Drugs shame cop jailed

This morning the front page of our local paper made me sad.

‘Drugs shame cop jailed’ shouted the headline. The story was about a young police sergeant who’d been caught trying to give illegal drugs to ‘as he tried to seduce a young man’ in a gay bar.

I only caught a glimpse of it as I ran out of the front door, late for work (again). I don’t know the backstory (can we ever, really?) But it made me reflect on the unhappiness of this young police officer’s situation. Yes, he’s done wrong, broken the law, and that’s particularly serious for a policeman. But I sense a sad struggle in the background.

I know a bit about Rainbows, the bar he was in because a number of my friends – gay and straight – have mentioned what a friendly, open, accepting place it is. It’s widely known as one of the most chilled out, peaceful venues in the city.

And then I imagine this young officer there. Is he desperate for some acceptance? Looking for some relief? Has he struggled with his sexual identity? Wrestled with what others may think of him? Felt the conflict between his public position and his private world? What drove him to the crazy risk of using drugs to try to buy love?

And I see in my mind’s eye that police sergeant’s face, as pictured on the front of the paper. A photo taken as his guilty verdict was announced. Grief. Broken. Hopeless. Finished.

My heart went out to him.

And it stirred in me again the strong desire for our community, our church, to be a place where all can come, no matter what ‘guilty’ verdicts hang over them, no matter what struggles they have and try to hide. I want to be part of a community like Rainbows, but even better. A community where all are accepted, welcomed, loved – as they are. And we can walk on together, all broken, all heading for a better future because God accepts us all – as we are.

Passing the baton

Last night two ex-students of mine came for dinner. They’re a great pair and I always enjoy the thought-provoking discussions we have when they come. They’re both Christians, but badly disillusioned with church. So much so that by their own admission they can’t really contemplate being part of one.

They love (I think) coming to our community and there’s genuine friendship there, but they’d run a mile (I think) at the thought of joining us. Not especially because it would challenge them; more that it’s all a little too ‘pre-packaged’ and they’ve got too many painful questions to easily accept our ‘answers’.

It chimed in a little with something I’ve been thinking about: the challenge of winning a new generation. Like in a relay race (there’s my topical reference; good eh?), the handover of the baton is a crucial part of running a good race. Raising up a new generation is crucial to a movement’s ongoing life.

In any transition from one generation to another there is the crucial importance of taking all that the previous generation have found (often at cost) and passing it onto the rising generation. Yet there’s also the importance of taking the risk of letting the new generation truly be just that: new. Of letting it wrestle with some questions in order to find its own answers. It may even have to repeat some of the mistakes the previous generation made, and invest some pain in learning things the hard way.

That way, a generation will come to hold a movement as truly its own.

It’s the difference between passing on a vision and passing on a blueprint. A vision catches hearts, stirs aspiration – but it doesn’t bolt everything down too tightly. A blueprint defines everything, leaves nothing to chance. A vision produces a movement; a blueprint produces a machine.

The blueprint option feels safer, feels right, precisely because it eliminates risk and leaves nothing to chance. Yet I suspect it produces two basic responses in a rising generation: rebellion (in its leader-types) or passivity (in its follower-types). Neither are much cop – and castigating the former and being over optimistic about the latter will not achieve much either.

I was intrigued to read bible scholar Walter Brueggemann’s comments about the last chapter of Deuteronomy (a chapter of generational transfer if ever there was one). Here’s what Brueggemann wrote (with the phrases that leapt out at me in bold):

[There is a] gap as wide as the Jordan, between the end of Deuteronomy and the beginning of Joshua... When the reader enters the Jordan and the land and the book of Joshua, Moses and Deuteronomy are finished. Fresh faith and fresh strategies are required under new leadership. The “new generation” of Israel represented by Joshua must now take form. This is “your little ones” [1:39] in “the next generation” [29:22] upon whom the tradition has its hopeful eye. The discontinuity is clear, a discontinuity necessary if Israel is to have a life beyond recalcitrance. Thus the new generation does not need to pay forever for the failures of the old [24:16]. At the same time, of course, the tradition insists that the new generation does not appear in history de novo. These are “your children” who must be fully inculcated into the story of wonders and into the demands of Torah that are the premise of life in the land. Thus the tricky relationship of new and old, of discontinuity and continuity, is much on the mind of this tradition, for the covenant is “for all of us here alive today” [5:3], but also for “those who are not with us here today” [29:15]... [This text is] powerfully contemporary for every generation that finds itself pondering old miracles, trusting old memories, heeding old commands, and always again entering new territory of promise.

I know that when something’s on your mind, it can seem to crop up everywhere, so I wasn’t altogether surprised when, this morning, I read something Tom Wright wrote which seemed to be about the same thing.

He tells the story of how he was invited to go and preach at the school he attended as a boy. It was ‘one of those annual events where we were supposed to remember the great pioneers who had founded the school’.

‘I pointed out something very odd was going on,’ writes Wright. ‘Each one of the men and women we were honouring had been innovators. They had been the ones who dared to do things differently, to go in a new direction despite the people who wanted to keep things as they were. But we, by reading out a list of their names in a solemn voice, and by holding them up as our founding figures, were in danger of doing the opposite: of saying that we wanted everything to stay the way it had always been. Do you honour the memory of an innovator by slavishly following what they did, or by daring to be different in your turn?’

I couldn’t help thinking of our Jesus Army founder, Noel Stanton, who died three years ago, nothing if not a visionary and a force to be reckoned with. I, among others, am tasked with taking his vision forward. Yet one of the great abilities Noel had was the ability to contradict himself. If he felt an emphasis or direction had outlived its purpose, that new ones were necessary, he wouldn’t flinch (even when almost everyone else was reeling). He was an innovator to the core. We had at least one major revolution every decade – and many minor ones between (if you want a flavour, try to imagine a deep, rural, Anabaptist-influenced community becoming Jesus Army, an urban missionary fighting force in the space of about five years.)

It may not be right for my two ex-students to join us. Our answers may not be their answers, though I do pray they won’t drift on the tide of their questions forever. But God help us find, call, envision and train a new generation.

And God help us not try to give them all the answers. God help us let them be innovators.

Sunk without you

At our recent big church bash Ian, one of the Jesus Army's main leaders, spoke about "covenant".

We call the commitment made by core members of the Jesus Army a "covenant". It's a mutual promise to be faithful to God together and to live out His calling to be a Jesus army (and not without its controversies; for instance, some have seen it as too limiting: “why commit to just one church?”) I’d say it was one of our key strengths, a confirmation of the real brotherhood and unity we share.

One thing that Ian said jumped at me with real freshness. I captured it with a tweet as he spoke: ‘Covenant commitment is not a super-spiritual pledge for holy people, but a survival pact for people who know they’re weak.’

All too often we can see things like covenant commitment as an attainment, as a plateau inhabited by the spiritual. In fact, it’s a recognition of need.

I cannot be a Christian on my own. Others may be able to sustain an isolated discipleship; I can’t. I need my covenant brothers and sisters and I need them to stay with me or I’m sunk.

I cannot stop sinning on my own. Others may be able to achieve solitary sanctification; I can’t. Without brothers to hear my sordid confessions and cheer me on along the upward road to (an, in this life, always approximate) holiness, I’d degenerate fast.

I cannot believe in God on my own. Others may have mightier faith than I; I need the reality of brotherhood if faith in God is to be anything more than just a theory (and one that I might well abandon when the chips are down).

What’s more, it isn’t enough for me to just have some brothers and sisters walking with me part of the road. I need them the whole way – or I won’t make it. What’s more, if I don’t promise, very clearly, to stay on the road with them, I’d be off into a siding in no time.

So I promise. I covenant. I need to.

It occurred to me last night – after an evening of wonderful relaxed eating and laughing with those I live with, in community – that Christian community is much the same. Some see living in community with all things in common as a lofty pinnacle (or at any rate something “for the most committed”).

Really?

If you can have your own money and not love it, you are more advanced as a Christian than I am. I need to have no money, to share all my money – otherwise money-love would get me (maybe subtly, maybe outright, but I promise you it would be there.) I take my hat off to those who evade money-love without a common purse. I’m just not up to their standard. I’ll take the easier path please.

I’ll live in community.

Choose life

And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. And they were saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance of the tomb?’ And looking up, they saw that the stone had been rolled back. (Mark 16:2-4)

Disappointment can dog anyone.

It can get a group down, too. At White Stone we’ve had our fair share of disappointment over the years (mingled I should say with a good deal of joy and achievement). People whose stories didn’t turn out as happily as we’d hoped; tensions that proved difficult to resolve happily; stubborn health problems; growth slow despite effort and prayer.

A result of this has been a certain loss of sparkle. We started as a team of bright-eyed idealists, sent  ten years ago from our ‘mother house’ on the other side of the city, full of dreams.

We spoke in those days of our household having a ‘character of worship’. A little grandiose, perhaps (and those words should describe any church), but it gives a flavour of our early idealism. I believe God was in it, even if it was mixed with copious amounts of youthful naivety.

We’ve gained much. Breadth and stickability. We’ve learnt to pace ourselves (sometimes the hard way, as we’ve taken turns to bump along the bottom of burnout). We’ve learnt that love means longsuffering and that it isn’t neat and tidy and that we can live with that, even celebrate it. We’ve learnt some wisdom (I hope).

And yet. Could it be that when we gather to worship and pray together we’re – dull? A touch dowdy in spirit? Is it possible to worship God whilst slumped in an armchair and staring into the middle distance (‘the hands in my heart are raised’)? Could it be that spiritual gifts are a wee bit ‘same old’ (‘I saw a picture of God as a shepherd and us as his sheep’)?

Recently poleaxed again by one of our members going through some personal difficulties and having to move out, the spirit level sunk lower still.

And then, well – God spoke.

I don’t want to over egg the cake. I’m not claiming that we were all subject to an epiphany, a blinding revelation. But God has spoken to us.

First, he spoke through Colossians 3 which happened to come round in our cycle of bible readings. As we together chewed over its call to ‘put off the old and put on the new’ and to live for the body of Christ, God spoke. Then, a week or so later, a younger leader reminded us of the call to have ‘a character of worship’. A worship time of more than usual tenderness followed (not revival, granted, but tender nevertheless). Then, another day, another leader, quoting Moses’ call to Israel, called us to ‘choose life’ in all the situations where we might ‘choose death’ through unforgiveness or resentment or whatever. (Read some more of his reflections on this here.)

It’s all combined to be a word of light in a dark place. God has made it possible for us to throw off the grave clothes, the old reactions and selfishness. We can rise in worship, not dominated by our poor old souls, with their thoughts and feelings of failure and hurt. We can choose life.

Then, to cap it all, our local pastor spoke last Sunday about ‘resurrection life’: how, though Christ, we can know a power of LIFE working in us which enables us to overcome and endure – and to shine.

It’s not that everything in the garden is rosy, but it’s strengthening to know that God hasn’t left us, that he is guiding us.

The Road

I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Finished it last night. Here's my review:

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Both bleak and beautiful. The bleakness emanates from the scorched landscape, external and internal, we travel with this father and son; the beauty from the love between them.

Some have called this achingly sad novel a warning. I can see why. But I think, in a very strange way, it's also a celebration - of all that we have, all we too often don't appreciate, and of love, the greatest and frailest gift of all.

View all my reviews

Jonah moaner (part 2)

I've written about Jonah before. And last Sunday I talked to the good Jesus Army people in Coventry about him - particularly about the episode with the plant (Jonah 4 – not as famous as the episode with the whale, but just as instructive).

With Jonah's help, I explored anger.

Reminiscent of the older brother in Jesus' "Lost Son" story, Jonah is displeased at God’s grace. Before we leap to say ‘How wrong!’ (and, yes, he's undoubtedly wrong) we should remember that Nineveh had terrorised and brutalised the world including Jonah's own people.

Grace is scandalous. If you've stopped being shocked by it, beware. Maybe grace has left you behind. Maybe you're left with a tidy religious system. The fact is grace had burst out of control in Jonah's eyes. Things hadn’t turned out how Jonah wanted – or thought they should.

Result: he was angry. And he expressed it! "Therefore now, O Lord, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live." This is a full-scale, spit-your-dummy-out, not-playing-anymore strop.

So what does God say? “You are wrong to be angry with the righteous God and therefore I will smite thee and strike you down with lightening until all that remains is a small patch of burnt ground”?

Well, no. God asks a question: “Do you do well to be angry?” This is tender; this is grace; this is God honouring Jonah’s humanity and dignity.

But Jonah's not yet ready to have his anger questioned or probed. He retires to the sidelines ("to the east of the city") – as people often do when they’re hurt – and finds his comfort in lesser things – as people often do when they’re hurt.

Three divine ‘appointments’ show God's grace towards Jonah. The first is comforting – the "plant" – the second disturbing – the "worm" – the third downright provoking – the "scorching east wind". God won't abandon Jonah to soul-destroying rage. He comforts – but then He provokes his anger further; brings it to the surface to be dealt with.

Ever seen two riled guys with one saying ‘Come on! Come on!’ and giving the other little pushes to start a fight? Well – here's God doing the divine equivalent of just that. Jonah is sinking into his unexpressed anger and God provokes and pushes – and asks again: "Do you do well to be angry?"  And this time God gets a response: "YES! Yes I do well enough to be angry! Angry enough to die!"

Anger is powerful: God help us, we must learn how to handle it. "Anger is like an accelerator in a car" says  Myra Chave-Jones in her book, Living with Anger; "when a learner it has startling power, but with experience it becomes an extension of ourselves and can be used without anxiety or threat."

In a similar vein, Eugene Peterson (of The Message fame) points out that anger is "useful as a diagnostic tool" (it points out that something is wrong), but less useful in that it fails to tell us "whether the wrong is inside or outside of us".

Anger expressed in temper can be very destructive, can be sin, as James points out in the New Testament. God grows self-control in us.

But anger bottled up and denied can also lead to sin. And sometimes that sin is worse; longer-term, deeper rooted. It can lead to entrenched attitudes, unbelief – and outbreaks of rage over other, smaller, things. Anger denied becomes a cold, grey, but very flammable sludge inside the soul. A spark can set it blazing!

"What happens to anger once it is censured?" asks theologian Lytta Basset in her book, Holy Anger. "Repressed anger falls upon an innocent person: the anger of the employer falls on the employee, of the parent on the child, of the child on the younger brother or sister, who takes it out on the cat!"

Paul gives a command in the New Testament, which is really two commands: "Be angry and do not sin." Be angry - don't deny it! But do not sin - work it out rightly! Paul is citing Psalm 4:4, which goes on to give an example of working through, of handling, of dealing with, anger: "Be angry, and do not sin; ponder in your own hearts on your beds, and be silent."

Ponder it! Work it through! Question it, probe it, discover its source and cause. On your own (who hasn't had a sleepless night working through anger over one thing or another?) and with others. Sometimes, with serious anger over serious hurts, counselling can help.

Only this way can we avoid anger becoming murder - figuratively or literally. Only then can anger be used can be "used without anxiety or threat".

René Girard, French historian, literary critic, and social philosopher, warns us about undealt-with anger: "[There is a] tendency, universal among human beings, to unburden their accumulated violence on another, a substitute victim... Scapegoats continue to exist... Everywhere and always, when humans cannot or dare not attack the object of their anger, they unconsciously look for substitutes, and most of the time they find them."

When Paul adds "Don’t let the sun go down on your anger" he means something like "deal with your anger before it goes cold". There's a time to "count to ten" to avoid temper outbursts. There's a time to "ponder in your heart on your bed" to work anger through. But don't bury it – "don’t let the sun go down" –  don’t deny it or put it off!

Most anger ends up at God sooner or later if let to run its course. Anger at God needs particular care – but it also can provide a gateway into liberation because God is the one who is supremely able to receive our rage, our fury, our hurt and wounded sense of wrong done – and take it.

So Jonah, provioked by God, expresses his anger to God. The painful honesty of the dialogue with God that follows has the potential to open up new perspectives ("Should not I pity Nineveh, that great city?")

We don't know how it ends with Jonah. His book ends, tantalisingly, with a question mark. Maybe, like Cain, he refused God's provovation and sank into murderous violence. Maybe, like Job, he had it out with God and made it through into peace. Maybe like Paul, he had to go round the block a few times. Maybe like Jesus, God stressed him out to the point of illness.

We're all angry. God give us grace to tell Him. To work it through. To find the peace that He wants to give us.

Ten ‘other’ commandments

Some of us are inclined to try too hard. If you're like that, you may find these ten 'alternative' commandments (which a friend wrote for me a while back after a prolonged time of trying too hard that had left me pretty burnt out) helpful:

Thou shalt not be perfect, nor even try to be.
Thou shalt not try to be all things to all people.
Thou shalt leave undone things that ought to be done.
Thou shalt not spread thyself to thin.
Thou shalt learn to say ‘no’.
Thou shalt schedule time for thyself and thy supportive network.
Thou shalt switch off and do nothing regularly.
Thou shalt be boring, untidy, inelegant and unattractive at times.
Thou shalt not even feel guilty.
Especially thou shalt not be thine own worst enemy but be thy best friend.

Full volume

On Saturday, the Jesus Army turned up its collective, creative, technical, organisational, inspirational volume to full.

More than a thousand of us marched (danced, sang and pirouetted) our way from Hyde Park Corner to Traflagar Square. There we celebrated Jesus for three hours with music, dance, drama, testimony...

It was a great day. The sun shined (as did the Son).

One of the best things we ever do...

(Have a look at some more pics at the JA Facebook page, here.)

Pincompetant

So. I decided to check out Pinterest, the latest big thing in social media, a kind of Twitter for pictures.

Having got myself 'invited', I set up a 'board' called 'Inspirational', searched Pinterest for pictures tagged 'Jesus', and found a picture graphically declaring a suitably (to my mind at any rate) inspirational motto: 'Church is who we are not where we go.'

So I 'repinned' it to my 'Inspirational' board (get me!)

Flushed with success, I thought I'd go for broke and add a comment, too. 'Yes!' I wrote, as a heartfelt amen to the sentiments expressed in the worthy little pic.

Unfortunately, I reckoned without that tendency of computers to treat rookies as prey. My comment somehow appended itself to a different image: one of a little purple flower in a field of grass.

I'll go on record as liking flowers. Yet, I confess, I was a little piqued that my first comment on Pinterest was a 'yes' (complete with exclamation mark no less) for an image that, frankly, made me appear a wee bit - shall we say - schmultzy.

But worse was to follow. Looking closer at the flower pic, I discovered that it was accompanied by a text, also prettily purple. It said, 'Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you punish him with the rod he shall not die. (Proverbs 23:13 (NIV)'.

There are, I doubt not, some deep and wise principles underlying this Solomonic text. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be my choice for a text to accompany a flower. Furthermore, and more importantly to me personally, it wouldn't be a text likely to draw my unqualified, nay enthusiastic, agreement - my 'yes' (complete with exclamation mark).

So far, my Pinterest profile appears to be emerging as a sentimental religious weirdo.

Hey ho. If the pin sticks, I may have to wear it.

Talk talk

A friend asked me how I plan a talk. 'Do you aim for three points or intro, middle, end, or what?' he asked. 'Or both?'

Of course, I responded that for it to be an evangelical sermon worth its salt, it categorically must have three points all beginning with the same letter. That was a joke. I didn't really say that (no offence to those wedded to the alliterative approach).

Actually, in all seriousness, I do think the 'three points beginning with p' approach is based on a fairly fundamental mistake preachers and speakers can make: namely that people are going to remember what we say. It's a bubble burster this, but they almost never will.

What people remember is how you made them feel.

That is worth thinking about. ('It's not what you say it's the way that you say it'..)

So I didn't say 'three points beginning with p'. I did quote another friend who once said about planning a talk: 'Say what you're going to say, then say it, then say what you just said!' In other words, one main point, reinforced three times.

I like this, though I confess I'm rarely so disciplined in my talks. I tend to think 'intro' (warm your listeners up with an apt story or joke - and if you can't think of an apt one go for one self-evidently and self-deprecatingly inapt), 'main bit' (usually based on scripture, directly or indirectly, and I try to put the scripture up on the screen), and 'summary' (reinforce the main point).

Also I almost always project pictures to go with my talk, even if they seem non-essential, because they engage a different part of people's brain and keep them with me.

In some settings, and for longer talks, it can be good to break for a few minutes and get people talking to each other in pairs about some related question. This refreshes concentration and helps people actively engage with the topic.

Lastly, there's nothing better than genuine passion and nothing worse then hype (and I've done both over the years!)

Hero

Extracts from a gospel message I brought at Coventry Jesus Centre recently.

We all have heroes. Some are our heroes for deep and profound reasons; others less so (my wife for instance has a great liking for Daniel Craig which I suspect has something to do with turquoise eyes and chiselled features).

Then there are those characters in stories (page and screen) that appeal to our hunger for heroes. Nobility, self-sacrifice, strength.

What do the following four heroes have in common? Aslan from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; Neo from The Matrix; Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars; Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings?

Answer: they all have aspects of their heroism that – in some cases deliberately – echo that of Jesus. Aslan, the kingly lion, whom CS Lewis created as an explicitly Messianic figure, was killed and rose again; Neo was ‘The One’ who was prophesied; similarly, Anakin Skywalker’s coming was prophesied; and Gandalf, created by CS Lewis’s great friend JRR Tolkien, while not allegorical like Aslan, reflected Christ in his own death, defending his friends from the dreadful, demonic ‘Balrog’, later returning as from death ‘at the turning of the tide’.

Watch a rather well-spliced together selection of Gandalf clips from the Lord of the Rings films here:



I love this moment in the film. “You shall not pass!” bellows Gandalf, smiting the bridge with his staff. He defends the Fellowship from the Balrog, but at the cost of his own life.

It reminded me of a scene from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, which I recently finished reading. The Italian soldiers, including Corelli and his men, are being rounded up and massacred by the Nazis. As they face the firing squad, Corelli is grabbed by Carlo, a giant among his men who is devoted to him. Gripping Corelli, Carlo takes all the bullets for him, counting to 30 before dropping back onto his beloved Captain. Against all odds, Corelli survives.

And it reminds me of Jesus.

All the powers of evil – violent evil, political evil, religious evil, spiritual evil, the evil of betrayal, the evil of desolation, every kind of evil – drew themselves to their full height and flung themselves at Jesus on the cross. And He opened His arms wide and declared, in effect, ‘You shall not pass’.

He took our bullets.

He stopped evil in its tracks, refusing to keep it in circulation by the everlasting pattern of revenge, ‘an eye for an eye (and take an ear while you’re at it)’. ‘Father forgive’ He prayed – and evil lost its power, exhausted itself, spent itself utterly.

Now Jesus comes to us ‘at the turning of the tide’ and He says to us: come and join Me beyond the reach of evil and death. Come and join My way of forgiveness and new life.

A new creation is dawning and Jesus invites you to come and play your part with Him.

Seriously

I promised I’d blog this. You probably had to be there, but here’s the post anyway.

It was an amusing moment at our Agape (the weekly meal for committed members of the Jesus Army, which includes bible study and bread and wine). Following a study on Jonah and his ungracious attitude towards the ne’er-do-wells of Nineveh (see previous post), we’d been discussing whether there are any people groups we find it hard to accept.

‘So, are there any kinds of people you find difficult?’ asked my fellow leader to one of our members, a clever, computer kid. To spur him on he added, ‘Like – idiots, for instance?’

The question hung in the air half a beat, before I quipped, ‘Have you got a vested interest in that question?’ Everyone laughed (including him; he’s no idiot, but likes a joke, especially at his own expense.) I went on to muse about whether I ought to ask about Liverpudlians (I hail from Liverpool). But no-one was listening by then, amid the hoots of hilarity.

I ought to add: Agape is a serious time of deep heart-sharing and covenant reaffirmation (cough).
 

Jesus Army coming of age

Talking to Shane Claiborne when I met him last summer, I said: "Six people were living in community at The Simple Way and you became world famous. There are 600 of us in New Creation Christian Community and we’re not! Why do you think that is?"

If you think the question sounds mildly petulant, perhaps it is! But the tone of our conversation had been so very brotherly that I felt at liberty to let out a wee bit of frustration in the question. Here's what Shane said in answer:

"One of my friendly critiques of the Jesus movement in the US – and I sense you’re a bit like some of those communities – is that when they started they were wonderfully counter-cultural, but they also threw out the rest of the Church. I think maybe some of that was necessary – but I think it also minimised the impact they had on the wider Church.

"Learning from that, we are trying to revitalise and restore some of what’s broken in the Church, a bit like Francis of Assisi’s calling to 'repair the Church which is ruins'. Our discontent with the Church is the very reason we engage rather than disengage. We said 'We are going to stop complaining about the Church we’ve experienced and work on becoming the Church that we dream of – but that also means we’re not giving up on the rest of this dysfunctional family.' I think that’s part of why we’re still invited to preach at Willow Creek and other places.

But I think that the gift of the Jesus Army and other radical communities is in preserving the radical spirit of that counter-culture or contrast society. It’s community on steroids. It moves the Church I think closer to where it should be."

Which was both encouraging - I love being described as "community on steroids" even if I wince a little - and challenging - it makes me feel the need for us to embrace our brothers and sisters everywhere, of whatever Christian "stripe", to learn and to share.

Talking of sisters, I met a nun last week, Sister Catherine (@digitalnun of some fame on Twitter), who said of us in the Jesus Army, "I love what you're doing - but your website's rubbish."

I know, sister, I know. We're working on it.

But later, Sister Catherine said, "Be encouraged. You're coming of age as a community." As someone who belongs to a monastic movement with fifteen hundred years under its communal belt, I take that as quite some encouragment.

Jonah moaner

Ever read the Bible and find it's reading you? I found this with Jonah chapter 4 today. Jonah, sulk-full of self-pity is quarelling with God under what Eugene Peterson memorably called 'the unpredictable plant'. A lesson in grace unfolds.

A number of biblical characters quarrel with God. Sometimes they are wrong and earn correction – like Paul; sometimes, they are vindicated and gain God’s approval – like Abraham; sometimes both – like Job.

Jonah quarrels with God because God relented from destroying Nineveh. It is not clear why this made Jonah so angry: maybe because it made Jonah’s message of coming judgement seem untrue; maybe because Jonah saw the (non-Jewish) Ninevites as unworthy of grace.

In fact, grace – undeserved favour – is a key theme here. God’s grace is shown not only in His forgiveness of Nineveh, but also in the way He handles Jonah. He doesn’t blast this sulking prophet for his self-centred anger; He gently asks a question: “Do you do well to be angry?”

Then, just as gently, God teaches Jonah a lesson, using the unpredictable plant, which first grows to shade Jonah and then withers. God helps Jonah to see the smallness of his heart, asking the same pointed question: “Do you do well to be angry...?”

And the book of Jonah is unique among biblical books in that it ends with a question: “And should not I pity Nineveh...?” This puts the challenge not only to Jonah, but also to me: can I see from the perspective of God’s huge, all-embracing, gracious love?

It makes me ask myself questions like: How easily can I accept those who are different to me? How quickly can I forgive? How gentle (rather than swift to correct or rebuke) am I with those who are (as I see it anyway) in the wrong?

We never find out what happened to Jonah, whether he languished in self-pity or learnt the lessons of grace that God was so patiently teaching him.

I can't do much about Jonah anyway. He's long gone. But I can do something about me.

Husband from hell

I was sitting in the giant marquee in which my church holds a festival every Easter. A man walked past me, in the aisle, followed by his wife.

It was a sad sight. He's led a chaotic life, ravaged by drug addiction and psychosis (we see a painful amount of it as the Jesus Army.)

But it was her that was the really sad sight. Thin, drawn, pale. Her life's been hellish because of him. Women's faithfulness can be utterly astounding - sometimes, tragically, to their detriment.

It made me reflect. Often looking at a wife can tell you a lot about her husband. A fulfilled and fruitful wife can be a preacher's very best sermon. Conversely, an unhappy, unfulfilled wife can be an indictment of her husband.

At the time, we were singing a song about the bride of Christ, the church. Jesus rose from the dead, not just to provide us with an excuse to eat chocolate eggs. He didn't even rise from the dead just so that we would have life after death.

He died and rose from death in order to gain a beautiful bride, a church of those being freed from death in all its forms - now, in this life, as well as afterwards.

Every life changed, every life ransomed from death, every life beautified in the bride of Christ - it is to the glory and honour of her Husband.

And so I pray for that couple I saw. May they yet come to a better day, a healing day, a new day. A resurrection day.

A rather wonderful quotation

Paul has spoken, and we must speak, of the love of the one, true God. This love of God calls across the dark intervals of meaning, reaches into the depths of human despair, embraces those who live in the shadow of death or the overbright light of present life, challenges the rulers of the world and shows them up as a sham, looks at the present with clear faith and at the future with sure hope, overpowers all powers that might get in the way, fills the outer dimensions of the cosmos, and declares to the world that God is God, that Jesus the Messiah is the world's true Lord, and that in him love has won the victory.

~ N.T. Wright, in his commentary on Romans

Time out

Yesterday afternoon I unashamedly drank an entire bottle of the finest quality solitude.

Obvious statement alert: living in community, life is full of people. People in your kitchen, people in your lounge, people in your garden, people in your hair. As a married man there’s even another person in my bed (and, if any of my children have a nightmare, there’s more than one other person in my bed).

Now I believe a life full of people is the life God calls us to. After all, his commandments can be summed up in the word ‘love’. Ever tried loving on your own? Even the solitary hermit has a community of beloved people in his heart – otherwise, I contend, he is no true Christian.

Yet for a life full of people to remain fresh – to remain, in fact, loving – there is a need for times of solitude. I’m not talking about solitude’s rather shallow cousin, sometimes called ‘me time’; I’m talking about deliberate times of aloneness and stillness in which a person comes back to themselves, to their centre – and therefore to God. It may involve prayer (all of life involves prayer), but not necessarily conscious prayer.

So yesterday afternoon I went to a village near the city in which I live. I sat on a bench, overlooking a pool. I read a bit of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. An old chap came and sat next to me and we said nothing to each other. The sun was warm. I wrote a poem and didn’t worry about the fact that it wasn’t very good. I wondered along a country pathway. I sat next to a field of cows, reading a commentary on Romans. Then I dozed off (it wasn’t the commentary, more the peace and the sun). And after that, I read some more of the commentary. Then I came home.

That night I spent about an hour listening to someone who’s been pretty troubled and needed to talk. I was able to listen. Not perfectly (listening doesn’t come naturally to me, as my wife tirelessly points out); but I was able to be there for that person. I don’t think I would have been able to be had I not taken a good long swig of solitude earlier.

That’s the difference between solitude and ‘me time’. Solitude, ultimately, is about community. It resources us for love.

To truly live in community, it is vital that we make space for solitude.

Spiritual

Loved this peom by my friend Wilf. He said: "This is not directly linked to Watchman Nee's book of the same name. I just stole the title and thought it had to have 'part 1' in it as you can never fully say everything about what a spiritual person is. Maybe other parts will follow. This seemed to express something of what God is saying at present."

The Spiritual Man (part 1)
The earth, the crumbling earth is in his fingers
Fingers that have carelessly let diamonds drop
Shattering to nothing but a quick play of light.
He remembers and laughs
As he climbs the hill of God,

He turns from laughter to tears
As quick as the movement of a thought
For the earth the crumbling earth is in his soul
The soul of a man who turned away
Looking for something else
And was captured for ever,

But still he sees, and he weeps
For the starving child,the lonely lover
The broken virgin, the harrassed mother
For the suicide case at the end of his rope
The soldier boy who has lost all hope
For the saint afraid to get up again
For the sinner afraid to begin.

There was a time
When he could meditate much better
And he was sure of his theology
But that was before he heard their stories
And found himself in them all,the hero of none
That was his story
It was the end of something that could be grasped
And the beginning of something that couldn't,
But grasped him in the guts of his spirit
Of that he is sure.

The earth the crumbling earth is in his fingers
He laughs and he cries
As he climbs the hill of God with dirty hands
And a crowd around him.

Read more of Wilf's poems here, here, and here.

Why community?

The email popped into my inbox about half an hour ago.

'Writing an article about growing interest in community living among evangelicals. Care to offer a few lines from your perspective about why people from an evangelical background are interested in either community life?'

It was from my old friend Simon Cross. Great chap, Simon, and I was at a lull in the working day, so I replied straightaway.

Here's what I wrote:

Evangelical Christians often emphasise the importance of individuals having an authentic relationship with God - 'knowing God personally'. This is indeed important, but it's not the whole story.

Christianity is essentially a communal faith (after all, the command to love one another is at its heart). I think many evangelicals have found an over-emphasis on individualism has left them hungry for more. For some this leads to exploring what it means to be 'church', to be 'the body of Christ' - in ways that go beyond just meeting together once or twice a week. Some read the early chapters of Acts, with its daily fellowship and sharing of possessions and find themselves thinking 'Why not now?'

Certainly it was this kind of exploration that led members of the Jesus Fellowship to start a residential community, forty years ago. Now about a quarter of our members (600 or so people) live in community. Of course, sharing homes and possessions is a fairly 'full on' and strenuous expression of community - it's not for everyone.

But it is also true that you get out of community what you put in. By definition, 'community' has to be more than just a fad or phase if you're going to experience it truly. To paraphrase Jesus - it's in losing your (independent, self-centred) life that you find real life.

Tonight, most of the sixteen who live in our house are having a meal together. Maybe I'll read out to them what I wrote to Simon.

After all, it's good to remember why we're doing what we're doing.

Pray 4 Muamba

'God is in control' tweeted Fabrice Muamba's fiancée, and The Sun took it up as their headline yesterday.

'God is in control'... it's the kind of headline we might put on the front page of our Jesus Army Streetpaper - but to have it on the front cover of The Sun...

Then there are the vests worn by various footballers - 'Pray 4 Muamba'.

It's a sudden upsurge, this call to prayer, this expression of faith in God.

Note to self: don't believe the secularist myth. Reaching out to God is part of UK national life.

And I do pray for Muamba.

The art of shutting up

Yesterday morning was our community's monthly ‘house family breakfast’. We meet, eat, talk about communal practicalities, I or someone else will usually share a thought or two on community life, we pray or worship...

But yesterday was different. For the first half of our breakfast, by prior arrangement, we were in complete silence, not a word spoken.

The seed for this novel arrangement came from a conversation I’d had earlier in the week with Penelope Wilcock, author of a series of novels set in a Medieval monastery called ‘The Hawk and the Dove’. (Read her account of our meeting here.) I asked her what she felt we could learn from an ancient community rule such as the Rule of Benedict.

Her answer, perhaps surprisingly, was that the Rule of Benedict can teach us common sense. We might think of the founding document of Benedictine monasticism as a lofty, spiritual masterpiece – as indeed it is. Yet, as Penelope pointed out, many of its injunctions have a ring of good plain sense about them.

An example Penelope gave was ‘the great silence’ – the rule Benedict laid down that after evening prayers the whole community observes silence throughout the night until after the morning service the next day.

‘What a brilliant rule for fostering harmonious community,’ Penelope enthused. None of those too-late-at-night conversations when things can get fractious and irritable (and things can be said which are regretted the following morning). Likewise, no demand for communication while still waking up (one of my favourite biblical proverbs springs to mind: ‘If anyone loudly blesses their neighbour early in the morning, it will be taken as a curse.’)

Common sense, yes, which fosters the health and harmony of a community. It got me thinking because as a leader in a residential Christian community, I give quite a lot of thought (not to mention what goes on in my subconscious) to the issue of how to foster healthy, fruitful community. And this issue – silence – is part of that. (I’ve mused about it before here and here.)

We’re a very active community. Activist, one might even say (and one recent blog called Power Activism has already featured us three times!) That’s good and it’s what God has called us to. And yet. Without silence our minds and spirits become noisy and overcrowded.

There is stillness and silence in our community life, but it mainly happens on our own, out on the fringes of community life – a personal prayer hour, a walk in the park... a bath! And sometimes we will have a pause for silence before a meal or during corporate worship.

I think we should integrate shared silence into our life more, for the sake of health and harmony.

It was silent in the temple’s holiest place. And the New Testament speaks of the ‘unfading beauty of a quiet spirit’ (our spirits, God’s dwelling like the temple, ought to be silent, still, poised). We want our community house to be a place people find the presence and peace of God. Silence must play its part.

So we passed the first half hour of our breakfast in silence. It wasn’t a 'religious silence' – we weren’t praying or meditating, just eating breakfast together. There was quite a bit of signalling (a wave meaning ‘pass me the honey?’ A thumbs up meaning ‘thanks!’), some winks and smiles. Most of us found it refreshing; some rather hard work.

I’m convinced it’s something we’ll explore. Ideas anyone? What can a busy, bustling community do to foster shared silence, shared stillness in the midst of it all?

Watch this space (space! ah!) – I’m sure this is a theme I’ll return to again in this blog.

Ancient prophet, young Messiah

Sometimes I read something in the Bible that makes my heart beat faster. It happened this morning when I was reading the prophet Isaiah.

I was reading chapter 49, which contains the second of Isaiah’s ‘servant songs’. (For the other three, go here.)

In amongst these prophecies about Jesus, I read this:

“The Lord called me from the womb,
from the body of my mother he named my name.
He made my mouth like a sharp sword;
in the shadow of his hand he hid me;
he made me a polished arrow;
in his quiver he hid me away.
And he said to me, “You are my servant,
Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” (Isaiah 49:1-3)

We aren’t told much about Jesus’ infancy and childhood in the New Testament. Apart from Luke’s fascinating glimpse of Jesus in the Temple, telling his bewildered parents that he’s been “about his father’s business”, there’s almost nothing.

Yet here, in this prophecy from centuries before Jesus’ birth, we get another glimpse. Jesus is “named” in the womb as the servant, the saviour. (A divine christening that works itself into history as the angelic instruction that his name should be Jesus, “Saviour”.)

And then we get a glimpse of Jesus in his childhood and youth, being prepared by God, sharpened in wisdom, protected, readied for what was to come. It’s wonderfully poetic, too: “in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow; in his quiver he hid me away”.

Jesus was hidden in the quiver for about 30 years before God took him out and fired him, like an arrow in the heart of his enemies. And in those years, Jesus heard his father’s call. He discovered who he was. Who he was called to be. Israel-in-person. Messiah. Servant. Saviour of the world.

To get the best effect, say these words aloud, but as a whisper – like they would have been whispered in Jesus’ mind and heart over those years of preparation: And he said to me, “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.”

It is a mystery quite how Jesus became aware of his calling and identity. I’ve long since been dissatisfied with explanations that leap too quickly to Jesus’ deity (babe-in-manger thinking through quantum physics et cetera); they don’t seem to me to do justice to Jesus’ full and true humanity.

But I love the glimpse Isaiah gives us. This young prophet, but more than a prophet, this servant, but more than a servant, this son. He hears his father’s voice. The call grows. Certainty grows. He reads Isaiah and knows.

And then the day of confirmation: “This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.”

That call was tested immediately with the demonic “if” – and afterwards? Isaiah himself prophesies an agony of uncertainty, especially in the face of rejection from his own people: I said, “I have laboured in vain; I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my right is with the Lord, and my recompense with my God” (verse 4).

But Jesus saw it through; through the tears, the sweat, the blood. The result was salvation.

What a salvation. And what a saviour.

That was the heartbeat moment of inspiration. Thought I’d share.

...

For those who want a bit more exegetical background on ‘the servant’, this mysterious yet compelling figure who crops up several times in the latter chapters of Isaiah, here’s some theological small print:

The ‘servant’ is called ‘Israel’ – yet the prophecies about him find their fulfilment in Jesus. (The first servant song is quoted by Matthew to that effect; verse 8 of the chapter I read this morning is similarly cited by Paul; Acts-writer, Dr Luke, has Philip the evangelist explain to an Ethiopian eunuch (got all that?) that Jesus is the servant… And so on.)

How can the servant be both Israel and Jesus? Answer: because, as Israel’s Messiah, Jesus represents Israel as a whole. This idea of representation is found throughout the Bible. A chosen individual can stand for a whole people: a patriarch can represent his whole family; a king can embody his whole nation.

Jesus takes on Israel’s ancient calling to be light to the world, a blessing to all nations. Jesus, the Messiah, the servant, a ‘one-man-Israel’, embodies both Israel’s faithfulness to God and God’s faithfulness to Israel. He is the fulfilment of God’s purposes through Israel and the answer to all God’s promises. He says to the prisoners, ‘Come out’, to those who are in darkness, ‘Appear’.

In Isaiah 49, the prophet announces the servant to the whole world (v.1) as: called by God from conception (v.1), prepared in his youth (v.2) and commissioned to be God’s servant (v.3); knowing pain as his mission seems to fail, yet trusting God nonetheless (v.4); tasked with calling Israel back to God (v.5) – and not only Israel but the whole world (v.6); despised and rejected, yet eventually commanding the allegiance even of monarchs (v.7); embodying God’s saving covenant with His people (v.7) – and not just with Israel, but with people from all over the world (v.9-13).

Thank you God for your servant, Jesus.

The Fix

'The Fix' is another poem from my friend Wilf. As so often with his wordsmithying, worth sharing.

I'm not myself today,
Not that I'm anybody else, you understand
But what I am doesn't seem so good or complete
In this strange bright light.

I feel dangerous and afraid
That if the wrong thing touches me
I would explode, or spit poison
And the "wrong thing" would be
Someone I love,someone like you.
So I'm in a bit of a fix, the fix being that I need fixing
And God who does that kind of stuff
Seems distant
Though it is always He who orchestrates these things.

The happy ending is slow in coming
But he knows it will
He will be himself again
But not again
For it will be the self
He has never quite been before
Some steps closer to perfection

Miracle!

I just had an animated phone call from my wife.

A young woman who we’ve been praying for had just phoned her. This young woman is pregnant and there have been serious complications with the pregnancy. The medics said there was some sort of ‘band’ around the child which meant she was very likely to be born seriously deformed and therefore disabled.

We’ve been praying for this woman and her baby, and her partner. We met them some months ago; they’ve been coming round to our community, becoming our friends, finding faith bit by bit. Life is chaotic for them (as for so many families we meet, where the norm is anything but stable family life).

The other day, this young woman tried praying for the first time. She prayed for her mum who desperately needed a new place to live and was excited when, just hours later, her relieved mum rang to tell her she’d found a suitable place.

The other day she said to my wife, “Praying works!”

Then, today, she went to the hospital to find... no ‘band’ around the baby. Prognosis: normal birth. No reasonable medical explanation. They were both, understandably, awed.

They know we’ve been praying.

It does seem that God moves in simple miracle answers towards those who are just finding faith, just being reborn. (Conversely, when we’ve been believers for longer, things are often less ‘open and shut’ – partly I think because God gets to work on our character, teaching us patience and trust...)

God is loving and good. He’s a faithful Father to all his children – and especially to his newborns.

Love that lasts

My friend, a committed, lifelong celibate, blogged on Valentine’s Day. He made the point that those who have chosen to remain single out of love for God and for humanity (rather like Jesus did) can be just as romantic – more! – than any human couple.

I agree. And I’ve seen it in him and in many other passionate celibates of both sexes. In this post I’m going to explore the corresponding truth – that couples cannot just rely on romance; there has to be gritty, lifelong commitment (such as, in fact, I have also seen modeled in my celibate friends).

Fortunately for me, this post will be easy to write because this week I read two excellent pieces on precisely that topic: lasting love. One from a C of E Archbishop and another from a retired C of E bishop. (Since I’m staying with my in-laws, good Anglicans both, whilst writing this, it seems an opportune moment to say that I think the Church of England has some impressive leaders.)

The Archbishop of York, John Sentamu, is a master publicist with the common touch, a great communicator (and makes a good duo with his boss, the altogether erudite Rowan Williams). Two days ago, on Valentine’s Day, Sentamu wrote an article about what makes love last the test of time. Church Times? Theology Today? No – it was in The Sun. (Read it here.)

Sentamu made the point that when couple marry, contrary to popular belief, they don’t say “I do”, they say “I will”. It’s not just a declaration of “how I feel today”, it’s a declaration of “what I will commit myself to tomorrow”.

Great point, well made. True love, in the end, must be willed, not just felt; must be for the long haul, not just for now.

Then, last night, I was reading a book by Tom Wright, until recently Bishop of Durham (and in my view one of the greatest Christian writers and teachers of our time). As it happened, the passage I was reading was on the same topic, that of lasting love.

Wright writes:

…the excitement of romance is like the excitement of striking a match. It’s sudden, sparky, dramatic – and it doesn’t last long. The question is, What are you going to do with the match once you’ve struck it?

The answer…is that you will use the match to light a candle. A candle isn’t as exciting as a match, at least not to being with; but it can be far more beautiful, far more evocative, and far more long lasting. Human couples need to learn that lesson, to prevent them supposing that, when the match has gone out, something has gone dramatically wrong and they must look for another match to strike as soon as possible. To learn this, indeed, is part of the road to the virtue of chastity.

(from Virtue Reborn)

Love is the aim, the goal, the end. Love is the word that sums up not only mature humanity, but also God himself. But it takes work, effort, grit.

It may even take gasping out prayers and sweating blood in a garden, like it did for Jesus.

Thank you, God, for passionate celibates. And for steely-eyed, determined, married couples. May we all have not just a happy Valentine’s Day, but a happy forever after – in love.

Miracles

After my last post on a healing that we in the Jesus Army have found really exciting, I thought I'd post up a study I wrote recently. It was based in 2 Kings 4; I was considering the miracles of Elisha, and Elijah before him - and Jesus after him.

Elisha's miracles show he carries the same power as Elijah before him (1Ki.2:9): Elisha's multiplication (2Ki.4:1-7, 42-44) and purification (2Ki.4:38-41) of food are reminiscent of Elijah's provision for the widow of Zarephath (1Ki.17:7-16); Elisha raising a child from death (2Ki.4:8-37) is similar to Elijah raising the widow's son (1Ki.17:19-23).

Their miracles demonstrate that each is an anointed prophet, a man of God (2Ki.4:7, 9, 16, 1Ki.17:24 etc.)

And they point towards the miracles of Jesus, the ultimate anointed prophet, the man who is God - food multiplication (Jn.6:1-14), raising a child (Mk.5:35-42) and so on.

Miracles restore nature; they don't change it altogether. God is the Creator and all that He created is good (Gen.1:31): He made a world with plenty of food; He gave life to man; He made breath, sight, strength (see 2Ki.4:34).

Miracles restore creation's goodness. This is why the miracles of Elijah, Elisha - and Jesus - have common themes: provision, healing, commanding nature, reversing death.

Yet - and this is fascinating in itself - the man of God has imaginative freedom to perform miracles differently... Borrow some jars? Send a staff with your servant? Lie on a corpse? Throw flour in the pot? Use a boy's lunch? Smear mud on blind eyes? God works with and through His man to right wrongs and restore creation.

It made me ask what 'imaginative methods' for miracles I have experienced, why such inspired originality might be important, and how we can grow our faith.

Answers on a postcard.

A remarkable healing

Our church is one big hallelujah at the moment.

Tom, a young man who lives in one of our communities went blind six months ago, due to a rare, genetically-inherited condition called Lebers Hereditary Optic Neuropathy. It was very hard for his friends to see him suffering - and, of course, desperately difficult for Tom himself.

On Sunday night, Tom reached a breakthrough moment and re-committed himself to Jesus. This, in itself, was cause for joy as Tom found he was able to reach beyond the pain and literal darkness of the past six months and place his trust in Jesus again. But who would have predicted what followed?

Waking very early in the morning, Tom found to his astonishment - and excitement - that he could see! It wasn't long before the whole house was awake. It was true! Tom can see! Celebrations erupted. Yesterday the news was spreading round our churches.

This was the account given by Ian Clifford, the pastor of Tom's community:

"Tom came to faith in Jesus beginning of last year. Soon after he lost his sight in one eye and then a couple of weeks after lost sight in the other. The doctors diagnosed it as Lebers Hereditary Optic Neuropathy. He could see literally a few inches in front of him but that was very blurred and could only recognise some slight colour. His eyes couldn't cope with any form of light and had to keep his eyes covered with sunglasses.

"The doctors said he'd be permanently like this. Many people have been praying ever since.

"In the midst of all this he continued to live for Jesus although at times his faith was shaken. Last night he re-dedicated his life to Jesus afresh and then woke up at 5:15 to go to the toilet. Suddenly realised he could see and woke the whole house, we've been celebrating ever since."

I had the privilege of seeing Tom later that day, just briefly, through the window of my workplace. But - get this! - Tom saw me! He waved at me. My eyes welled with tears, I don't mind saying.

Should we be surprised? After all, we believe in miracles. We're supposed to expect them. We sing about them. We pray for them. But, flog the dogs, when a blind man sees - a blind man we know and love and have prayed for many times - that's cause for celebration.

Read the accounts of Tom's close friends: Aidan's is here (with some fascinating details from Tom's journey to healing as well); Jane's is here. Nathan's is here.

Good

One of the reasons I love our church is that we know how to make sharing the gospel fun. Check out this video of a recent Jesus flash mob in Northampton:



On the theme of the gospel, check out this interesting blog post from Kurt Willems' Pangea Blog in which he makes the intriguing point that the important thing about the good news is that it is good - and that how we frame the content is secondary. (I'm not sure I fully agree, but he got me thinking before 10 o'clock in the morning, for which - hat off!)

Love, key to joy

Tonight we sang 'This is my commandment that you love one another, that your joy may be full.' It struck me that Jesus didn't say 'that your stress may be full' or 'that your misery may be full' (of course; but stay with me...)

True love moves from the place I want to be to the place my brother or my sister needs me to be. And if it's truly love that moves me the result will be joy. Not resentment. Not strain. Joy.

Feeling stressed, miserable, down in the mouth? Love somebody.

Seasons in community

My friends made this (I think rather wonderful) little video about seasons in Christian community:

One in a taxi, one in a car

Forget greetings card images of three oriental kings offering gifts to a baby in a stable; the Epiphany story found in Matthew's Gospel is politically explosive – and politically incorrect!

We lose its impact because of storybook images that have grown up around it (Matthew doesn’t mention a stable; Mary and Joseph were simply living in a house in Bethlehem by then; the visitors were not kings, but astrologers; there were not three of them, just three gifts).

Why politically explosive? Because these men stride straight into the court of mafioso-style King Herod asking "Where is he who has been born king of the Jews?" – and they didn’t mean Herod! Result: Jesus’ family flee as asylum-seekers, the stargazers slip Herod's noose, while the megalomaniac massacres every infant in Bethlehem.

From the very beginning Matthew’s Gospel is subversive – right to its end with Jesus dying on Caesar's Roman cross, but rising with "all authority on...earth". Jesus is a fundamental challenge to the political powers of the world, a danger to the powerful status quo.

For make no mistake: the true "king of the Jews", the Messiah, is also the true king of the whole world ( just read Psalm 2 and you'll get the idea).

And this leads us to why Matthew’s account would have been politically incorrect. Because these wise men are not Jewish scribes – they're foreigners (Persians) and followers of another religion (Zoroastrians)! Many of Matthew’s Jewish readers wanted a Messiah – but they wanted him for themselves. He was going to be king of the Jews for the Jews – and all those scummy pagans better watch their assess 'cos they were about to get whipped.

Matthew explodes all that – this king has come for all people, all races, all religions.

I have to ask (if I'm to avoid the cultural and religious complacency Matthew seems so determined to upset in his readers): what challenges might this explosive story bring to me? Is Jesus just for the Jesus Army? (Well, no, of course not.) Just for evangelicals? (Well, no. Sure?... Yeah, I'm sure.) Just for Christians? (Well, er...) Just for – people like me?

Maybe, Jesus is less for people like me, and more for, well – people like Him: asylum-seekers, abused children, displaced foreigners, people of 'the wrong' religion?

If Epiphany demolishes some of my small-minded assumptions and makes me uncomfortable, maybe it's because that's what Matthew intended.

Prophetic change

The prophetic word engenders change.

At our New Year celebration on December 31st, our main Jesus Army leader told us that the coming year would be a year of 'courageous faith and action'. He proceeded to unpack this with reference to courageous biblical heroes like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, thrown into a furnace for refusing to bow to a mad king's statue, or Eleazar, who fought on when all his fellows fled. As we trust God and act on that trust, we will advance as a church.

Yes, 'courageous faith and action' could be a mere slogan. Yet I do believe it's prophetic for us - mainly because I trust the integrity of the man who brought it to us. (We're blessed with a main leader who is both spiritual and humble - good qualifications for being a conduit of God's 'now' word.)

Another leader, a mentor of mine, commented that 'Courageous faith and action' is certainly better than 'Action and hope for the best', which he confessed has sometimes been his approach.

The fact is that genuine prophetic words bring real change. Last night, at our little local Agape meal, I spoke a little about what 'courageous faith and action' may mean for us - in particular, being true to our radical call. So we explored Acts 2 again, and what it means to be 'devoted' - to word, fellowship, sacrament and worship (Acts 2:42). It produced some truly hearty discussion and a sense of change in the air for the coming year.

I think if I'd just chosen my own topic it wouldn't have been quite the same. As a pastor I've learnt that something's released when I support and unpack the word of the prophets.

So I'm looking forward to 2012. God, grant us courageous faith - and the courage to put it into action.