ViaMedia

Tag: healing

  • 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?

     

     

     

     

  • Winded After the Death of LLF

    by the Very Revd David Monteith, Dean of Canterbury

    Much metaphorical ink has already been spilt on the announcement from the House of Bishops of the death of Living in Love and Faith (LLF).  These reflections add nothing to that discourse but are an attempt to articulate something of what this announcement does to the likes of me as a person.  I had intellectually concluded months ago that LLF was terminally ill, but the actual death notice has a far deeper impact.

    Firstly, the document was issued about a process not about people.  It wasn’t in any way a pastoral letter to the church. I used to mark draft pastoral letters on ordinand selection conferences.  This would not have cut muster.  The same depersonalising dynamics have gone on at nearly every stage of this process.  This just doesn’t upset one or two people as Archbishop Stephen suggested. This is gut wrenching and hurtful for those of us most impacted. It seems there is need to return to a basic course in pastoral care.

    Secondly, this multiplies our shame which so many of us have and still experience as LGBT+ people in our families, churches and neighbourhoods. Dealing with internalised homophobia is often a life’s work for many of us, with the kindly welcome and acceptance by our Christian communities often being a key part of that healing. I found my life and heart constrict as I received this news once again; being told loudly and clearly that our minority lives and loves must remain marginal, hidden and uncatered-for like a vegetarian in 1980s France.

    Thirdly, I am asked to carry the public shame of this as a priest and in my case as the Dean of Canterbury.  Images of our cathedral accompany the press stories of ‘bishops do U-turns on gay blessing’ headlines. No matter what I do or say or no matter how I care or try to love others here, the iconography is clear: that LGBT+ people are never fully welcome here.  I am embarrassed and feel a deep sense of personal moral injury without even any remaining left-over crumbs to offer.

    Fourthly, the social media storms of recent days about our graffiti exhibition so often focussed on the fact that we worked with marginalised communities. This means I was ‘woke’ and what else was to be expected since I was in a gay relationship.  These vulnerable young people asked far from marginal questions; they were those all of us might ask. The haters piled in with force and now they have even more reason to pile in again. What could I say when these young folks asked me if the church excluded them? What could I honestly say?

    Fifthly, I realise that all this is so niche and of none or little concern to many people in the church, unlike for those in the wider world who mostly do not comprehend why love does not mean love.  None of my clergy colleagues have enquired as to how I am doing.  No one from the bishop’s staff on which I sit have said a word. None have even alluded to noticing that the bishops had issued their conclusions. Nothing.  We are invisible despite being present and our cares and concerns are best kept to our own little minority lives.

    Sixthly, this invisibility intensifies all the other experiences of invisibility. For example, when giving a talk and the last part of my biography is omitted; when a bishop asked me to make sure my partner was not around when certain clergy visited; when as a new Dean I didn’t get invitations from the county set because they didn’t want to invite my partner but were too polite to want to enact a social snub so didn’t invite me either. Being told directly never to mention my sexuality when dealing with visiting bishops from the Communion unless they brought it up, because many would see me as possessed. Talk about making me disappear. So many active processes, not just passive assumptions.

    Seventhly, there is little likelihood of anything improving and every likelihood of things getting much worse for LGBT+ people.  Many agree that it is now far harder for us in the church than it was 30+ years ago. The tide is turning in the world with gains in equality now being questioned and many, including me, are fearful that what we see with far-right parties elsewhere, we may see here too. From early in ministry, I learnt to respect bishops but not to trust them.  I couldn’t begin to make a list of the broken promises and quiet assurances that ‘all will be well’. When the chips are down for the church, both the institution and her leaders find us an easy victim to hurt in playing out politics of so-called normality. Why else was my sexuality highlighted when I was trying to uphold safeguarding during the departure of the last archbishop?  I don’t think we can trust the church to defend us if such a terrible day came. We would not justify care.

    Eighthly, I have bent over backwards over the years to be gracious and kind, to not walk away from the table, to become vulnerable in sharing my self in conversations and dialogue.  I have listened to those of a conservative view with grace.  I have watched them behave despicably in meetings, soaking up their violence against me and mine and so often with an annoying smile. Following Archbishop Rowan’s insight, I remember that unity is the quest which keeps on asking ‘who is not here?’ rather than ‘you do or do not belong’.  But it is exhausting and sapping of limited energies. Non-reciprocation of generosity breaks the relationship and yet apparently it is me bringing disunity to the church?

    Ninthly, many of us simply slog our guts out day in day out. This news has winded me and made me see that no significant change is likely in my life span. The sense of being an ‘alien in the household of God’ grows. As a Dean I spend a lot of energy on taking care not to demoralise our teams, despite the challenges, and to look forward hopefully.  There is no hope for significant change in the C of E with respect to LGBT+ people yet many of us are stuck having given our life to this ministry yet not being able to afford to retire nor having the heart to abandon our sense of calling.  Pay us all off to get rid of us and I may just rethink, if that is really where you want to head! Why, if you really do think that we are living without true repentance and are unworthy of blessings, do you not just get rid of us as that is the conclusion of the logic now received in this settled view ?

    Tenthly and finally, this is akin to a bereavement with all the usual feelings and thoughts.  I have no idea what to grieve well looks like in this situation. Of course, I can rely on the church and the bishops not to provide me with any assistance on that. In one theory of bereavement, key to recovery is to invest in the new future beyond the loss. The problem for me is that no new future is articulated in any way for LGBT+ people.  That which was perhaps previously imagined is killed off. The hollow words of apology never came to anything. Micro aggressions and visceral fear and anger continue to be experienced by us. The new Christian Inclusion is but fantasy. Apparently, as the bullies of old told me in school, I am to take it on the chin ‘like a man’ (clearly a heterosexual one) and just let these acts of violence and harm keep on coming.

    Perhaps the only lasting hope might be another victim who also had to take it – that is about all that remains.

     

  • Bodies at Prayer

    by Dr Karen O’Donnell, Director of Studies at Westcott House Cambridge where she teaches Worship and Liturgy. She also teaches Gender and Christian Theology for the Divinity Faculty, University of Cambridge. She has published widely in trauma and feminist theologies.

    As I’m writing this, I’m recovering from surgery on my spine to relieve a herniated disc that has been causing me serious problems for the last year or so. I’m conscious of my body in ways that are not usual to me; of the slight ache at the bottom of my back and that I’ll need to get up and stretch soon. I’m also conscious of the way in which this relatively minor injury has impacted my ability to pray. Just before Easter, as term was coming to an end, I entered Westcott’s chapel toward the end of a day for Evening Prayer. It’s a ritual I enjoy as it marks the end of my working day and helps me transition into the evening with my family. On this particular evening, my back was really painful. I hobbled down to the chapel and sat down in my usual seat. This evening, however, I found that I just couldn’t sit on the hard pew. I couldn’t stand for any length of time and I couldn’t sit down either. My body was in too much pain to pray.

    It is at times like this that we notice the place of our bodies at prayer: when they struggle to conform to our expectations, or when they are in pain. The rest of the time, we’re quite good at ignoring our bodies when we pray. Unlike our Muslim sisters and brothers, we do not have a set pattern of bodily movements to engage in when we pray. It is easy for prayer to become a cerebral thing –something that happens in our heads. Our bodies are (or can seem to be, at least!) largely superfluous.

    This isn’t new and is, I argue, a long-lasting result of the influence of Greek philosophy in the early church. The brilliant Hillary McBride charts the development of this thought in Christianity like this:

    We did not find our way to a disembodied existence on our own: we had millennia of help. Western philosophy and Gnostic religious thought influenced a popular line of thinking that goes something like this: The soul and the mind are distinct from the body (that’s Plato). The mind is where the truth is, but the body has needs, desires, and limitations (that’s Descartes, and some translations of the apostle Paul). Around the same time as Descartes lived, the Christian Reformation happened, which emphasized our mind’s ability to grasp the who and what of God: feminist and liberation theologians have written that this put the body in the straitjacket. (1)

    The result of this understanding of the body is that the body has been feared and distrusted and it is something that many spiritual seekers across the centuries have felt they have to transcend and subdue in order to make spiritual progress. When we bring our bodies to worship it is often as a problem that needs to be solved – a body that needs to be healed, a body that has accessibility requirements, a body that is in some way different to the other bodies around it. What might it mean to come into prayer recognising that we are our bodies, our bodies are not neutral, and that our bodies are not problems that need to be solved before we can really pray?

    In his new book, A Body of Praise: Understanding the Role of our Physical Bodies in Worship, W. David O. Taylor takes these questions seriously as he explores the ways in which our physical bodies engage in worship (2).  Christian liturgy – corporate, public acts of worship – is disposed to engaging the body. Not only does liturgy require our bodies in order to engage with worship (indeed, our bodies are the entrances into worship and sacrament), but Christian liturgy has great opportunity for embodied engagement.

    I used to be part of a very charismatic evangelical church and, as a youth leader, would regularly attend youth camps/festivals that included highly produced times of worship – a large rock band, lights, images, projections – all of which were, at times, accused of being manipulative. Perhaps these components were, but more traditional aspects of Christian worship do similar things. Yes, material things like incense, flowers, candles, art, architecture, the sharing of the Peace, participation in the Eucharist all have richly symbolic theological meanings but they also serve to make our worship distinctly sensory. Our senses are deeply connected to our memories, meaning that the way in which we encounter worship in our bodies can be profound. In our olfactory senses, for example, “odors take a direct route to the limbic system, including the amygdala and the hippocampus, the regions related to emotion and memory” (3).  The smell of incense, for me, is the smell of the divine.

    In a culture that has a curious relationship to bodies, sometimes acting as if completely disembodied, sometimes treating the body as something to be subdued and tamed, sometimes celebrating bodies, sometimes ignoring them completely, it is important that our spiritual encounters – both individual and corporate – attend positively to our bodies. It is important that we remember that it is only through our bodies that we encounter and come into relationship with God. It is through our bodies that we enter into prayer and liturgy. It’s not manipulative to engage the senses in worship but rather a mode of curating embodied encounter with God. It is important in our worshipping lives that we don’t replicate the dualistic ideologies of Greek philosophy but rather recognise the sense of whole being that is being human. Our bodies are not problems to solve in order that our minds or souls might be able to pray. Rather our bodies are how we pray; the very places in which we meet God.

    Notes
    (1) Hillary L. McBride, The Wisdom of Your Body: Finding Healing, Wholeness, and Connection through Embodied Living (Brazos Press, 2021), 215.
    (2) W. David O. Taylor, A Body of Praise: Understanding the Role of Our Physical Bodies in Worship (Baker Books, 2023).
    (3) Colleen Walsh, “How Scent, Emotion, and Memory Are Intertwined — and Exploited,” Harvard Gazette (blog), February 27, 2020, https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2020/02/how-scent-emotion-and-memory-are-intertwined-and-exploited/.