is not for everyone. But I commend it to you.

Holy Week, part 1

This week, I have set up a series of prayer stations at St Nicholas’ Church, a journey through Holy Week, the church being open at set times during the mornings, afternoons, and evenings for people to come and pray.

Station 1: Mary anoints Jesus’ feet with perfume

At the book of remembrance, an invitation to pray for those nearing death, and those who have been bereaved.

Station 2: Jesus washes his disciples’ feet

At the font, an invitation to pray for those who serve us, and whom we serve.

Station 3: the Last Supper

In the middle, an invitation to take bread, and wine, and give thanks for all that Jesus has done for us.

Station 4: Gethsemane

At the sanctuary step, an invitation to pray with Jesus for all those who will believe in him, for the global Church—and especially where it is persecuted, or divided.

Station 5: the Courtyard

At the candle-stand, an invitation to confess those times when we have denied knowing Jesus [take and hold a dissolvable tablet while making your confession; then drop it in the large vase of water, where it will fizz like the brazier at which Peter denied knowing Jesus, before dissolving as we experience forgiveness].

Station 6: the Crucifixion

In the chapel, an invitation to sit and meditate on the death of Jesus.

Donkey

This coming Sunday is Palm Sunday, when we listen again to the account of Jesus descending the Mount of Olives to Jerusalem, the temple mount before him across the valley, riding on a colt, the foal of a donkey. In many of our churches, we will role-play the procession of pilgrims, cutting palm branches to wave in celebration, declaring, Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!

Donkeys wander the pages of biblical history, in the hereditary blessing of the tribe of Judah, in the appointing of Saul to be the first king of the people, and the divine decision to appoint David in Saul’s place. In coming to Jerusalem in this manner, Jesus deliberately references the prophets, such as Zechariah 9:9-10, making the bold and subversive statement that he comes as the one appointed by God to be king over his people.

But in the reading from the Old Testament set for Morning Prayer today, there is another donkey. Jeremiah 22:1-5, 13-19 records the Lord addressing Jehoiakim, king of Judah sitting on the throne of David. The Lord charges Jehoiakim and the royal court to act with justice and righteousness, but also judges them for having set their hearts on dishonest gain, the shedding of innocent blood, practicing oppression and violence. Therefore the Lord declares: “They shall not lament for him, saying, ‘Alas, lord!’ or ‘Alas, his majesty!’ With the burial of a donkey he shall be buried—dragged off and thrown out beyond the gates of Jerusalem.”

If the rulers of the people refuse to turn from the shedding of innocent blood, and act with justice and righteousness, the Davidic king will be given the burial of a donkey, dragged off and thrown out beyond the gates of Jerusalem.

This donkey, too, is surely in Jesus’ mind as he winds his way down the hillside.

The blessed life

Some of my most interesting conversations with people take place at wakes, and yesterday was no exception. A wonderful privilege to be given the gift of time to talk to a nephew, a school teacher in south London. He spoke of the real privilege of being able to be a long-term, loving presence in the lives of young people who often have not known that in the context of family, and who are written-off by society, scared out of their wits by a press media that over-reports knife crime (some only carrying knives because they are so scared of others carrying knives).

He spoke of their potential, of how they respond to calm; of all pupils being asked to be actively engaged with the wider community through projects, volunteering, and spending time with the older residents; and of local shopkeepers signing-up their shops as designated safe places, should any pupil feel scared on the streets. Of developing a school roof-top garden, with the aim of selling vegetables on a stall in the neighbouring market...

I asked him if there was a time-limit on living in London, if it was a younger man’s game? He responded that London can be whatever you want it to be, that his London today is not the same as his London ten years ago. That London magnifies how you are within yourself, so if you are habitually stressed it will be stressful, and if you are meditative, it will afford you the river and bridges and architecture and all the scope to ponder life.

His vocation was abundantly evident, his enthusiasm palpable, his love for teaching and the kids he teaches and for life and for living where he does. It was a joy and a privilege, and a challenge and encouragement, to listen to him, to ask questions of him and learn from him.

At one point, he described his life as blessed. And it was clear that he lived a blessed life, that he received life as a gift and saw it as a gift with which to bless others.