ViaMedia

Category: Social Justice

  • Marriage, Sabbath, Creation and Jesus’s Embodiment of Justice

    by the Revd Robert Thompson, Vicar St Mary’s, Kilburn & St James’, West Hampstead; host of Open Table, London; member of General Synod

    Like many, my deep disappointment at yesterday’s statement from the House of Bishops on the ending of the Living in Love and Faith process is charged with much anger too. The bishops have confirmed that no proposals will come to February’s General Synod on standalone services of blessing for same-sex couples, nor on permitting clergy or ordinands to enter same-sex civil marriages without canonical penalty. Once again, this position is presented as embodying the need for prudence, pastoral care, and church unity. But delay is never neutral. It is a decision, and this decision has a human cost.

    In the Church of England, we have already acknowledged the hurt caused to LGBTQIA + people by our teaching and practice. We have recognised that faithful same-sex relationships can bear the fruits of love, fidelity, patience, and self-giving. We have commended Prayers of Love and Faith as a sign that something has shifted. And yet, when it comes to equality that is visible, embodied, and trusted, equality that can stand on its own, we hesitate.

    Prayers may be offered, but only when embedded discreetly within other services. Love may be recognised, but not sufficiently to shape worship in its own right. Relationships may be affirmed, but not enough to allow those who live them to represent the Church publicly as priests. This is not full inclusion. It is calculated containment.

    Marriage and Creation

    Defenders of the status quo in our debates have often appealed to “creation” to justify this restraint. Marriage, we are told, is a gift of God given in creation and therefore cannot be changed. Doctrine, it is claimed, does not develop but is merely preserved. To alter the Church’s practice in relation to marriage or ministry would therefore be to abandon biblical faithfulness. But this appeal to creation is far less secure, biblically and theologically, than is often assumed.

    In the Genesis narratives, humanity is indeed created for relationship. It is “not good that the human should be alone” (Genesis 2.18), and human beings are created for mutuality and companionship (Genesis 1.26–28). Yet Adam and Eve are never described as being married. There is no ritual, no vow, no covenantal form, and no divine command instituting marriage as a fixed social or sacramental institution within the act of creation itself. Marriage, as a recognisable human institution, emerges later, shaped by kinship systems, law, property, and culture.

    The oft-quoted line that “a man shall leave his father and mother and cling to his wife” (Genesis 2.24) is not spoken by God but offered by the narrator, already presupposing settled social arrangements beyond Eden. Genesis gives us anthropology, an account of human relationality, not canon law.

    Sabbath and Creation

    By contrast, there is something in the creation narrative that is explicitly named, blessed, and sanctified by God: the Sabbath. Genesis tells us that God rests on the seventh day, blesses it, and makes it holy (Genesis 2.2–3). If anything can be said to be unambiguously “given in creation”, it is the Sabbath.

    This comparison and distinction matters profoundly. Because when Jesus encounters the Sabbath, not as a vague symbol but as a divinely instituted, creation-grounded command, he does not freeze it in place. Nor does he treat its creational status as a reason to resist reinterpretation. Instead, he makes a striking claim: “The Sabbath was made for humankind, not humankind for the Sabbath” (Mark 2.27).

    Jesus does not deny the holiness of the Sabbath. He fulfils it by re-articulating its purpose. A creation-given institution is revealed to exist for life, mercy, and human flourishing. When it is used to wound, exclude, or constrain, it has been misunderstood and is not honoured. This instinct lay at the heart of the teaching of the Hebrew prophets: the preservation of life takes precedence over rigid application of law.

    This pattern runs consistently through the Gospels. Jesus heals on the Sabbath (Matthew 12.1–14; Luke 13.10–17; Luke 14.1–6), restoring dignity where religious anxiety would have preferred restraint. He insists that mercy, not sacrifice, reveals the heart of God (Hosea 6.6; Matthew 9.13). Law is not abolished, but fulfilled, and fulfilment in biblical terms does not mean repetition, but faithful interpretation ordered towards life.

    Jesus’s and the Apostles’ hermeneutic of Justice

    Jesus’s way of reading Scripture is not an innovation imposed from outside Israel’s faith, but stands squarely within the prophetic tradition of Judaism, in which God’s commands are continually re-heard in the light of suffering, historical change, and the demands of justice. His teaching does not replace the law; it discloses its purpose.

    The same authority is evident when Jesus contrasts inherited teaching with his own words: “You have heard that it was said… but I say to you” (Matthew 5.21–48). This is not a rejection of Scripture, but a claim about how Scripture is to be read faithfully. Doctrine, in the deepest sense, is already dynamic here, not because truth is unstable, but because truth is encountered afresh as God’s purposes come into clearer view.

    The early Church understood this instinctively. Faced with the inclusion of Gentiles, the apostles did not cling rigidly to scriptural commands about circumcision. They observed the Spirit’s work among those once excluded, and concluded, “It has seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us” (Acts 15.28). Scripture was not abandoned, but re-read in the light of lived faith.

    To deny the possibility of doctrinal development, then, is not conservative in any serious theological sense. The Scriptures of Israel themselves witness to a living tradition of interpretation, argument, and moral discernment, shaped by the conviction that God’s will is known most truly where life and dignity are upheld. Jesus stands within this tradition, intensifying its demands rather than abandoning its methods.

    If doctrine could not develop, the Incarnation would not deepen Israel’s story, the Resurrection would not widen the horizon of hope, and Pentecost would not mark an expansion of God’s life among God’s people. Christ would be reduced to a guardian of settled meanings, rather than the one in whom God’s purposes are brought into sharper focus and fuller light. In short, Christianity would not have come into being.

    Processing our Anger

    This brings us back to the present moment. The Church is being asked to believe that a same-sex relationship may be holy enough to be prayed for, but not holy enough to shape worship on its own terms. That a same-sex marriage may be lived faithfully by lay people, but becomes incompatible with holiness the moment a vocation to priesthood is discerned. That baptism incorporates all equally into Christ, yet ministry must still be rationed according to categories of suspicion. This is not theological coherence. It is a hierarchy of dignity.

    Appeals to unity and process cannot disguise this reality. Unity that depends on inequality is not Christian unity; it is institutional calm purchased at the expense of a minority’s flourishing. Acknowledging hurt while leaving intact the structures that cause it is not repentance; it is recognition without conversion.

    It is here that I locate the anger that charges my sadness. Like many colleagues I am now left in a place where I need to assess how best to respond to episcopal decision-making. Anger because I feel as if I been nothing but a faithful, committed and deeply-engaged Anglican for the entirety of my life and this feels like a resounding slap in the face. Like many I am now asking: at which point does active dissent to this decision-making become both morally and theologically essential and what forms should dissent take?

    There is a clear distinction between dissent born of impatience and resistance demanded by conscience. Ecclesial disobedience is not justified simply because progress is slow, a vote has been lost, or a desired outcome deferred. But there does comes a point when continued compliance itself also ceases to be morally neutral. It seems to me that this threshold is now met because of the convergence of four conditions:

    First, the harm must be real, ongoing, and acknowledged. In this case, the bishops themselves have named the hurt experienced by queer Christians. This is not speculative damage, nor the complaint of a disgruntled minority.

    Second, authority must know the harm and nevertheless maintain the policy that causes it. That border has also now been crossed. Delay is no longer inadvertent or provisional; it is conscious and defended.

    Third, the harm must fall disproportionately on a vulnerable group. Here it is borne most acutely by LGBTQIA+ Christians, particularly clergy and ordinands, whose vocations, livelihoods, and integrity are placed under sustained pressure.

    Fourth, appeals to unity or process must have become mechanisms of avoidance rather than means of discernment. That is now clearly the case here. Many of us have experienced this process as one that has led nowhere. When Procedure ceases to serve justice and instead becomes a way of deferring it the process itself loses any moral authority.

    When these four conditions are present, as they are now, obedience itself becomes ethically charged. Continued compliance is no longer a neutral act of loyalty; it is a decision that participates, however reluctantly, in the maintenance of actual structural harm.

    At this point, then, faithfulness may require something more demanding than patience. It may require acting as though the Church we proclaim already exists and accepting the cost of doing so. As Marika Rose, very much echoing Jesus on the Sabbath, writes in Theology for the End of the World: “Christian faithfulness is not about managing the world as it is, but about refusing to give ultimate authority to arrangements that deny life.” When ecclesial structures become arrangements that deny dignity, the call of the Gospel is not quiet endurance but truthful disruption.

    Jesus’s call to embody Justice

    The issue before the Church today is clear: it is whether we are willing to allow mercy, dignity, and life to be the criteria by which our doctrine and practice are shaped or whether we will continue to defend inherited forms even when they wound the very people in whom the fruits of the Spirit are already evident.

    That is not a question about sexuality alone. It is a question about what kind of Church we are becoming and whether we truly believe that Christ is alive enough to lead us somewhere we have not yet fully understood.

    Will we follow Jesus on the Sabbath? Will we with Christ embody God’s justice?

     

     

     

     

  • Why Progressive Christians Must Reclaim the Case for Church – Or Face the Consequences

    by Simon Cross, a minister in the United Reformed Church, a writer, and the chair of the Progressive Christianity Network

    [reprinted with permission from http://simonjcross.substack.com/]

    Progressive Christianity has done much to reframe theology – challenging exclusion, reimagining scripture, and putting justice issues at the centre of our worship. But in the enthusiasm to move away from conservatism, we’ve often neglected to reconstruct a compelling case for why church still matters.

    The consequences are striking. Churches that champion progressive theology are shrinking, not because their message lacks depth, but because their communal purpose is unclear. This has various knock-on effects: visible Christianity becomes limited to its more conservative expressions, new leaders are not nurtured, people are cut adrift from supportive communities.

    For centuries now, we’ve critiqued doctrine, questioned hierarchy, and sought to dismantle harmful traditions. But we’ve not always articulated what church is for. Why gather? Why commit? Why return week after week to a community that is imperfect, slow-moving, and sometimes exhausting?

    The hard truth is that if we don’t make the case for church, others will. And often, they’ll make it in ways that reinforce conformity, control, or nostalgia. If we, as progressive Christians, believe in a gospel of liberation, then we must also believe in the power of, and need for communities which embody that liberation – not just in theory, but in practice.

    Church as a School of Compassion

    Church, through a progressive lens, is not just a place to hear sermons, sing hymns or mumble prayers. It’s a dynamic, open space where we learn, together, to be compassionate. Not in abstract terms, but in the messy, embodied reality of shared life. It’s a place where we learn to sit with grief that isn’t ours. We learn to celebrate joy that doesn’t benefit us. We learn what it means to forgive, and to listen.

    This vision of church is profoundly counter-cultural. While contemporary culture prizes individualism and efficiency, wealth and success, church offers a counter-formative rhythm. It slows us down. It asks us to notice. It invites us into relationships that aren’t transactional – or at least aren’t as transactional. Over time, it shapes us into people who can look beyond ourselves.

    Church as a Place of Ritual

    Progressive Christians often shy away from ritual, fearing it will become empty or oppressive. But in my own life, and my own experience of ministry, I have come to recognise that rituals are not the enemy. They are, in some ways, the scaffolding of meaning. (Don’t believe me? Read Ritual by Dimitris Xygalatas).

    In church, we enact rituals of restoration and renewal: communion being the most obvious one. Moments when we stop – recentre, renew. We also enact rituals of resistance – the most notable of which is baptism. In my tradition these two rituals are called ‘sacraments’ – for good reason.

    These rituals remind us who we are and who we’re becoming. They connect us to generations before us and to movements beyond us. They give shape to our longings and language to our hope.

    Church as a Community of Resistance

    Sometimes when I go into a church I find, in effect, a living history museum. A place where a group find comfort. But if church is only a place of comfort, it will not survive.

    At its best, church becomes a community of resistance. A place where we can come together, partly for comfort perhaps, but also to find a way to fight against injustice, against despair, against isolation. The earliest Christians gathered for this reason – they shared resources, they dismantled hierarchies, they cared for each other.

    Progressive churches have the theological tools to be communities of resistance. We speak of inclusion, of equity, of ecological care. But we must also embody these values in our structures, our budgets, our liturgies, and our relationships. Resistance is not just what we preach – it’s how we live together.

    Making the Case

    So how do we make the case for church?

    Perhaps we start by telling the truth, to ourselves and to one another: church is hard. It’s slow. It’s full of people who disappoint us. But it’s also one of the few places where we commit to one another not because we agree with each other (we don’t), but because we belong.

    Then maybe we tell stories – stories of meals shared, of burdens carried, of prayers whispered in hospital rooms. We name the ways that church has saved us by being present to us.

    We invite people not to consume church, but to co-create it. To bring their gifts, their questions, their wounds. To help shape a community that reflects the gospel we believe in.

    And we remind ourselves that church is not a building or a brand. It’s a practice. A discipline. A way of being in the world that says: we are not alone, and we are not powerless.

    Mostly, though, we simply need to understand the case for church in ourselves – we need to internalise it. We need to recognise that ‘this’ is why its worth being part of.

    A Progressive Future

    If progressive Christianity is to thrive, it must reclaim church. It must cultivate it, and tend to it. We must actively make the case for gathering together, and we must ensure our spaces are such that genuine discipleship can happen in them. We can’t really afford to just keep going through the motions.

    Church can be a place where justice is not just preached, but practised. Where compassion is not just felt, but formed. Where resistance is not just imagined, but enacted. We all know it – just as we know it can be the opposite. We need to make the case for church.

  • The Body the Church Forgot: Reimagining Sacred Space from the Margins

    by Revd Canon Timothy Goode, Canon for Congregational Discipleship and Nurture at York Minster and member of the National Disability Task Group

    It is no small thing to speak in Canterbury Cathedral.

    To stand in such a space, as I did recently, where liturgy has echoed for centuries, where saints have walked and kings have knelt, where martyrdom was once not metaphor but blood on stone – it humbles you. The architecture seems to breathe with history.

    But I did not come to offer a history lesson or critique the Gothic arches. I came with something far more personal. I came as a disabled priest to speak to cathedral architects and to all those who advise cathedral chapters on matters related to the care, conservation, and development of our cathedrals. And I came to ask: Whose body is the Church really built for?

    Because for more than thirty years, I have been making my way through churches that were never designed with someone like me in mind. I have been pointed to side doors. I have been told the sanctuary was not accessible. I have preached from the nave floor while pulpits loomed like fortresses behind me. And I have listened to sermon after sermon about “healing”, often from people who have never actually asked what it is like to live in a body that will not, and should not, be cured.

    These are not just awkward moments or minor design flaws. They are symptoms of something much deeper. What we are dealing with is a theological vision of the human body that has been built into the DNA of the Church, a vision that equates holiness with symmetry, sanctity with strength, and wholeness with conformity to an able-bodied norm

    And this vision did not come from Christ. It came from Rome.

    To really understand this, we have to travel back to the fourth century. Before Constantine, the Christian movement was marginal, persecuted, made up of people who lived in their bodies very differently. The paralysed, the blind, the bleeding woman in the crowd – these were not just characters in miracle stories. They were the Church. They were apostles, disciples, leaders.

    Paul’s famous words in 1 Corinthians 12 were not poetic flourish: “The parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” That was not metaphor. It was the living theology of the early Church; a Body made up of many, including those society wanted to cast aside.

    But once Christianity gained imperial approval through Constantine’s Edict of Milan in 313 CE, something fundamental changed. With power came prestige. With prestige came compromise.

    The Church began absorbing Greco-Roman ideals about what bodies should be. Classical culture idolised symmetry, athleticism, control. The perfect body was strong, upright, unmoved by pain. And this ideal soon seeped into Christian theology.

    By the time we got to Augustine, even resurrection got redefined in these terms. In The City of God, he imagined glorified bodies as unmarred, restored to their ideal state: male, able-bodied, thirty years old. And that image was projected onto Christ. No blindness, no paralysis, no visible deviation. Jesus Christ, the template of the idealised norm.

    It was a compelling vision, if you fitted the anthropomorphic mould. But what happened when you did not?

    This theology did not stay in books. It seeped into the very stones of our churches. Cathedral architecture is not neutral. It never has been. It preaches. It catechises. It teaches us, without saying a word, what kind of bodies are expected, and what kind are not.

    Take the basilica model adopted from Roman civic halls: the nave, transept, chancel; spaces laid out not for inclusion, but for hierarchy. The sanctuary is elevated. The priest processes up stairs. The pulpit rises above the people. It is majestic, yes, but it is also profoundly exclusionary.

    Because every architectural decision makes a theological one. Stairs do not just raise the altar, they declare who is allowed to approach. Pews do not just organise a congregation, they assume bodies that sit still, rise easily, kneel without pain. Even the very materials of worship – hard stone, cold marble, polished brass – make a statement about which bodies are comfortable here, and which are not.

    So when I say these spaces were not built with me in mind, I do not just mean there is no ramp. I mean the entire architectural logic assumes I do not belong at the centre.

    Even churches that claim to be “inclusive” often betray this same DNA. The ramp is added later. The accessible toilet is behind a locked door or is used also as a storage space. The hearing loop was installed, yes, but no one knows how to turn it on. And the excuses? “It would ruin the symmetry.” “It would not match the historic stone.” “It might interrupt the line of sight.” What we are really saying is this: the building’s aesthetic matters more than the bodies inside it. And that is not just poor design. That is architectural idolatry. It is a heresy. It places form above flesh, heritage above hospitality, symmetry above sacrament.

    What makes this even more painful is the irony at the heart of our faith.

    Christianity’s most powerful metaphor is the Body of Christ, and that body was not perfect by classical standards. It was broken. Wounded. Pierced. And when Christ rose from the dead, he did not shed his scars. He showed them.

    That is the body our churches should have been built to reflect. But instead they reflect the sculpted ideal of Greco-Roman virtue, the inaccessible grandeur of empire. We have built not sanctuaries, but tombs. Our anthropology is not focused on the risen body of Christ. It remains focused on the able body of Rome.

    And yet the risen Jesus appeared in locked rooms, cooked breakfast with wounded hands, and invited Thomas to touch his open and pierced side. The glorified body of Christ was not healed from trauma, it was transformed through it. For the Word became flesh – not the Word became idealised marble; not the Word became stones and mortar – but the Word became flesh: human flesh, wounded flesh, disabled flesh, risen and ascended flesh. And the Word dwelt among us.

    So where do we go from here?

    We return to the risen Christ, not the polished Christ of stained glass and statuary, arms spread in symmetrical benediction, but the Christ who says: “Touch my wounds. They are still here. They are still holy.”

    And we build and adapt our churches accordingly.

    • A cathedral or church reordered from the eye level of a wheelchair user
    • A pulpit that can be used by a priest who signs the Gospel
    • A sanctuary without stairs, not because it is fashionable, but because it is just
    • Artwork that honours disabled saints, not after healing, but in the truth of their embodied reality
    • A memory wall where chronic illness, neurodivergence, and pain are honoured as sacred testimony

    This is not utopian. It is already happening, in small communities, in artistic collectives, in chapels where theology is being shaped from wheelchairs and hospital beds. The Spirit is moving. The question is whether the Church is willing to follow.

    I did not bring a building plan to Canterbury Cathedral. I brought a body – my own body – and the bodies of so many others who have been overlooked by the architecture and theology of a Church that said it was for all.

    And most of all, I brought the Body of Christ, a body still wounded, still risen, still with us.

    This is the Body I believe in. This is the Body I serve. This is the Body we can build.

    Let it be risen. Let it be wounded. Let it be real.

     

  • Behold the Men: Identifying Risks, Reconsidering Relationships

    by Rachel Starr, Director of Studies at the Queen’s Foundation for Ecumenical Theological Education, Birmingham

    Since Behold the Men was published in January, a lot of people have commented on its relevance to the present moment. Conversations about how churches interpret, encourage, even prescribe, certain models of masculinities have long been needed, but often not given the necessary attention. Today’s global realities have brought into sharper focus the problematic intersections of white power, patriarchy, colonialism and certain forms of Christianity. Yet churches are still in denial about the necessary theological work they need to do in relation to abuse, inequality and injustice.

    In an article from 2019 addressing clerical abuse in the Roman Catholic Church, Susan A. Ross observes that ‘the insights that feminist theology offers to this crisis have not received the kind of attention they deserve’ and seeks to demonstrate both that ‘many (although not all) of the issues in clergy sexual abuse are theologically grounded’ and also that ‘feminist insights can contribute to a transformed church in which ?patriarchy and clericalism no longer dominate, where there is a healthy and holistic theology of sexuality, and ?where the voices of women and the laity are truly heard’ (Ross 2019, p. 633).?

    When viewed in relation to the ongoing safeguarding crisis within many churches, the risks inherent within dominant models of masculinity are clear to see.

    Within many such models, men are considered solitary, independent figures. They are expected to be both self-centred and self-reliant rather than understanding themselves in relation to a wider community. Men are encouraged to be the answer rather than to ask questions or listen to other people’s responses. They are called on to be strong, to ignore or decry their own and others’ vulnerabilities. Men are expected to lead rather than follow, receive instruction or advice. Men in leadership face pressure to be the charismatic leader, the hero, the saviour. As I have written elsewhere, the hero is best avoided.

    As part of their formation within such dominant models of masculinity, men are asked to deny or overcome emotions – framed as signs of weakness – and focus on the rational mind. They are kept at a distance from the realities of their own – and especially others’ – bodies. In different ways, and in a variety of settings, men are seen as creators and consumers, rather than those tasked with caring or cleaning up. This can result in a lack of attentiveness to the impact of actions or decisions.

    A model of masculinity found in some men’s spirituality movements is that of the ‘wild man’. While this model is less prevalent in British churches, it is present in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. This is a model focused on individual spiritual needs, sometimes to be pursued with aggression. It invites risk-taking rather than rule-following. Another model present in some Christian traditions is the successful man, whose presence is sought and whose failings are overlooked. A third model explored in Behold the Men is the family man, often found within a ‘culture of niceness’ which can mask power and stifle challenge. All three of these models – and others beside – need to be reconsidered if churches are to become places of wellbeing for all.

    Behold the Men offers some suggestions as to how churches might begin conversations around what it might mean to be a man of faith.

    1. Beginning with bodies

    ‘In our earliest conversations about the book, we talked about the importance of the body. While we cover shared ground with some systematic theology texts, we made a conscious decision to begin not with God but with human bodies, specifically, men’s bodies. Each chapter places bodies central to the discussion: naked, earthed, displaced, broken, of and in Christ, healing, resistant, receptive, created and connected’ (Beckford and Starr 2015, p. 4).

    We hope the book will help readers to listen to their own bodies and trust the insights offered: but not to be limited by their own embodied experiences. As Brazilian feminist theologian Ivone Gebara writes, ‘I have had … to listen with my whole body to what my particular body had not experienced concretely’ (Gebara 1995, p. 129).

    1. An ongoing conversation

    Behold the Men brings together more than a dozen contributors, who offer insights from a range of contexts, identities and theological traditions. The aim of the book is not to propel the reader towards a clear conclusion. Instead, it invites readers to listen carefully to different experiences, gain fresh insight and be encouraged to find new ways forward. It is not the first book exploring masculinities within Christianity, and we hope it will not be the last.

    1. ‘We Cannot Walk Alone’

    We chose to use Birmingham artist Eddy Aigbe’s painting, ‘We Cannot Walk Alone,’ for the book cover. Originally commissioned by Celebrating Sanctuary for Refugee Week in 2021, the image seeks to convey many different people coming together to shape more inclusive, just communities. In the work of justice, the wisdom, compassion and commitment of many is needed. We hope our book will be a resource for the journey. Certainly, there is much distance for our churches to travel if they are to be places where all bodies are welcomed, respected and honoured. Challenging violent and limiting models of masculinity within churches, exploring more inclusive and healthy ways of being men of faith, is long overdue.

  • Halcyon Daze? Nostalgia in the Memory of the Church

    by Martyn Percy, Professor of Religion and Culture at the University of St. Joseph in Macao and Provost-Theologian at Ming Hua College, Hong Kong and Research Professor of Theology at Institut für Christkatholische Theologie, University of Bern, Switzerland. His The Crisis of Colonial Anglicanism: Empire, Slavery and Revolt in the Church of England is just published by Hurst.

    Once upon a time, nostalgia was not just a longing for the past, but a potentially fatal disease. First used as a medical term in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in the context of Swiss soldiers and mercenaries, it referred to (nostos is the Greek for homecoming, and algos is a word for pain). Or rather, a sickness for order and things being put back where they once were or belonged. Nostalgia, in this sense, is not a benign sentiment, but an anxiety caused by displacement and dislocation. However, nostalgia is also a dangerous emotion that can lead to self-imprisonment through false memory.

    For those who speak nostalgically of the Church of England and wider Anglican Communion, the debt to the nostalgia narrated by the British Empire and the unity provided by the service of imperialism are obvious. Even recently, Bishops could be heard to speak with wistful admiration of a denomination stretching from Malagasy to Mongolia, from Sweden to South Africa, from India to Tasmania, and from the United Kingdom across the whole of the Americas. The London office for the Anglican Communion also invests in this narrative. Such nostalgia paints a rose-tinted picture of global coverage, as though the extent of the Church of England were akin to every community having a local post office.

    The reality is quite different. Coverage across the Anglican Communion is patchy, and it is increasingly difficult to understand how, in terms of compatibility, coherence, and commonality, the various components constituting this church can claim the label ‘Communion’. Even if the term is used, many who use such language no longer mean the same thing. Furthermore, others regard the term as problematic – either a dangerous fiction or a disingenuous description. ‘Anglicanism’, it seems, is increasingly a term of ascription that is contested and divisive.

    Nostalgia is a vehicle that tries to carry a community through the uneasy conditions of modern and contemporary life and the politics of fear and anxiety. However, it is unlikely to be able to carry any meaningful freight going forward.  The challenges of the present now require a large dose of realism. Otherwise, fantasies and wishful thinking will be mistaken for vision.

    Is there any way past this nostalgic pathology under which the Church of England labours? The only way through this is likely to be rooted in harsh realities. Across the global Anglican Communion, the days when directives from the Church of England freighted authority and power are long gone.

    We live in a post-colonial age. Honesty and clarity about the past can only help. Otherwise, amnesia and myth-making memory will reign unchecked. The roots of the Anglican Communion and the Commonwealth arise from the British Empire, which was driven by trade, consumerism, military action, conquest and imperial expansionism.  This was primarily an English project in which the Church of England served as a legitimating spiritual arm for an empire, capitalising on the territorial expansion, giving it an aura of global territorial catholicity.

    Yet, at present, the Church of England is run by a tiny elite operating a model of leadership that is a hybrid of monarchy and autocracy. Any democratic accountability is strongly resisted and, as clergy and laity repeatedly find, the will of the people barely counts for anything. Like grumbling serfs, however, congregations are nonetheless expected to fund a hierarchy that is aloof, never liable or culpable, and operating as a law unto itself

    With the appointment of a new Second Estates Commissioner there may be an opportunity for a significant change – one that will snap the Church of England out of its self-induced coma. Marsha de Cordova (MP for Battersea) was the confirmed choice. It took almost 100 days for the government to find an appointee, the longest time lag since 1832.

    Perhaps the lengthy lacuna of 2024 reflects the ambiguous nature of the role. In the past, the Second Estates Commissioner has functioned as an apologist for the Church of England when faced with questions and scrutiny from Parliament. But the present demands a different approach, namely making the Church of England accountable to parliament, church members, taxpayers and voters.

    Marsha de Cordova attends a church run by the Holy Trinity Brompton network, which has recently taken the lead in secessionism over the Church of England’s slow, gradual embrace of equal marriage. Yet Marsha has previously served in the Shadow Cabinet as Shadow Secretary of State for Women and Equalities and Shadow Minister (Work and Pensions) (Disabled People). She also served on the Work and Pensions Select Committee and the Petitions Committee.

    It would be hard to find any MP who could, in conscience, act as a parliamentary apologist for the Church of England in the 21st century, with its position being so clearly anomalous and democratically indefensible. With clergy having few employment rights, and LGBTQ+ clergy still discriminated against, it is hard to imagine the Church of England hanging on to its powers and privileges in the next ten years.

    Most citizens expect equality and accountability from their institutions as a prerequisite for trust. Moreover, serious questions must be asked as the number of paid-up members of the church has effectively fallen off the cliff edge—and there is no sign that this decline is temporary. These questions relate to the fitness and role of an established church in one nation, yet within a devolved union of three nations (and Northern Ireland).

    Meanwhile, there are hardly any – indeed, no – examples of the much-vaunted new models of the church making a net contribution to their diocese for the investments they have received.  It is impossible to find one of these new strategic initiatives of the Archbishops’ Council paying its way. Ordinary parishes are funding a fetishised experimentalism that is not subject to any scrutiny, fiscal accountability or even much in the way of legally authorised protocols.

    Meanwhile, stipendiary clergy numbers are set to fall to around 5,000 by 2034. January 2025 marks the tenth anniversary of Reform and Renewal, the much-vaunted strategy document of the Archbishops’ Council. In 2014, General Synod and the Church of England were promised more clergy, more churches, growth and a major turnaround in fortunes. Not one target has been met. In fact, the decline has accelerated.

    If the Archbishops’ Council were a company’s board of directors, the shareholders would have passed several votes of no confidence by now. Indeed, were this a school, it would be in special measures. But the Archbishops’ Council has no accountability. A recent public survey shows that public confidence in ordained ministry has collapsed in just a few decades, as its senior leadership are no longer believed or trusted inside the church, let alone outside. The recent report commissioned by the Archbishops’ Council on the very subject of trust and trustworthiness ran out of time in debate, but not without members of General Synod expressing their lack of trust in the same report’s origins, methodology and political aspirations. That’s right, nobody trusted a report from the bishops that was all about trust.

    Some churches are now breaking away and conducting their own bespoke versions of licensing and ordination. This has been slowly gestating since the 1992 Act of Synod, which sought to appease those aggrieved at the decision to ordain women to the priesthood. Long before Burger King adopted their most famous slogan – “have it your way” – the Church of England turned its reliable set menu into a proverbial buffet car. Take it or leave it, the customer is king.

    The new Estates Commissioner will only be able to be a credible respondent for the Church of England in parliament when it can be demonstrated that bishops are to be held accountable to ordinary secular employment laws and legal provisions on gender, sexuality, data protection, and safeguarding. At present, this is an established church lecturing the world on human rights yet having secured legal opt-out provisions under the Human Rights Act (1997).  This is unconscionable.

    The current situation of weak autocracy is arguably the worst of all worlds. As there are no operational conflicts of interest policy or register of interests amongst the highest echelons of the Church of England’s leadership, concealment of malice, malpractice and incompetence is relatively straightforward. Those who try to speak out will quickly be frozen out – the church created its own ‘cancel culture’ centuries ago. This is an organisation that really knows how to bully its people. It can be brutal.

    The Archbishops’ Council secretariat recently replied to a question put to the previous Second Estates Commissioner, Andrew Selous MP, in December 2023.  In the response from Lambeth Palace, the Church of England’s most senior officer explained there are no plans for independent external review or performance management of the Church of England’s treatment of victims.

    Furthermore, the Secretary General added, supporting victims of abuse in the longer term should be a burden carried by the taxpayer. The invoice for abuses perpetrated by the Church of England should be forwarded to HM Treasury. Ironically, the same body that gives millions of pounds back to the church through Gift Aid.

    Such hubris is breathtaking.  Yet the ruling culture of bishops, courtiers, Synod lawyers, and ecclesiocrats remains unaccountable, mercurial and aloof. Nothing of this can be defended in any democratic parliament in the 21st century. Reform cannot come quickly enough.

     

     

  • The Sovereignty of God and Pastoral Responsibility in Political Turmoil

    Reflections on Privilege, Inequality, and Justice and the Re-election of Donald J. Trump as the 47th President of the United States of America

     

    by Revd Dr Augustine Tanner-Ihm, OMS, Lead Minister of St. Nick’s Kingsway, Manchester

     

    Growing up in the USA, the Pastor would always say, “God is Good, all the time,” and the response was always, “And all the time, God is Good.” This simple but poetic liturgical language was a reminder that God was good all the time. To be honest, we didn’t need to know that because we already had experienced that through the lives of our grand people and uncles and aunties. It was a cornerstone of the Black experience.

    Now as a pastor with much education and theological reflection, I think of the way in church we respond to things when the world is not good all the time.

    The sovereignty of God—a central doctrine affirming that God holds supreme authority over all creation—poses profound theological and pastoral questions, particularly amid politically turbulent times. During election cycles, religious leaders often assure their congregations that “God is in control.” While well-intentioned, these reassurances risk reducing complex theological truths and overlooking the severe impact that political outcomes may have on marginalized communities. In light of God’s sovereignty, pastors must balance their messages carefully, examining how this core tenet of Christian faith intersects with power, privilege, and politics. This reflection explores the importance of approaching the sovereignty of God with a nuanced, biblically-rooted pastoral theology that attends to the challenges of contemporary governance. Using insights from theologians such as Revd Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., James Cone, Gustavo Gutiérrez, and Tom Wright, this article considers the pastoral responsibility of responding to right-wing governance, particularly in cases where the clergy’s personal privilege may insulate them from the impact of oppressive policies. It also examines how nationalism and authoritarianism threaten the inclusive witness of the Gospel.

     

     Theological Foundations of God’s Sovereignty

    The sovereignty of God, foundational to Christian belief, asserts that God is the ultimate ruler and authority over all things. Scripture emphasizes this from the creation narrative in Genesis to the redemptive arc spanning the Old and New Testaments. Ephesians 1:11 states that God “works all things according to the counsel of His will” (The Holy Bible, New International Version), underscoring divine authority over human affairs and history. However, the notion of divine sovereignty does not excuse human agency; rather, it reinforces the Christian duty to engage actively in God’s mission through stewardship, justice, and love.

    In his work on the Kingdom of God, Tom Wright argues that God’s reign is not merely a far-off future but a present reality brought near by Jesus’ ministry, inviting believers to participate actively in God’s redemptive work (Wright, 1992). Wright’s theology encourages Christians to resist fatalistic interpretations of divine sovereignty that promote passivity and instead invites them into an active, present-tense engagement with justice and mercy. When pastors appeal to God’s sovereignty amid political outcomes, they should avoid implying that God ordains injustices. As Wright emphasizes, the Kingdom of God is “now and not yet”—a divine reality already breaking into the present, calling believers to reflect God’s justice and compassion (Wright, 2003). This call to action reflects a Kingdom-oriented faith that insists on challenging injustice rather than accepting it passively.

     

    The Pastoral Perils of Simplistic Commentary on Election Outcomes

    Simplistic appeals to God’s sovereignty during times of political instability can hinder rather than empower. While well-meaning, reassurances that “God is in control” may comfort some but seem dismissive to others, particularly to those for whom political shifts directly threaten safety and rights. Pastors must discern how such messages resonate differently across their congregations. James Cone’s Black Liberation Theology warns that the Gospel demands a “preferential option for the poor,” highlighting that Christ’s message is inherently liberative, with a special concern for the oppressed (Cone, 1970). Without careful consideration, pastors may unintentionally obscure or even undermine this liberating aspect of the Gospel.

    The Trump administration’s policies illustrate the impact of right-wing governance on vulnerable communities, including LGBTQ+ individuals. The administration sought to remove legal protections in healthcare, military service, and civil rights, policies that LGBTQ+ advocates describe as discriminatory and harmful (Human Rights Campaign, 2020). To claim God’s sovereignty without a critical reflection on the justice implications of these policies risks trivializing the plight of marginalized groups. Revd Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. emphasized that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” reminding Christians that divine sovereignty calls them not into resignation but into action on behalf of the oppressed (King, 1963). For King, God’s sovereignty was not an excuse for passivity but a mandate for prophetic, justice-driven witness.

     

     Privilege, Power, and Pastoral Commentary

    The privilege of some clergy—whether economic stability, heterosexual orientation, or racial identity—can shape political commentary, often without conscious awareness. For pastors relatively insulated from the negative impacts of government policies, there is a responsibility to speak up for the vulnerable. Gustavo Gutiérrez’s liberation theology emphasizes that “theology begins with the reality of suffering” and insists that Christians adopt a “preferential option for the poor” (Gutiérrez, 1973). Gutiérrez’s theology challenges clergy to avoid complacency, encouraging solidarity with marginalized people who may suffer under right-wing or authoritarian regimes. Privilege can distort pastoral perspectives, underscoring the need for critical reflection on social position and an intentional effort to amplify the voices of those most at risk.

    The rise of White Christian Nationalism illustrates this danger starkly. White Christian Nationalism seeks to blend Christianity with nationalist ideology, often privileging certain racial and social groups over others and thus undermining the Gospel’s universal message of love and justice. Such ideologies, while popular in some circles, not only erode the church’s credibility but also distort Jesus’s teachings on compassion and inclusion (Mark 12:31). The Book of Common Prayer reminds the faithful to “pray for the whole state of Christ’s Church militant here in earth” (Church of England, 1662), calling Christians to an inclusive faith that stands in solidarity with the oppressed, rather than aligning with exclusionary structures of power.

     

    Inequality and the Pursuit of Justice

    Inequality within society exacerbates the harm caused by dismissive pastoral commentary. Policies such as those proposed by Project 2025, which aim to advance conservative priorities in the United States, highlight the potential dangers of government decisions that deepen inequalities and reduce support for marginalized communities (Heritage Foundation, 2023). Pastors who invoke divine sovereignty to explain or excuse such policies risk perpetuating systems of oppression rather than challenging them. Proverbs 31:9 urges believers to “speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy,” reinforcing the call to resist structural injustice rather than acquiescing to it.

    Historically, the Christian church has often been complicit in oppressive systems, from colonialism to the Atlantic slave trade. The resurgence of White Christian Nationalism continues this pattern, weaponizing faith to justify exclusionary and harmful policies. Under such ideologies, LGBTQ+ individuals, among others, face increased marginalization. The LGBTQ+ community faces significant challenges under both nationalist and authoritarian regimes, particularly those that exploit faith for exclusionary purposes. For example, policies under Trump’s administration removed federal protections for LGBTQ+ individuals in various sectors, creating barriers to healthcare, adoption, and workplace equality (Human Rights Campaign, 2020). White Christian Nationalism distorts the Gospel, promoting a version of Christianity that emphasizes exclusion and division rather than inclusion and love. In contrast, the Gospel’s message affirms the dignity and worth of all people (Galatians 3:28).

     

    Pastoral Response to Right-Wing, Authoritarian Governments

    Pastoral care must engage in prophetic critique, particularly of governments that perpetuate inequality or undermine the rights of marginalized communities. Gustavo Gutiérrez’s liberation theology underscores the church’s duty to challenge systems of injustice. While pastors should avoid aligning too closely with any political party, they are called to uphold values of justice, mercy, and compassion as modelled by Christ. This call may necessitate opposing state policies when these violate the inherent dignity of individuals. Pastoral response must move beyond words to involve tangible actions that support those harmed by discriminatory policies. As the Book of Common Prayer encourages, believers are called to confess their sins—both personal and collective—and seek forgiveness, committing themselves to justice and righteousness.

    The legacy of King, Cone, and Gutiérrez emphasizes that discipleship requires courage and a willingness to stand against injustice, even when such resistance may be unpopular. Their witness reminds today’s church of the Gospel’s call to justice, compelling pastors to engage their communities in resisting structures that dehumanize or marginalize others.

    The Anglican Ordinal outlines the pastoral responsibilities of priests and deacons, particularly emphasizing their call to care for the spiritual and material welfare of all people, especially those who are vulnerable or marginalized. According to the Ordinal, priests are called “to preach the word of God, and to administer the holy Sacraments,” while deacons are entrusted to serve and advocate on behalf of the poor and those in need, living as “a sign of Christ’s servanthood.” In the context of political turmoil or policies that harm the vulnerable, this pastoral role calls both priests and deacons to embody the compassionate, justice-oriented heart of the Gospel. Their charge is not to support the status quo but to challenge injustice with the love and mercy modelled by Christ. By attending to the spiritual needs of their congregation while actively resisting policies that deepen inequality, clergy are reminded that their ordination vows include a commitment to advocate for a just society. In doing so, they fulfil the Ordinal’s call to care for all people, reflecting the Kingdom values of compassion, justice, and inclusivity as embodied in their pastoral vocation.

     

    Conclusion: Toward a Faithful, Justice-Oriented Pastoral Presence

    The doctrine of God’s sovereignty affirms God’s ultimate authority, yet it should not be used to justify passive acceptance of injustice. Instead, it calls Christians to embody God’s justice, compassion, and mercy within a world fraught with sin and inequality. As pastors speak of God’s sovereignty, they must remain mindful of their own privilege, ensuring their message does not unintentionally support unjust political systems.

    The witness of the Gospel compels believers into a life of discipleship that embraces the marginalized and resists oppressive powers. Martin Luther King Jr., James Cone, Gustavo Gutiérrez, and Tom Wright challenge the church to live out a faith that reflects God’s justice, recognizing the sovereignty of God not as a license for passivity but as an invitation to active, justice-driven love for all creation.

  • Between Meaning and Despair: A Generous Faith

    by Canon Giles Goddard, Vicar of St John’s, Waterloo

    Extracts from Generous Faith: to be published on 28 June 2024

    Advent is the dawn of the Christian year. A season of light, starting four weeks before Christmas, not long after the clocks have gone back and the nights have drawn in. That first Advent, a dark November in 2009, I was trying to get used to the space. To find the light in the murky gloom. We held services and sang Advent carols: ‘Christ, be our light, shine in our hearts, shine in the darkness’. There was an Advent wreath that had four candles, three purple, one pink, and one in the centre, white. It was placed on a little table by the High Altar, and we lit one candle every week to symbolise the weeks before the arrival of the Christ Child.

    When I go down to the river I watch the waters running to the sea and the cormorants perched on pleasure cruisers, their wings stretched out to dry, looking like crucifixes. I wonder what Wordsworth would think if he was transplanted today to Westminster Bridge. Waterloo and the South Bank, a mile from the Square Mile, inundated by the tidal surge of consumption. The rush of rush hour, crowds crossing Waterloo Bridge in the twilight, I had not thought greed had undone so many, the alienation, the loneliness.

    Between the early 1980s and the turn of the century the churchyard was part of Cardboard City, a temporary home for people without homes: tents were head to head across the grass, fires at night flickered on the gold mosaic on the side of the church:

    ALL MAY HAVE IF THEY DARE TRY A GLORIOUS LIFE OR GRAVE

    Developers now buy and sell land at millions of pounds per acre and wrestle with residents and councillors to produce yet another tower to overtop the forest already crowding around us. Bus drivers press the secret combination to use the special bus drivers’ toilets. Street drinkers piss behind the tombs.

    At an early meeting of the Church Council, packed into a meeting room of the hostel next door as we had no rooms in the church, I asked them about their hopes and dreams.

    ‘What’s your vision for the future? What do you think this church should be?’

    There was a silence.

    ‘We’re a friendly church,’ said Holly eventually. ‘You know that, darling, don’t you.’

    ‘Indeed you are,’ I said. ‘But what else are you? What kind of message do you want us to offer? What do you want people to find when they come to us?’

    A silence.

    ‘Not sure,’ said Elaine. ‘We’re doing OK, aren’t we?’

    ‘Is that all we can hope for?’ I asked. ‘Is that why we’re here?’

    When the Bishop granted me my licence as Priest in Charge of the parish, I thought I knew what my task was: to produce results. To renew the church and to reduce the suffering of people in need. But I had a deep fear that it would all turn out to be a waste of time and energy. There were many times when I went into church and felt that for all the work and effort and imagination and dreaming, nothing really changed. The congregation remained fragile and diminutive and their painful insecurity seemed close to the surface and unassuageable.

    It felt as though I was locked in a battle between meaning and despair, between love and hate. A cosmic battle between God and the Devil and a personal battle with the demons whose especial task was to undermine me. It seemed to be a battle against shape-shifting enemies. The inertia and destructiveness of tradition. The insidious and overwhelming power of class, race and privilege. The muddied hopelessness that I saw so often in the faces of people I spoke to – drinkers ground down in the churchyard with their brittle laughter, people who appeared in church who had been struggling for most of their lives with abuse or addiction. The stolidness of the buildings I had inherited, which defiantly resisted the work of the spirit. I remembered the words of the prophet Isaiah:

    A voice says, ‘Cry out!’

    And I said, ‘What shall I cry?’

    All people are grass,

    their constancy is like the flower of the field.

    The grass withers, the flower fades,

    when the breath of the Lord blows upon it;

    surely the people are grass. (Isa. 40.6)

    St John’s is built on the tidal plane at the heart of London, only protected from flooding by the Thames Barrier. Sea level rises will put this part of the city at risk; salt water could quickly inundate these streets that have been reclaimed from tidal mud. The threat of global disruption is increasing and the fragility of the city is becoming more and more apparent. What seems lasting is fleeting. We are here for a moment and then we are gone.

    I am part of an institution that has a history going back nearly five hundred years, since Henry VIII promulgated the Act of Succession in 1534. A history of dark and light, times of oppression and times of transformation, an arm of the state at times and at others a critical friend. Notorious, now, as an institution that fails to welcome marginal groups and is still a long way from being fully inclusive and affirming.

    I became the priest of a church that has been here for nearly two hundred years, and, climate change permitting, could be here for another two hundred. Sometimes I wondered what I could do to help it last so long – and at other times I wondered whether it even deserved to survive.

    I soon began to understand that people washed up at St John’s with a suitcase-full of reasons. Some came to use the loos that nestled in the vestry by the High Altar. Some came because they were passing and wanted to nip in to say a prayer – often they were young and from a Catholic country where popping into church is more commonplace. Some came to see the building and to check out the architecture or the gaunt picture of the crucified Christ above the altar. Many came because they were musicians, playing in orchestras or singing in choirs.

    Some came to find what they could, seeking a way to heal their pain, to deal with the damage of their early lives – or damage from their treatment by the churches they had grown up in – or because they had fallen out with God but could not silence the whisper of the Divine in their hearts.

    People came to pray and sing and eat morsels of unleavened bread, they came with an ache acknowledged or unacknowledged, they came with hunger, sometimes hunger unknown, they came to seek, they came in fear, they came in hope.

    They asked me questions about faith and God. I was often unsure how to answer. Was I flawed or fraud? Or both? The quietly benevolent façade I presented felt like a stage set, all columns and pediments and reliability and niceness. It was hard to know where the public merged into the private. I listened to the questions and a big part of me wanted to cry: ‘Please don’t trust me, it’s not worth the risk, I am acting a part that the institution demands of me.’

    I was already aware of one problem with being the vicar: often when I tried to be of help, the boundaries I tried to set were pushed and pushed until I had to call a halt, so my original intentions were undermined and I felt worse than useless.

    The Church of England felt like an unsafe world where I was accepted only conditionally, on sufferance. The self I had constructed over many years from earliest childhood felt tenuous, a uniform, a product I had developed so I could do the work I thought I had to do. There were times when it felt as though the whole thing was about to collapse, when even my presence at St John’s was under threat.

    I had an atavistic fear of being found out. Impostor syndrome? Perhaps. The fear that the curtain would be drawn back and everyone would see the little old man working the machinery. The self I presented to the church and the world was as the good gay, the honest broker, the safe pair of hands. I tried to hide the toxic bifurcation between public and secret which stirred and bubbled beneath the surface. I was not always successful.

     

  • An Introduction to God as Child

    by Graham Adams, Tutor in Mission Studies, World Christianity and Religious Diversity at Luther King Centre for Theology and Ministry, in Manchester

    To enter God’s alternative kingdom (a realm where the world is turned upside-down), Jesus tells us to ‘become like little children’. I wonder whether this is not only because the realm itself has a childlike quality to it, but because the one who shapes it also does. But despite increasing appreciation of the need for a variety of metaphors to reflect the fullness of God’s mystery, most of our metaphors remain essentially adult (father, mother, parent, judge, king, midwife, etc). Perhaps we are so conditioned by the prevailing power of ‘adultness’, along with the other ways in which ideologies become idols, that our childlike imagination has been constrained.

    In my new book, God the Child, I am therefore not searching for a cute or innocent vision of God, as though to focus on Jesus’ early years. Nor is it about replacing all adult metaphors, but adding to them, and in some respects destabilising them. Its primary purpose is to ask what happens when we give focused attention to childlike metaphors – and how this can shape our sense of the world, both the world as it is and the world as it might become.

    In particular, it examines the questions of God’s omnipresence, omnipotence and omniscience, in order to draw out different childlike emphases – namely, the smallness of a child’s hand, present in and receptive to all belittled experiences and overlooked potential; the seeming weakness of a chaos-event, which nevertheless initiates disproportionate change, messing with the rules of our adult games in pursuit of deeper justice; and the curiosity of the horizon-seeker, empathetically yearning for greater understanding of diverse experience, making friends across borders, and encouraging us to do the same.

    So here, for instance, I affirm divine smallness –

    God is small. Small enough to be in the spaces which we neglect. The spaces we forget. The cracks. The hollows. The hideaways. Where broken toys are lost. Where the little can squeeze, either for some sense of safety, or because the giants have backed them into a corner. God is small enough to be in the margins, places of shame which are vast yet overlooked, or sites of new beginnings, ridiculous in their insignificance, but from where surprises and transformations emerge or burst, or resurrect…

    Here we greet, or are greeted by, God the Child: small enough to give value to every instance of brokenness and every site of recreation, in their very unnoticed-ness.

                  (God the Child pp.28, 31)

    Paying attention to ‘sites of smallness’ can help us not to romanticise childness; not to ignore the many real struggles of children’s experience, such as abuse, neglect, hunger, violence, lack of agency, and so on – and similarly, not to ignore adults’ pain with regards to childness: child loss, pregnancy loss, childlessness, memories of childhood traumas and so forth. God the Child, in a sense inarticulate in the face of such anguish, offers a different kind of solidarity in the midst of what might be overlooked. At the same time, I acknowledge that I am selecting certain traits – much as we select certain traits for our vision of divine adultness – and giving them a positive meaning. Of course, ‘chaos’ is not always creative or constructive – it pulls down and overthrows, just as the child Jeremiah was commissioned, in addition to building and planting – so I recognise that these ideas can be experienced in different ways. But so can our adult metaphors.

    It was also important that, in addition to the adult prose of a theology book, some of it should be expressed more playfully, creatively and poetically. Ultimately, though, I think I’m not only striving for a rediscovery of our own childlike imagination, but seeking to uncover something of God’s childlike imagination – again, this is not to romanticise it, as though to overlook the struggles of real children or any who are belittled, but to understand that such imagination does two things. God’s childlikeness not only faces the world as it is – what I call ‘the colonial matrix of adult power’, which ‘schools’ us, or conditions us, into accepting prevailing norms and patterns as inevitable – but also dares us to envisage the world as it might become. This is aided by other liberative theologies which stretch and enrich it – like Black theology, disability theology, and queer theologies. They help to expand on the location of God the Child, in solidarity with all who are belittled; the agency of God the Child, struggling against systems which disable it; and the transgressiveness of God the Child, moving across borders.

    These possibilities are gathered together in this re-working of a familiar prayer –

    God, our heavenly Child,

    May you be praised in all creation!

    May your imaginative scribbles of a new world come into being,

    May your dreams and visions be fulfilled on earth.

    May we give and receive, inspired by your open hand, until everyone has what they need.

    May we change our minds, learn and forgive, as you show us how to let go.

    May you fly a kite that guides us, caught up in the breath of hope, towards better horizons.

    May you show us how to rage against what is unfair and cruel, until these things crumble.

    For your chaos-power, your glorious imagination, and your wonder-full dream of new creation fill us with hope and determination,

    Now and always, Amen

    (God the Child, p.122)

  • Estates Evangelism: Justice on the Margins

    Fr Alex Frost, Vicar of St Matthews, Burnley and member of General Synod

    At this February General Synod I had hoped to speak in support of Bishop Philip North’s motion on the topic of Estates Evangelism. I didn’t get called to speak, but I didn’t lose heart because everyone who did speak, did so with empathy, kindness and consideration for people living and working on our most troubled estates. I get so much enthusiasm for ministry when I hear people discussing and focussing on a loving gospel response to serve the poor and to call out injustice.

    In 2021 I was part of a religious cost-of-living crisis piece for the BBC News. It was viewed by 12 million people, and led to an outpouring of love and affection which has affected my life and my ministry forever, so it’s no surprise that I supported +Philip’s  motion at Synod because, if we don’t do something now, then when will we?

    There were other matters of justice, particularly racial justice, discussed at this Synod too. The contributors offered heartfelt stories and inspiring words and there was a huge consensus that calling out injustice should be the heart of what we do as a church. Calling out injustice means discussing many emotive topics and I am reminded that injustice comes in many forms, including colour, race, sexual identity, disability and class.

    Returning to Estates Evangelism, St Matthew’s Burnley – where I’m the vicar – serves a number of challenging estates. Through the outstanding support of my colleague and Associate Priest Rev Kat Gregory Witham, we have created a new worshipping community called Fun Church. Fun Church is like Messy Church only the difference is that it does get very very messy, with squabbling, fall-outs, swearing, and tantrums, and that’s just the parents! Rev Kat, with an outstanding team, created this for families, and around 40-50 kids attend on a weekly basis. We heat the huge church, do some crafts, we do some singing and we feed them their tea. We have drop-ins, we offer food support, mental health support, weekends aways, and trips out.

    When I was telling somebody this, they were like ‘Brill, that’s amazing, are you an HTB church or are the Church Army involved?’ To which I replied, ‘Outside of the stipends we get nowt, zilch, zero from the Church of England’. All our funding comes from grants or charities and benefactors and fundraising, but the truth is we get nothing from the central Church. In fact the reality is we have to pay £30,000 a year in parish share for the privilege so we are doing our bit to support the Diocese. That’s not a criticism of the Diocese, but of the paralysis that is passed on by the processes placed upon estate churches that bind us to the national strategy to pay parish share.

    And so I want to add to the amazing voices at Synod, for the many estate churches that get on with doing what they are doing, with the millstone of money and debt preventing them from doing more. I want to speak up for the churches that refer individuals to Christians Against Poverty but are crippled by their own financial woes and yet carry on to a pathway to oblivion. And I want to speak up for clergy making the best of what sometimes can feel like an impossible situation. I also want to raise a cheer for the clergy who literally can’t cope, for the priests and deacons who are hanging on by a thread. For Ministers and Pastors who risk the sustainability of their own respective ministries, who jeopardise their own wellbeing, because of exhaustion, depression, worry and stress. And I want to give a voice for churches that serve in the most challenging places, who give their time in blood, sweat and tears, who are running churches at a loss but somehow keep going, to serve the most vulnerable places in our society. And to speak up for the families I come into contact with, who are literally picking up and eating the crumbs from under the table.

    After the ravages of Covid 19 and after the savage way in which the cost of living crisis has taken away people’s dignity, aspiration and zest for life, I want to ask: if not now, then when, Church of England?

    I truly believe that the growth of the Church of England will not come by producing a definition of fornication, or even by blessing same-sex unions; something, by the way, which I fully support. It won’t come in the calling out the wolves from the sheep. It can and it will come only from serving on the margins, by calling out the injustices of social and financial deprivation, and by walking in the footsteps of Jesus in the darkest of places.

    Growth will come where ministers are not shackled by carrying the weight of so much expectation with so little resource, but are instead enabled to offer more than soup and a sandwich, a prayer and a blessing. It will come if we can offer a radical distribution of the extraordinary and sometime repulsive wealth that is within the Church of England, wealth that will enable churches and church leaders to challenge injustice. The Church of England needs to fight for an end to foodbanks and to stop celebrating soup kitchens as great bastions of pastoral care; instead giving us the tools to stir, not just soup, but hearts and minds. The church should enable us to make a difference, and should hold those in power accountable to make a cultural change to how we serve the poor in mind, body and spirit.

    Churches do make a difference; they offer wonderful Christian witness. But they are so often held back by financial woes and lack of opportunities. I hope and pray that the motion passed at Synod leads to change and makes a difference to how much support is offered to our estates. The motion provides a route map to recovery, a route map to growth: what is important now is we all travel in the same direction.

     

     

     

  • Response to the ‘Letter from Seven Bishops’: A Theology of Inclusion

    by Fr Alex Frost, Vicar of St Matthews, Burnley and member of General Synod

    After reading the recent document around the Doctrine of Marriage and today’s sequel by seven Church of England Bishops, I wanted to ask myself: Am I, and others like me, wrong in all this? Have I been hoodwinked by a bunch of liberal-minded weirdoes who have all simultaneously jumped on a bandwagon of inclusion? Have I just been swept along in a sea of rainbow-coloured waters with an ever-increasing empathy towards vegetarians and vegans and people who have partners of the same sex? Has this heterosexual, former new romantic, a man married in a registry office, sexually active with a son before marriage, just bought into the narrative of same sex attraction and inclusion for all? Have I been led astray by a plethora of heretical charlatans acting in the inclusive name of Jesus Christ; have I been secretly deceived by leaders of the wrong pack rather than the shepherds of the sheep?

    Well, I decided to investigate a little further and started at the Church of England website A place to belong, which opens with an encouraging and opening proclamation: We all want our churches to be places of welcome for all, and indeed we believe that church communities are only whole when they include everyone.

    Knowing that not to be true, after some unpleasant placements as a pre-ordination candidate, I decided to look elsewhere as is my academic freedom to do – and just as was the Bishop of Newcastle’s decision to step back from her role as a LLF Lead Bishop. Of course, all the assumptions and points raised by the seven Bishops come from a place of integrity. I don’t for a minute doubt that they believe that what they write is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I understand that they think the biblical texts are true, the word of God, and that if they are the word of God they are to be unquestioned and to be implemented at all times and in all circumstances. I get it, I get it, I get it!

    But of course, one of the problems our church has is that we don’t all come to faith at the same time, with the same experiences, with the same blind assurance of literal belief in the Bible that the authors of the recent publication share. Many people turn to faith in times of sadness, uncertainty, disappointment, or hardship. I’m not sure how many new followers of Christ become Christians out of untold joy and happiness in their lives. That’s certainly not been my experience in my nearly 9 years as a man in Holy Orders. I also think people in our society are encouraged to challenge, debate, consider different views of opinion. They just will not accept that, to become part of this or that denomination, this faith or that religion you must sign up to a ‘you must believe this, or you can’t come in’ model, unless of course they have been indoctrinated to literal interpretation of what truth is from a very young age. Which raises a question… Is liberal Christian simply a heretical entry into church from the secular world? Or is it a legitimate gift from God, wanting to use the full talents and gifts of academic thinking beyond the traditional and conservative evangelical narrative?

    Where might myself and more conservative thinking theologians share some common ground, then? Maybe in agreeing that many problems in the world are because of people turning away from Christ, or not even knowing Jesus, which is very much the case in many of our secular schools. Maybe we share some common ground in that we both want our relationships to be loving, kind, trustworthy, honest, faithful, and lifelong. Maybe our common ground is that we both love Jesus and his church, and we will do all we can to preserve it and stay together. Maybe our common ground is that we all find it deeply upsetting that now we seem angry and apathetic, like many estranged brothers and sisters and families. Maybe the best theological advice we can give, not only to our Bishops but to one another, is to be kinder, more tolerant and to work towards a ‘settlement’ that recognises difference in the house of God, in the name of God.

    Maybe we have to ‘reset’ to a place of unequivocal agreement, that we love one another and that he loves us. Surely the common ground is that we all know what Jesus’ primary commandment was: to love one another, despite evidence I have witnessed to the contrary. But despite those failings our language should and will reflect that commandment, always, because when it doesn’t it steps out of the minimum entry requirement to follow Jesus. For millions of Christians, the words of the Bible are literal, and for millions of Christians they are not, and so we have a square that will never fit the circle. That should not mean condemnation for fellow Christians but, as in the secular world, I do believe a path forward will only be found in a way of compassion and compromise. Glimpsing eternity through a virgin bride or groom, is quite a scary and un-inclusive thought; quite poetic and romantic, but sadly not realistic. Many people can’t live up to the expectation which some theologians set before them. Gay people, certainly gay Christians, can’t conform to the doctrinal narrative laid down before them and nor should they have to. And nor should they be threatened with the assurance of eternal damnation. Many people have turned away from, or ignored, a journey of faith because it appears cruel, mean-hearted, misogynistic, intimidating. Or, even worse, they have first-hand experiences of those things.

    I don’t ever want Christians who believe something with integrity and assurance to be made to do something or accept something they don’t want to do. But I also don’t want these people to stop others doing something which they want to do, which they want to do with the utmost, honesty integrity and in good faith. If people think my desire to embrace and celebrate same sex relationships and a fully inclusive agenda comes from a place of heresy, or even from the devil, I can’t convince you otherwise and I’m sorry. But I write in Jesus’ name, as a devout Christian, but from a place of difference. A place that witnesses addiction, death, violence, and torment daily, yet a community still loved by Jesus although he is sadly unknown to many of them. Through our outreach we have become a bit of a haven, to the broken, the lonely and the lost. They have been devoured by the wolves and, somehow, they have landed at our door. Their restoration comes through acknowledgment of their experience and struggles, and there is a building of trust. The boundaries many of them hold are in a place far removed from the ideology of biblical narrative that is set in stone as the one they must adhere to. Their starting point for Christian healing and wellbeing comes from a place of acceptance and they can come as they are. Illiterate, ravaged by life, criminals, destitute, and lost.

    It is my view that Christianity will thrive once more in our country when we turn our faces towards the marginalised, by restoring them by a practical theology rather than a doctrinal theology. In restoring others in this way, it is my prayer we may restore ourselves in the process.