His Body Broken For Me

A sermon I preached recently on what Holy Communion means, and how we might respond, using this passage from the New Testament: Matthew 26:26-30

I want you to picture someone’s face. And I want it to be the face of the most generous person you know.

Now think, what makes them so generous? Do they give and not expect repayment? Do they look out for opportunities to be generous? Do they give way over and above what they can afford? Do they always have time for people? Is nothing too much trouble for them? Would they go without, so that others can have something? Does their generosity ever make you think about your own generosity?

Now, what if I told you that they’re not the most generous person you know?

Today I’m going to suggest that Jesus is the most generous person any of us will ever know. And I’m going to try and get us to think more about his generosity at a really personal level. Then I’ll be inviting you to consider what any of this means to you as a Christian in the world. A disciple at large.

So what exactly is Jesus-like generosity? How generous is God? Maybe there are some other questions to ask ourselves.

• Do I understand why Jesus died?
• Do I know in my heart that he gave up his life for his friends… for me?
• Do I really believe that this gift, that all of God’s enormous generosity, is completely free and given to each and every one of us here, no matter who we are?

These are big questions and a good start if we’re going to understand Jesus-like generosity.

Unfortunately this sermon won’t be answering them, because I don’t think that God’s amazing grace and our salvation in Jesus can be taught. Accepting that we’ve been given everything, even though we don’t deserve it, and that we’re loved beyond measure, even if we didn’t ask for it, and that Jesus is our saviour, even if we can’t understand it, and that we’re the recipients of limitless generosity, even if we don’t appreciate it… No I don’t think that can be taught. That can take a lifetime to come to terms with.

Also I think that understanding what we’ve been given is something we’ll need to regularly revisit, be reminded of and accept over and over again. I’m not sure it’s one of those things you can tick off your discipleship list. Jesus-like generosity might be too big for that.

So we won’t do that today, but at the very least I hope these words will encourage us all to ask ourselves afresh, or even for the first time, what we’ve been given and how we respond in thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving.

This word brings me on to today’s reading. Because the ancient Greeks had a word for thanksgiving. It’s eucharistia. The word we use for communion. I want us to use our imaginations again and think about God’s generosity as remembered in the Eucharist. What’s going on in the Eucharist? What are we doing there, and what does it mean to us?

The Last Supper is written about in Matthew’s Gospel and in Luke’s and Mark’s. It’s also mentioned in 1 Corinthians.  In Luke’s account Jesus says:

Do this in remembrance of me.

What did Jesus mean? It’s a simple request. We’ve been trying to honour it for the last 2000 years. Jesus made a group booking for his friends in a room above a pub that night, so he could share one last big meal with them right before his death, and tell them some big truths. And he said Do this in remembrance of me…

Well I’m not sure if wafers and silver goblets and kneeling at the communion rail was exactly what he had in mind…. but I don’t think that should worry us. However we do it, this act of breaking and sharing bread and wine which represent him dying on the cross for us, and remembering and giving thanks… that’s what it’s about.

And we’re giving thanks that God gave his only Son to be a sacrifice, to live and to die and to be resurrected, for new creation and eternal community. It’s hard to find the right words to adequately sum up why Jesus died for us. But I’ve settled for: he died so that we could live.

He died for the things we’ve done wrong so that, through Him we could be together with the Father in Heaven for eternity. Jesus’ death stands for Forgiveness and Salvation.

Forgiveness and salvation. Why are these two things so hard to understand? Perhaps we don’t feel we need forgiving. Or we don’t feel we need saving? Or perhaps we know we need both forgiving and saving, but can’t imagine that we’d be given both, freely. Haven’t we heard “nothing in life’s for free”. Yet the Bible tells us the exact opposite. It is for free. God’s gift to us is a no strings attached gift. A guarantee for life. That’s God’s amazing grace.

It’s not something we can earn or work towards. It’s not a test we have to pass or something we have to apply for. It’s free. It’s something we’ll never, ever be good enough for and will never deserve. But it’s ours anyway. It’s free. No matter what we’ve done, or how little we know of God. This gift is ours, for free.

God’s generosity is enormous. It’s as deep as the deepest ocean and more numerous than the stars in the sky. It’s in the creation of the world and everything in it, and everything that we are. It’s in our ability to love and be loved, to enjoy music, to create art, to play sport, to think and feel and hope and dream. But more than all that; God’s ultimate gift to us is in the sacrifice of his only Son Jesus Christ. Jesus-like generosity is us being forgiven and saved by him giving up his life.

And this is what we are celebrating in the Eucharist.

Celebrating the Eucharist. I sometimes think that’s a strange turn of phrase. Does it feel like a celebration? Is it appropriate to celebrate Jesus’ gift to us, when we know that it was made perfect by his brutal and terrible death? Or are our eyes on the resurrection, and so it feels like a celebration because we know ultimately, He defeated death?

Using our imaginations again, I’d like you to really consider how you feel during the Eucharist? Should sharing communion be joyful? Does it feel a sombre part of the service? Is it solemn? Serious? Sad? Do we feel delighted? Do we feel grateful? Do we feel anything when we walk up the aisle to the altar and kneel down?

Personally, I find it hard to know how to feel when I’m faced with the enormity of Jesus’ sacrifice. It’s a big mixture of emotions. I feel desperately grateful. And I feel underserving. I feel saddened by his pain. I feel horrified when I think of Bible passages or film scenes depicting his torture and death. There are a lot of emotions going on in my head as I wait for the wafer and sip of wine.

The biggest worry for me is that I might feel nothing. I fear it might become routine. As my faith matures, perhaps one day I’ll just feel simple, deep contentment. But I fear complacent monotony.

And yes, sometimes I struggle to tap into big emotions, as I kneel. Despite everything I’ve just said about forgiveness and salvation and the fact Jesus died for me…sometimes it’s hard to be in the right frame of mind to accept this level of generosity.

So I try and be disciplined about it. I intentionally settle my thoughts on what it is we’re doing. As I listen to the words the vicar uses, I try and visualise that Last Supper.

• What was going through Jesus’ head in that guest room?
• How heavy his heart must have been at the betrayal.
• What would the atmosphere have been like?
• Was Jesus sad? Was he scared? Was he stoic and brave? Did he desperately want more time?
• Did the words catch in his throat as he said “Do this in remembrance of me”?

But more than that night, as I prepare for the Eucharist, I try and imagine the scene at the cross. His body was broken for me, his blood spilled for me, and as long as I live I will never be able to repay Him or to thank Him enough.

I will never be able to thank him enough.

But what could I do, what could we all do as a way of thanks giving? Eucharistia?

Would following Jesus lead us to sharing with others the gifts we’ve freely been given? Could it be as simple as that? Just living each day and looking out for opportunities to be generous, in thought, word and deed. Giving up ourselves for others, and so being closer to Him? Holding less tightly onto our time and our money and our other resources, and so walking his walk. And wouldn’t that deepen our relationship and help us glimpse what heaven might be like?

Now let’s search our hearts and ask ourselves, are there any obstacles in our lives that stop us from taking generosity to the next level?

What are they? What are our worries? What’s in our way? Are we afraid to let go? Are we worried about the future? Do we worry what others think about our giving?  Does not being thanked enough make us reluctant to give again? Can we put our finger on the one thing that might be stopping us from taking the next step in being more generous people? Generous with what we have, even if that’s not much.

And can we give all these worries and concerns to God? Can we ball them up in our fist and imagine putting them down at the altar when we go up to give thanks at the Eucharist? And can we walk back down the aisle knowing that it is because we are forgiven and saved, and the recipient of immeasurable grace, that every day is a fresh start. Because every day God gives to us. Every day we begin again. Every day we can attempt Jesus-like generosity.

Shall we finish in prayer?

Lord God,

We may never fully understand what you have generously given us. Please help us to look with fresh eyes at your creation and to give thanks. Please help us to count our blessings and give thanks. Please help us to appreciate what it is we’re remembering in the Eucharist, and give thanks. Please help us to overcome anything that gets in the way of giving freely and generously as a way of giving thanks to you. Help us to see your Kingdom come through our acts of generosity.  Amen

God is weird: PART 5

An Ordination Candidate’s Experience of The Discernment Process

Into the Great Unknown

Should it be this hard? Should I leave it alone? Why won’t this strong sense of purpose and calling just go away?

Two days later my prayers were answered (many of them at least) and I was told about a job being advertised at the Diocese of Durham. It was to do with stewardship.

To say I was reluctant and lacking in faith is an understatement. I had to look up the word stewardship for a start. I had no expectations of success but, God is weird. God is so weird that the timing was perfect, the actual job description (words like stewardship aside) was perfect and the panel said yes. 

I had a job, I could patch up my finances, I was going to be serving the church full-time and I could use those aforementioned practical skills as a lay person. Hurrah!
So for the last 18 months I’ve been leading The Generous Giving Project, which bizarrely has helped me develop in my worst area of the 9 criteria; knowing about church and stuff.

After I’d only been a practising Christian for a couple of years,  I’m chuffed to bits that I was given the opportunity to work as a Diocesan Officer, advising local churches on developing disciples to be more generous, and writing materials on God’s generosity. I get to present at Chapter meetings, at Deanery Synod meeting, at Bishop’s Leadership Team meetings and I preach most Sundays (sometimes up to three sermons a week!) It’s crazy.

I’ve worked in churches with big worship bands and PowerPoint, where children and adults wave coloured flags and join in with prayer whenever they like. And in churches with bells and incense. And in churches where we hand each other bread and wine in a circle. And in churches who are Forward in Faith and have alternative oversight from a different Bishop.

Until recently I didn’t know most of this stuff even existed. I didn’t even know I was part of a Deanery.

I’ve learned loads, but the more I learn the more I realise I have yet to learn. Each new experience reminds me how inexperienced I am. But that’s OK. It’s not a race (I keep telling myself). What’s really helped is all I’ve learned about the breadth of the Church of England, and how I understand my own tradition. And I still maintain I don’t have one! 

Not really. Whilst this might irk the BAP (if I actually get that far) I can’t comfortably say I’m one thing or another, even though when people meet me they think I give off a whiff of evangelical. I think it’s my brogues.

My weird pathway through faith in my first few years has exposed me to so many different theologies and ways of worshipping that I can’t honestly say there’s one I’m more drawn to above another. I’m a Eucharist loving, modern worship song adoring evangelist, who loves liturgy, saying Morning Prayer, and preaching the Gospel. And I know I’m not alone. I’m told it’s not that rare a condition after all.

But has any of this helped me to discern whether or not I really am called to be an ordained minister? Certainly. Do I have an answer? No. I’m still just muddling through. In this job, at times, I’ve felt so content and fulfilled in my work that I’ve wondered if a future in lay leadership may be exactly what I’m called to do, and that I’d misunderstood that first message in my confirmation service.

Maybe what I’m called to do doesn’t require me to wear a dog collar. I’ve given this possibility much thought, and have talked about what this might mean with my husband, who had just about resigned himself to being married to a vicar.

I may never become a priest, either because I feel I’m called to lay ministry after all and I withdraw from the process, or the church decides that for me, because it discerns God’s calling me elsewhere. There are no certainties here. A few years ago that would have felt enormously stressful; all this not knowing. But I rather like it. I have no idea if/when I’ll go to panel or what they’ll say. It’s all in God’s hands.

And yes, I’m really getting better with the pride thing. If I get as far as BAP and they don’t recommend me, I’ll be devastated for sure, but not because I’ll think of myself as a failure. I’d be upset because by then, if I get as far as BAP it’s because I’m as sure as I can be that I desperately want to serve the church as a priest for the rest of my days. So a no at that point would still be heart-breaking, but not because of pride. Just because I’ll need to re-evaluate what I think God’s calling me to.

And this whole process of trusting God will hopefully help me to see that if it’s not ordained ministry, then God has planned something else equally weird (and I’ve come to expect equally exciting) around the corner. Let’s wait and see.

Advice For Fellow Candidates

If I had one bit of advice for anyone reading this who is just on the edge of the process, or like me, right in the middle of the storm, then it would be to trust God in whom He calls, and what He calls them to. Time and again I’ve been told that it’s OK that I’m nothing like the model of a “normal” priest, and that if I am ever ordained, I’ll be a Rachael-shaped priest, not any other kind of priest. It’s OK to be different.

I’m told the church actually really wants diversity in its leaders. Phew!

As candidates, we don’t know for sure what will come of our future, we just have to trust that we, our Bishops, and the rest of the folk we meet along the way, can wisely discern God’s call, which is not an easy job, and it’s not always to ordained ministry.  God is weird. He calls weird people to do weird things. Thank God.

God is weird: PART 4

An Ordination Candidate’s Experience of The Discernment Process

Where’s My Pigeon Hole?

Back to the process itself. The DDO assigned me a Vocations Advisor (who has since left and I’ve been assigned a new one) whom I met every couple of months to discuss how my discerning is going. These meetings are like a very long three-way job interview. The church is looking at me and I’m looking at the church and myself and we’re all looking to God and asking “Is this right?”

After my first meeting with the DDO it was apparent I knew pretty much nothing about church. This was also confirmed in my meetings with my first Vocations Advisor. We’d been looking at the 9 criteria, a set of qualities which candidates have to show/possess, in order to be considered for training. I stumbled at the second of nine. Not a great start.

I’d have to show “an understanding of my own tradition within the Church of England, an awareness of the diversity of traditions and practice, and a commitment to learn from and work generously with difference”. Tricky, as I didn’t have a tradition. I didn’t fancy (and still don’t fancy) having to decide what kind of Christian I am.

I was baffled by the various pigeon holes people occupied and what this meant in terms of theology, worship styles and whether one puts one’s hands in their air while singing or not. I’d be flattered to be described as charismatic, but had no idea this had anything to do with the Holy Spirit. The term Evangelical had, in my limited understanding, been hijacked by aggressive hate preachers in America. Maybe I once watched a documentary about it. Maybe Louis Theyroux was in it.

I now realise this couldn’t be further from the truth, and I now see myself as very aligned with elements of this tradition. Anglo-Catholic still confused me because there was such mystery in it all, but I liked the idea of predictable structure and fancy outfits (the Army in me). Apparently there’s much more to it than that.  Indeed, so much more. I now see myself as very aligned with elements of this tradition too.

Furthermore, B.1 (Candidates should have knowledge and understanding of the Church of England) and B.3 (Candidates should have an understanding of ministry within the Church of England) made me again question why, oh why, a brand new Christian would be put through all of this. There was so much to learn.

Here’s a list of the bizarre church-words and phrases I had to look up  in my first few months as a candidate, because I’d either never heard of them or wasn’t sure of their “church” meaning: chasuble, chancel, vestry, cloisters, slain in the spirit, Brethren, laying on of hands, fellowship, getting alongside, testimony, intercession, eschatology, Emmanuel, Maranatha, Hallelujah, Hosanna, dean, canon, rector, elder, crucifer, anointing, ordinance, ordinand, ecclesiology, episcopal, Episcopalian, epistle, apostle, apostolic, apologetics, missal, canticle, Creed, Calvinist, cincture, liturgy, Pentateuch, 39 articles, Magnificat, matins, Presbyterian, Anglican Communion, Zion, and so on, and so on, and so on.

Luckily I’d served as a linguist and cultural specialist in the Army, so saw this as just another vocabulary to learn.  That said, I feared I’d never be able to convince a panel I knew enough. I could read and read but my veneer of understanding would surely be seen through by even the gentlest of interrogations at BAP. They’d know I was a fraud.

Crash Course on Church at Cranmer Hall

September came around quickly and I’d moved the last of my boxes home, had hung up my uniform, and had enrolled at Cranmer Hall. This exposure was just what I needed. Each day began with Morning Prayer in the chapel which smelled dreamily of incense, where I had to wrestle with a colourfully beribboned book and unfamiliar words, and Tuesday evenings were all about informal worship, heartily sung modern worship songs accompanied by a band, and Communion with real pieces of actual bread. It was all rather mind-blowing. I loved it.

I was at Cranmer Hall for a year, and in that time I took modules in the Old and New Testaments, Mission and Evangelism (I got sent away on a mystery mission for 24 hours with no money which you can read about later), and preaching. I chose these modules because if I wasn’t recommended at BAP and couldn’t afford to continue my degree, at least I’d have some really useful practical skills to use as a lay person in my local church. This forethought proved worthy, as I’d soon find out.

By the spring term I was quite unwell and for a variety of reasons (I’ve written blogs on this, check the homepage) I had to leave. 

This was traumatic. I loved the community and all the staff. My head was full of new learning and ideas, and I felt I was being stretched in all the right ways. But alas, I couldn’t continue, so I told the Warden, who was very understanding, and I stepped out into a scary world of great uncertainty, wondering what on earth had just happened. What do I do now?

I just didn’t understand it. No job, no money, no more studying. Wasn’t this what God had wanted? 

I was unwell and very sad, and so very confused by my calling. 

God is weird: PART 3

An Ordination Candidate’s Experience of The Discernment Process

Out of My Depth

A few weeks later I was sitting in front of the DDO feeling incredibly nervous. I’d spent hours deliberating over what to wear, for fear of appearing too formal and Army Officer-like, or much worse, too casual. Perhaps those hours would have been better spent reading the Bible. One of the first questions I was asked was whether my conversion experience in Afghanistan felt more like a Road to Emmaus experience or more like a road to Damascus. Hmmm. Jolly good question. If only I knew more about these roads. Damascus is in Syria. What might that have to do with Afghanistan? Was this a trick question?

“Gosh, it’s hard to say really.” I stalled for time. “It wasn’t a very road-y experience at all. It was in a shipping container.” Hadn’t he been listening at all? I’d been very clear about where it’d happened. There were no roads.

Then I was asked about my tradition. “Evangelical or Anglo-Catholic? Up the candle or down? High church or low church?” This man is speaking another language, I thought. I faltered. I desperately wanted to answer correctly. My future could depend on it. But I hadn’t the faintest idea what any of this meant. My first 9 months of being a Christian were spent worshipping in tents and in the back of armoured vehicles in Helmand Province. How should I know if I was an Evangelical? And Anglo-Catholic? No, I was definitely Church of England, I knew that much. It was certainly a trick question.

I feared the interview wasn’t going well at all, but the warmth and friendliness of the DDO helped a lot, and we carried on for another hour. I told him stories and shared my fears and concerns. He seemed rather excited about having a shiny new Christian to work with, which was a relief. He diagnosed me as very possibly having a case of potential vocation, and prescribed me several months of prayer and further discernment. He handed me several kilos of paperwork to fill in. I was officially a candidate.

Spilling the Beans: Going Public

I still hadn’t told many people about this. In fact, other than Kate from Cranmer Hall, Richard the DDO, Dickie my husband and Justin the Padre, only two others knew (best pals). I was still embarrassed. Why, exactly, took months to work out. Eventually I figured it was pride. Up until this point in my life, I had been very driven by success and achievement. In fact I’d have probably once told you that my biggest fear was not spiders, or death, or War of the Worlds (the new one with Tom Cruise…seriously terrifying). It was failure. I wouldn’t normally put myself in a public situation that was so uncertain. And putting yourself through the vocations process is pretty public and pretty uncertain! At any stage someone may say no. And it can take a long time. Months, years…even decades for some.

I was keeping it to myself because I was so unsure the church would say yes, and I didn’t want to have to face people if I was rejected. And I know that’s really not the right word to use, but in layman’s terms, and certainly in my own mind at the beginning of this process, it felt like the right word. I’ve since learned to say “not recommended.”

So having identified pride as the obstacle, and humility as my aim[2], I decided to come out of the discernment closet. I told my parents, brother and sister-in-law at a family meal on Easter Sunday two years ago. That conversation could have gone better! At first my family, whilst very supportive of anything I do, were rather concerned. It was such a massive departure from my ordinary life; my army career. And leaving the security (relative; financial) of the army to embark on a second degree did appear rather drastic, especially as there were no certainties it would lead to a job, as it were.

My mum was particularly unhappy about it all, and her maternal instincts manifested themselves in interesting ways. She viewed the established church as cold, dusty, old and miserable. She feared it would take the life out of me. None of my family had had much contact with the Church before, and sadly none of them could imagine it as a lively, joy filled, and life-giving environment. I could see why my mum would want to protect me from a life, which she probably thought, would drain away all the energy and happiness that characterised her daughter.

I’d have to help my parents to see the unbridled joy that knowing and worshipping Jesus could bring. But I wouldn’t change their minds overnight. For now, they’d just have to trust me.

I realised my problem with pride was fairly deep rooted, so I took the rather extreme approach of going to the press. Or rather, the press came to me on a totally unrelated issue, which I used to tell the world “Hi, I’m a Christian!”. As a serving female Army Officer, the local newspaper had, over the years, interviewed me as a “local girl” about this or that to fill space on slow news days.

 

It was supposed to be an article about the 20^th anniversary of the Srebrenica genocide in Bosnia and Herzegovina, where I’d recently been serving as been part of a British delegation. In the interview I decided to tell the reporter that I was a new Christian, I was discerning a call to ordained ministry, and would soon leave full-time Army service to start studying theology while I worked it all out.

This excited her. She ran the story on Bosnia, and a few months later got back to me and did one on faith. Whilst reading it in the paper was hugely embarrassing for me, as the reporter hadn’t quite got the exact nuances of the some of the things I’d said (it’s snappier to type “trainee vicar” than “discerning a call to ordained ministry”), it was quite a relief that pretty much everyone I knew would now know about this bizarre change of direction. This article was followed up by one eight weeks later about me doing a faith sharing mission weekend in HMP Durham, alongside about 30 convicts. Again, I cringed at the wording, which didn’t reflect how very unsure I was and am, but at least now all my colleagues, family and friends now knew, which helped me to deal with the problem of pride.

Yes, now people very much know I’m a Christian and that I’m wondering about becoming a priest. They’ll also very much know whether the church decides to recommend me for ordained ministry or not. Taking this risk, and being open and honest really has helped me to accept that my future is no longer in my hands. It is in God’s hands. This verse helps me:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” Proverbs 3:5-6

A second, totally unexpected and totally brilliant side effect has occurred as a result of me going public; conversation starters about Jesus. I couldn’t count the number of times in bars, at dinner parties, or at the gym that I’ve got into a conversation about careers (“So, what do you do?”) and I’ve been able to say, “Well I was doing that and now I’m doing this. Yes, crazy isn’t it? Oh you want to hear how this U-turn came about? Let me tell you about my weird conversion experience in Afghanistan and how knowing Jesus has changed my life”.

Within a couple of sentences we’re totally away from whether or not I may one day wear a dog-collar, and slap bang in the middle of the Gospels and how ace Jesus is. So “coming out” as a candidate in the discernment process was definitely the right thing for me to do. But, what now?

[2] All of James 4 helped me, but in particular vs 6-7 “Therefore it says, ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ Submit yourselves therefore to God.”

 

God is weird: PART 2

An Ordination Candidate’s Experience of The Discernment Process

In the car on my way back to the barracks, I turned to my husband and asked if he’d heard what the Bishop had said. He had. Well? Well, what? Hadn’t he heard the Bishop was say I should become a vicar? No, he had not heard that bit. It was a tense journey. The message seemed clear in my mind. And as I’d just promised to live the rest of my life for Jesus, which meant making some big sacrifices and changes, so I decided there and then to leave the army and work out if I really was called to become a priest.

My husband was very understanding. All he asked in the car was, “Where will we live? What will they pay you? Will you get a car?” Our lives might be very different from now on. Our hopes as a newly married couple of a certain lifestyle and combined salaries would need some realigning. I sensed my husband was sad about the holidays we probably wouldn’t have and the new Mercedes he’d definitely never have. I couldn’t answer any of his questions, as I didn’t know any vicars. This thing needed exploring, which he agreed I should do. I thank God for this marvellous man who was and is totally fine with me giving it a go.

The thing was, I still couldn’t get my head around why God would want me. I just seemed like such an inappropriate choice. One of the earliest stumbling blocks, was that I personally knew a much more sensible candidate and simply couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t been called. She was a fellow Army Officer, a devout Christian, and she had a well-maintained and state of the art moral compass. She was wise and kind, and a competent leader. She really would be the better choice.

It didn’t occur to me at the time that, even if she felt she had a priestly vocation, she couldn’t take it very far, being a Roman Catholic. But still, I thought, if you take anyone Lord, take her!

I looked at my life and thought, wow God is weird. This can’t be right. It can’t be me, God, come on! (I’m told this denial phase is totally normal). I’d done some stupid stuff. Stuff I was embarrassed about. Stuff I was sorry about. What on earth would the Church do with me? A rugby playing, weight lifting, craft gin drinking, potty-mouthed, Army Officer? Aren’t priests supposed to be mild mannered and quiet? Reflective and peaceful? I was more likely to be found on the floor of the Officer’s Mess at 5am, showing off in front of everybody by challenging the Regimental Sergeant Major to a press-up competition, than saying my morning prayers.

Seriously God, you don’t want me leading a church.

That night in bed, having decided I’d do my very best to follow Jesus, even if it meant exploring ordained ministry, I looked at my life and wondered how much of it I’d have to change. Indeed, would the lot have to go? Part of my discernment process has been trying to filter the bits I think Jesus rather likes about me, which perhaps make Him smile, and the bits that make Him face-palm, and say “No, Rachael, that’s definitely in the redemption pile.” A rather timely moral MOT. And it’s an ongoing process.

Spilling the Beans on a “Need to Know” Basis

I sat on this vicar-secret for what felt like ages. I was pretty embarrassed about it. Firstly because, as I’ve said, it seemed so unlikely, and secondly because it seemed so dreadfully arrogant. What gives me the right to think I could be a Priest, when I’ve only been a Christian for five minutes, when there are others before me that should do it, and, frankly, I’m not entirely sure what being a Priest is all about?

After a few weeks I confided in the man who married me. No not that one, the other one. Padre Justin Bradbury. We’d already spoken quite a bit about my new faith during marriage prep, and I trusted him implicitly. He seemed like a very wise and measured man.

I must admit I was rather hoping he’d say I’d lost my senses. But, alas, he recognised something and suggested my next move. He told me priests needed a degree in theology, so without further ado, I made an enquiry at Cranmer Hall, Durham University. It seemed sensible to move back up North to my home in nearby Darlington while I worked all this lot out.

To my surprise, the Deputy Warden Kate Bruce, who had arranged a meeting with me to listen to my inquiry, offered me a place there and then on the course as an Undergraduate, beginning in the September. I was totally at a loss. It was so very unexpected, and unlikely. But I had agreed to walk through doors if they opened when I pushed them. So, that was that. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to study theology as an undergraduate at Cranmer Hall alongside real trainee priests. This should help me work out if I could imagine myself as one of them.

As I stood to leave, still trying to keep Kate’s Labrador away from my crotch with my briefcase (a futile task), she asked if I’d seen the DDO. What’s a DDO? I wondered, hands covered in saliva. The Diocesan Director of Ordinands interviews and processes everyone exploring a vocation. I needed to book an appointment with him as part of my discernment. This scared me. This would make it official. More official.

Part 3 is out now

God is weird: PART 1

An Ordination Candidate’s Experience of The Discernment Process.

So You Want To Be A Vicar?

I’m a candidate somewhere near the beginning of the formal process where the Church is discerning if God is calling me to ordained ministry. Risky, therefore, to be publishing my experiences and thoughts on the discernment process whilst I’m still in it. But I think it’s worth the risk, because in the very first few weeks and months after I felt “called” I really knew nothing about discernment (more on me knowing nothing later) and wondered if I was completely alone/insane in sensing a calling, so I turned to the internet to read blogs about this well-trodden path, from those wo had gone before me.[1]

Whilst I found blogs detailing what actually happens at BAP (the national selection panel, but don’t call it a selection panel!) there were few, if any from people this side of it. The blogs were from folks on the other side; those who had been recommended. Perhaps it’s too painful to drag up and write about if the panel said no.

So this is a blog from an insider who has no idea where her future will be. I’m inviting you to follow this journey with me over these 5 instalments, through it’s many twists and turns. There are many hoops to jump through, interviews to be had, prayers to be prayed, and ultimately a number of wise clergy and lay people will make a decision. I’ll be recommended to train for ordained ministry, or I won’t… or option three, I’ll be deferred until I’ve worked on whatever it is that’s needs developing further; the “not yet” category.

I write this completely open to the idea that I may have got this wrong and God’s not calling me to ordained ministry after all, but has something else up his sleeve. There’s that option too. In which case, that’s exciting as I have no idea what that could be.

The Conversion Bit

This candid blog about the process, my hopes, fears, anxieties and faith, is titled “God is Weird” because God is really weird. Here are a few reasons why:

I first met God in 2012 in a shipping container in Afghanistan. I was an agnostic, probably, if I’d cared enough to give myself a title, which I didn’t. I wasn’t really bothered one way or the other, but I certainly didn’t believe the universe was created by an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God, and that the Gospels and Jesus were true and real respectively. So it was a bit of a shocker being confronted by the awesome and terrifying truth that God exists. I won’t tell the whole story here but you can read it later if you wish.

So that was weird. And God, it seemed to me, wasn’t going to let me get away with just a feeling of awe and wonder. God, it seemed, wanted me to have a very active, personal and constant relationship with Him… immediately. And like the screaming of a child you just can’t ignore, or an eyelash that’s caught in your eye that you have to attend to right now, God got my full attention. I began exploring everything I could about Jesus, with an insatiable appetite. I was a very hungry caterpillar, eating (metaphorically of course) the Gospels.

I also really felt the need to share. I wanted to tell everyone that I’d just started reading this amazing book and that they should read it too. A real page turner. I didn’t know it at the time (because I hadn’t yet learned the proper church words) but I was evangelising from the offset. I was telling the soldiers I lived and worked with on the front-line in Helmand Province, that I’d just heard that God is real and Jesus is awesome and would they like to hear what I’d learned so far?

And that’s pretty weird. I had no clue about most of the Bible- indeed the version the Padre gave me was just the New Testament and Psalms, so Job and Leviticus would have to wait- and I was in no position to answer tricky questions. Frankly, my friends back home, and indeed most of my colleagues probably thought I was nuts. But what can I say? God made me do it. And what’s weirder is that at least one of the soldiers I told, began exploring faith for herself, and got booked onto a Christianity Explored course. Winner. This was all within the first few months. God is weird.

Drama at Confirmation

And then within two years (2014), and only three weeks after I’d made other life-long promises before God at my wedding, I was at my confirmation service. At my confirmation, as I knelt in my smart army service dress, a uniform which has scarcely changed since the 1940s, I remember feeling so excited and overwhelmed by these huge pledges I was making.

Yes- I’d firmly decided- yes, I will serve you Jesus and I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I’ll change my life. Right here and right now I am turning away from the old me, and I’m going to live differently. From now on I’m all yours. I squeezed my eyes shut and my hands together, and shed a few tears.

All sounds rather dramatic doesn’t it? Maybe I got a bit caught up in the moment. Maybe this is how you’re supposed to feel at your Confirmation. I don’t know. All I know is that in that moment, surrounded by 11 year olds and their parents and the Bishop and my brand new husband, I totally meant every word.  Twenty minutes later God tested my resolve.

God is so weird. Following the pattern of immediate action that had characterised my new faith, within a matter of minutes of me being in the church, the Bishop was delivering his sermon, which he illustrated with the story of his own calling; his own sense that God was saying he should be ordained. What the…

I sat there sweating, with a dry mouth. A film reel of significant moments of my life flashed in my mind. The good bits, the bad bits, the hard bits. The regretful bits. The choices I hadn’t understood at the time. The stuff I’d always thought was just good luck. The weird way my life had been mapped. The strange sense that I was meant for something but hadn’t yet, perhaps, figured out what.

Was it…? Surely not. The idea that it could be becoming a vicar actually horrified me. What a ridiculous and comical suggestion. It seemed so implausible, so outrageous, so unlikely, so clear and obvious. It was like the Bishop was talking directly to me, though we’d never met. Things slotted into place and made sense, but at the same time it all just seemed so… weird. I was probably getting the wrong end of the stick. My first test. But I’d never felt like this before about anything.

Here I am Lord. Is It I Lord? I’m Not So Sure Lord…

 

There are 4 more chapters and I’ll post one each day this week. To get them direct to your inbox (so you don’t need to faff about finding this site again), just click follow.

[1] I also read Rev. which I highly recommend, even if it isn’t on any official treading lists.

God’s Not Fair (Matthew 20.1-16)

I’m English, so when I was growing up, I learned what was fair and what was not. And being English, I became very cross at any violation of the accepted rules of fair play. But figuring the rules out wasn’t always easy. I remember sobbing when my big brother would get bigger portions of cake or a bigger bike or the bigger bedroom when we moved to our new house.

“But he’s older than you Rachael,” my parents would say. “It’s only fair.” This was a tough lesson to learn, but hey if the reason was for fairness’ sake, then so be it. Fair’s fair.

My life at school was governed by rules. The teachers and dinner ladies would always be watching out for anyone not following them; play fair, take your turn, don’t take what’s not yours, you can’t have more than your fair share, don’t jump the dinner queue.

Fairness is very important in our culture. Our love of rules and regulations is perhaps why we, the English, invented so many sports: football, baseball, tennis and rugby to name a few. And if we didn’t invent the game itself, we were certainly the first to lay down proper rules for it, to ensure fair play: hockey, horseracing, polo, swimming, rowing, boxing and even skiing.[1]

We’re known throughout the world as being obsessed with queuing: a prime example of fair play. Where our German, French or Hungarian cousins would make their way as close to the front as they could, so they had a better chance of being served first, we English much prefer the order of a neat line. We’ll all be served, when it’s our turn, according to when we arrived. We think this is fair.

We even self-impose the queuing system in situations where there aren’t any actual queues. In pubs across the country, the customers all have a sense of who got there first, even though drinkers all stand side by side and the bar. Pushing in is frowned upon. The person pushing in jolly well knows they arrived after the lady holding a fiver out. The bar tender relies on their own sense of fairness and the honesty of their customers to ensure everyone’s served in the right and proper order.

The system of fair play only problematic when we find we’re both English and a Christian at the same time.

Here’s an example from a church council meeting I attended. They were discussing Parish Share. Parish Share is the sum of money each parish contributes to the central diocesan pot. This communal pot, funds various things to help our local churches. Like running training events or courses so lay people can develop their skills, or funding children’s and youth ministry advisers, a missioner, a professional safeguarding adviser, having someone to give local churches expert legal advice on the use of church buildings, and of course, funding our clergy, their training, their housing and their pensions so that they can minister. All these things and many more come from money in this communal diocesan pot that each church contribute towards.

But how much each church contributes is where it gets tricky. Because this decision lies with each and every parish. It’s up to them.

At the PCC meeting I went to, a heated debate broke out between members. One wanted to contribute more to the communal diocesan pot this year, in line with inflation, and also because they had plenty in reserve and could afford to. He felt it was only fair. But another person wanted to contribute less, in line with what other parishes in the deanery gave. She wasn’t happy that their church was giving the lion’s share, whilst, she believed, others weren’t pulling their weight. Why should her church give more this year when other churches were giving less? It’s not like her church benefitted more from the extra they gave, yet those that gave less still seemed to get a vicar. She just didn’t think it was fair.

Hmmm… so what’s actually fair?

Well…brace yourselves…because Jesus is about to weigh into the argument.

In Matthew 20.1-16 Jesus is explaining to his disciples what the Heavenly Kingdom is like, which, it turns out, is nothing at all like the United Kingdom.

God’s version of fair play goes like this:

“I’ll pay all my labourers the same, no matter what time they show up looking for work. If they do a full shift they’ll get £100 quid. If they turn up at ten to 5 and get stuck in for ten minutes, they’ll get a hundred quid.”

But that’s not fair!

No. It’s not.

God doesn’t play by our cultural understanding of fairness.

Our version of fair, our rules, our orderliness, our queues at the bus stop…it’s all for nothing compared to God’s massive heart and generosity.

God doesn’t care if a criminal nailed to a cross has lived a most sinful and terrible life up until now. It’s the fact he recognises that the man nailed to the cross next to him is Jesus, and the fact he accepts that he’s the Son of God, that matters. And because of this recognition and acceptance, he is forgiven and redeemed, even in his last remaining moments of earth. He had no chance to live a better life or make up for all he’d done wrong, but in his dying moments, he accepted Jesus, and that was enough for God. God’s that generous. (Luke 23.40-43)

So what might God have to say about the debate at the PCC meeting? What’s fair?

Well, all I know is the kingdom of heaven is unlike anything we could construct or write a rulebook for. So our own sense of fair might have to go out of the window. Instead we might have to base the answer purely on what we know about God’s character through what we read in the Bible, what we come to understand through a lived faith, and what we learn through prayer.

I think it might go like this: God would want each church in Durham Diocese to give as generously as it was able, holding nothing back, giving joyfully, not grumbling, giving more than they have to. Giving, in fact, not just according to the need, but giving generously and faithfully as a response to God’s generosity. Disregarding what they thought a fair proportion, based on what neighbouring churches were up to, and instead giving according to whatever God had been blessed it with.

And if each church did that, there’d be enough in the common fund, the communal pot, to cover lower amounts given by the much poorer communities elsewhere in the diocese. Churches whose congregations are extremely poor, and who can’t come close to covering the cost of their vicar, or much else for that matter. They’d still benefit from all the central pot could provide, including their vicar’s stipend. Mission and ministry can happen in even the poorest corners of the diocese because of the generosity of the whole diocese. Of all churches working together as a team.

This is giving according to what’s generous, not giving according to whatever someone calculates is fair based on perceptions and a sense of self-determined sense of fair.

Our rules of fair play limit us. We’re are only human and we only see with human eyes, and with our human imagination. It’s limiting. We don’t see the bigger picture when we only rely on our own rules and instincts.

But there’s another way. When we take away our culturally inherited ideas about fair play, and instead we turn our faces towards God, when we study God, seek God, ask questions about God, when we grow in our own faith and when we build others up in theirs… we will come to learn a whole new set of rules.

When we give like God, we’ll see that so much more can be achieved. Prayers are answered. Miracles happen. Generosity flows and flows from the least likely quarters.

But from time to time, when we’re challenged- which does happen because generosity is tough- when we struggle to do what’s generous and instead we want to do what’s fair according to our inherited English customs, let’s remember who our maker is.

Let’s remember our God is so generous that no matter how much we have sinned, Jesus paid the price for us, that no matter how little we knew we needed help, Jesus saved us anyway, and no matter how far from the path we wander, our Father will always welcome us home with open arms. Not because he’s fair, because he’s God.

So at the next opportunity when we leave this church today, let’s not give fairly. Let’s give generously.

Amen.

[1] From Kate Fox’s “Watching the English”… a brilliant book.

Combating Worry: How the Army and Jesus Use Procedure to “Keep Calm and Carry On”

A sermon on Matthew 6.25-34

 

“Don’t worry. Chill out. Calm down. Take it easy. What are you so stressed about? Relax!”

I can’t help but feel a bit irked when I hear someone telling me this. Don’t they have any worries of their own? Don’t they get stressed about stuff?

Of course they could be Christians, in which case I’ll let them off. It’s not that Christians have special super powers, but there’s something in the way we’re taught to live out our faith that helps us to combat worry.

How? Well it’s about following a procedure. To illustrate what I mean, let me share what I learned from my time in the Army. I’ve served 3 tours of Afghanistan and spent a year and a half on the front-line in Helmand Province, so I know plenty about worry and procedure.

Picture a scene with me.

It’s the peak of summer. The sun is beating down. You’re patrolling down a dusty village lane. Sweat rolls down your face and into your eyes. Your body armour is heavy and uncomfortable. Your clothes stick to you with sweat. Your mouth is dry.

Children with no shoes on, dart in and out of doorways, shrieking and kicking a battered football. Adolescents sit outside shops chatting or fixing a bicycle. They look up at the patrol. They shout insults, or ask for sweets, or come over to shake your hand. It depends on the village. Thick set dogs tied to gates bark and snarl, and you hear the distant cries of a baby from inside one of the low mud-walled farm buildings.

You walk on with your rifle held firmly in your hands. It’s a day like any other.

Then BANG. Bang. Bang. Bang. Stop.

Everything slows down just a fraction and your whole body reacts to the real-time life-threatening danger.

You’re being attacked. Bullets are whizzing past your head and thumping into walls behind you.

Then time speeds back up to normal and you hear different voices shouting orders and responding, and soldiers scattering in a beautiful dusty dance that looks chaotic to the untrained eye but it’s a perfectly synchronised movement. Every member of the patrol has their place.

Rifles are cocked. Safety catches are switched. Pouches are checked.

Someone shouts: “Contact. Enemy. 100m. Left of Mosque. Two times enemy. Rapid fire.”

Panic rises and bullets cut through the air, but you resist the desire to just lie flat on the floor and cover your head, because you’ve been taught not to panic.

You’ve been taught to trust in procedure and to act accordingly.

Why? So your can do your job.

How? Because training kicks in.

We’re going through the motions we’ve practiced time and time again on exercise. We’ve trained for this moment. Everyone knows their role. Worry is replaced by confidence in procedure and acting in a predictable way to unpredictable circumstances.

What I’ve described isn’t the sort of worry Jesus was talking about in Matthew 6, but the theory’s the same. We combat our worries by following procedure… Christian procedure. So when Jesus says, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself” let’s look at how Jesus modelled dealing with worry.

His simple procedure was to spend a lot of time in prayer. He totally relied on God for every provision, including supernatural provision. Jesus practiced trusting in Him.

This was his go-to response. This was the procedure he followed. This was how his training kicked in.

Jesus tells us to do the same when we worry. To set our hearts on God, to trust in God, to pray to God, to concern ourselves with God’s work and to not worry about tomorrow. And He promises us that then will we see how well we are provided for.

He said: “But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

But having faith that God’s got it covered is really hard. Maybe that’s why worrying is so commonplace. And if it wasn’t such a universal experience, the Bible wouldn’t be full of lines like “Don’t be afraid, don’t worry, trust in the Lord”. Jesus wouldn’t have needed to say, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.”

Exodus 16:18-20 is a classic example. The Israelites were in the desert and God provided them with food. They were told not to stash it overnight, but instead to trust that God would provide the next day and every day. But some of them couldn’t. Despite all they’d been through and all they’d seen of God’s grace and faithfulness, still they worried about not having enough in the future.

Trusting God with our worries has always been hard. But I think it’s so important, not least for our peace of mind, but also because when our worries get too big, they can seriously affect our ability to serve God.

Take money worries for example. This worry comes up a lot in my line of work. Personal debt, increasing energy bills, the pension age rising, house prices and rent increasing. And churches tell me they worry their numbers are dwindling. They worry about repairs. They worry about having enough money to pay their share into the central pot so that the diocese can continue to fund clergy stipends. They worry their most generous givers might ever leave.

Does any of this sound familiar to you?

Squeamish as we might be at the mention of money, I think bringing it up is really important because not only is money something we handle every single day, but how we spend, save, hoard, stash, give away, donate, and contribute can be indicative of where we are with God, where we are with trust, and where we are as disciples of Jesus.

Worrying about money can get so bad that it clouds our judgement. It makes us so anxious that we want to hold tightly onto it and not give it away. Our money worries can stop us from being the kind of disciples Jesus is calling us to be. We can get fixated on tomorrow with all its “what if’s”.

• What if I don’t have enough money tomorrow?
• What if I increase my contributions, but tomorrow I can’t sustain it?
• What if I have to reduce my giving in the future?
• Wouldn’t it be best if I just gave less to start with so I know I can always manage?
• What if a bigger priority comes up?
• Isn’t it sensible to keep a large amount in reserve?
• Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Money worries can stifle and hinder us and stop us from being as generous as we truly are. So many of us would agree that being generous people in every way is a really important aspect of being Christians, but the difference between thinking and doing can be massive worries about money.

Money worries can stop us taking the next step. In James’s letter he said faith without deeds is dead. “Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.” We’re called to be people of action. And yet so many of us are trapped because of our money worries. We can’t let go.

But imagine a different picture.

Imagine following and practicing Jesus’ procedure for worry: Praying, spending time in God’s presence, trusting, stepping out, gaining in confidence, trusting more, giving our worries to God. Being honoured and provided for by God. Being freed from that anxiety about tomorrow.

Imagine each one of us having the freedom in Jesus to give as generously as our situations and personal circumstances will allow.

Imagine God seeing and blessing and remembering every single generous act.

Imagine if we had such faith in God that we could each release whatever we felt able, and use that money for good and righteous deeds to serve God.

Imagine if our worries about tomorrow were overcome… would we be able to be more generous today?

What difference will that make to our local area?

To our homes and families and church and wider community? To charities and the Food Bank and the poorest and neediest in our neighbourhoods.

Think back to the soldiers under fire. Think of the panic and worry in that situation, and think of them all getting into the right positions and acting in predictable ways. Think of how they were able to keep calm and carry on because they did what they’d practiced. We need to do the same when we worry.

Remember that our procedure is to pray, seek God’s kingdom first, trust, and step out in faith. How much more manageable would our money worries become? How much would that free us to live more generously? Remember that God is bigger than any of our worries and knows our personal situations inside out. God knows if there’s any obstacle in the way. And God asks us to be generous only according to what each of us has.

And remember that God will honour our generosity, so have faith. God feeds wild birds, how much more will he feed us?

If you feel Jesus is inviting you to recommit yourself to trusting in God more so that you’re released from any money worries you may have that are restricting you from being who God’s calling you to be, then next time you pray, pray about that. See where it takes you.

I’d like to end in a prayer based on Philippians 4:4-7:

Lord help us to trust that you are at hand; and to not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let our requests be made known to You. And Lord may Your peace, which surpasses all understanding, guard our hearts and our minds in Christ Jesus.

Amen

Religion vs Jesus: 2 Corinthians 3

I preached this last night at an evening service at Holy Trinity, Darlington, Diocese of Durham. Here’s my account of what I’ve learned about what Christianity is and isn’t since my conversion. Readings: 2 Corinthians 3, Exodus 34.29-35

I want you to come with me on a journey tonight. We’ll be stopping off and exploring various points along the way, but trust me, we’ll end up at a really great place where we’ll discover that it’s in Jesus alone that we find freedom.

Let’s start in Afghanistan on a very cold night in an army outpost. We won’t linger here long- shivering in the dim light of a few lamps, the persistent grumble of the diesel generator in the background, cold dusty earth under our feet, and a cumbersome rifle slung over our shoulder- but long enough for me to tell you that it was here, in this far off land in 2012, that I had an experience that totally shook my world view, that challenged who I thought I was and what life was all about.

It was here in a shipping container that I came to the wonderful, awesome, comforting and terrifying realisation that God exists.

I became a believer.

But in the following days and weeks, after my initial jittery elation that God really had created the whole universe and had known me since before my birth, I came up against some big personal struggles.

Not to do with God, but with religion.

Because, if I’m honest, up until that moment I’d scoffed at religious folk. I’d felt pity for people that I thought were being duped into believing a fairy tale. I’d felt anger towards people who used religion to control and oppress the vulnerable. And I’d felt baffled by people who seemed to follow all the rules and look down on others, but couldn’t actually give a reason for their faith.

People trapped by rules and customs but who didn’t seem to know Jesus. Religion seemed boring and restricting. I was wary of signing myself up to Christianity if it was just about having to abide by lengthy lists of rules.

I felt so torn, because part of me wanted to be sure of all the laws first, and exactly what would be expected of me, but the much bigger part of me was just so excited to know that Jesus was God’s son, and I loved Him so much, that I wanted to forget about the rules that I didn’t yet know, and throw my lot in with the guy from Nazareth.

So I did.

OK we’re still in Afghanistan and I’m desperate to know Jesus better. And to get to know Jesus, I have to read the Bible.

And fortunately, when I begin reading my Bible in my tent, I see, with great relief, that what Jesus seems so much more concerned with, isn’t following all the religious laws at all. It’s being right with God.

To the people around him, he seems to be a rebel. He’s challenging the status quo at every corner. And this really angered the sorts of people who prided themselves on following all the religious laws.

I read that, one day, several of these religious types, these Pharisees, including an actual lawyer, tried to test Jesus.

They asked which commandment is the greatest.

He replied,

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

Wow, I thought. Could it be that all the rest of the rules pale into insignificance if you could just keep the first two?

All those things carved in stone, all the rules about fasting and keeping the Sabbath and tithing, and circumcision and sacrificing animals and eating the right foods, and praying the right way. Don’t they matter so much?

It’s seems not. The more I read my Bible, the more I saw that Jesus had a way of turning the picture upside down. Looking at a situation with totally new eyes. Challenging systems and beliefs, but not because He was a rebel, because He was God’s Son. He was perfectly obedient to the will of His Father. It’s just that he saw that people were against the will of his father. So He spoke out about it. A lot.

And then I read about that time Jesus and his friends were walking in the fields on the Sabbath, when some of them ate some corn. The Pharisees were furious that they’d broken the Sabbath rule, equating the picking of some corn to harvesting, which was ridiculous. And Jesus said so. He said “If you’d known what this means: ‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice,’ you would not have condemned the guiltless. For the Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath.”

Then the Pharisees tried to catch Him out in the temple when a man with a shrivelled hand turned up for healing. The Pharisees asked if what He was doing was lawful.

So He said to them, “If any of you has a sheep and it falls into a pit on the Sabbath, will you not take hold of it and lift it out? How much more valuable is a person than a sheep! Therefore it is lawful to do good on the Sabbath.”

He touched and healed lepers, He talked to women, He ate with sinners, He bypassed rules about temple sacrifices by healing sins. He challenged the authorities and spoke out.

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices – mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law – justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.”

Jesus came to abolish the idea of trying to please God through religion. When religious rules get in the way of mercy, compassion and justice they should be overridden.

Jesus didn’t break rules to be rebellious, He broke rules to show that people mattered more than rules.

The basics of Christian discipleship are about loving God entirely with every fibre of our being, and loving our neighbour as we love ourselves

That’s what I was beginning to learn 4 and a half years ago in Afghanistan.

 

Come with me again on our journey, back further in time, to about 2000 years ago. To Corinth in Greece. The newly established church who’d received Paul’s letter, part of which David read out.

Paul was reminding this church plant that Jesus had revealed the new covenant, the new law. A new way of looking at religion. Jesus revealed mysteries of the kingdom of heaven to those who have ears to hear. The church in Corinth needed to hear it, and we need to hear it.

Jesus doesn’t want us to be like Pharisees, banging on about our dutiful deeds with loud prayers and pious solemn faces, bragging about our righteousness and condemning others whose lives are a mess.

He doesn’t want us to do religion for the sake of doing religion.

Jesus wants us to put Him at the very centre of our lives. To be every day Christians. Disciples at large in our communities. Challenging the status quo. Being so loving and caring and set on fairness and equality and compassion that it surprises people. Our faces are shining radiant and bright in the knowledge of freedom in Jesus. It makes people sit up and take notice.

“Why does she give up so much of her time for others?”, “Why is he bothering to sit with that homeless guy who’s clearly on drugs?” Because we are every day every minute Christians. We’re not called to be carved-in-tablets-of-stone people. We’re called to bring-God’s-kingdom-on-earth people.

I think the very lives we lead are the best advertisement for religion. The people we are in our communities as followers of Jesus is the best way to convince people (like me!), that Christianity isn’t dead, old, boring; just a set of restrictive rules. It’s about how our lives are transformed by the Spirit of God and knowing we are freed in Jesus our saviour.

 

I’d like to finish with those reassuring words from Paul in his letter to the new church in Corinth.

Whenever, though, they turn to face God as Moses did, God removes the veil and there they are—face-to-face! They suddenly recognize that God is a living, personal presence, not a piece of chiselled stone. And when God is personally present, a living Spirit, that old, constricting legislation is recognized as obsolete. We’re free of it! All of us! Nothing between us and God, our faces shining with the brightness of his face. And so we are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him.

The Generic Wisdom of the Bishop of Berwick

I recently posted an interview I did with professional Aled Jones lookalike, The Rt Revd Mark Tanner, Bishop of Berwick. It was part of a series I’m writing called “Marks of a Generous Church”.

However, there was significant overspill from that interview. Much more than I could fit into one blog. But I didn’t want readers to miss out because his answers were jam-packed with interesting views and teaching.

So I’ve extracted all the non-generosity-specific content and assembled it here under ‘generic wisdom’. For those of you interested in what else the lovely Mark Tanner had to say about the church, obedience, blood biking and wearing purple, read on.

Mark, you were consecrated last October and installed as the Bishop of Berwick on 3^rd Dec 16. How did you end up as a priest in the first place? I was conscious of a calling to full time ministry from age 14. I expected I’d teach or be in the police force or something else people-based until I was in my thirties, then I’d explore ministry. I read Maths at University, then considered doing a PGCE but I had profound feeling that this was the wrong thing to do.

I still had this long-term calling to ministry. I went into one of those prayer spirals where you’re asking “Lord what should I do?” And the only other thing I really loved doing was youth work. So I applied for a full-time youth job at a church in Coventry and became a youth pastor. A year into that I recognised that the call that had been hanging around actually was a ‘now’ call.

And we’re very glad it was!  What about your Christian background? I grew up in the Baptist church. I became an Anglican entirely by accident whilst at university. So I often say because I’m an Anglican convert, I’m a really passionate Anglican!

What I love about the Anglican Church is that firstly we are the church for the whole country, not just the church for the church. So as a priest and now as a bishop, I am of course a priest for the people in the churches, but much more than that.

When I was a parish priest, whether you came from the church or not, I was there for you. That’s important. I love that God is not just interested in those who are interested in him, there’s that wonderful generosity of God who’s God for everyone.

So the parish system works? I am a big fan of the parish system, but I understand there has to be a mixed economy because people don’t just hang around in their geographic circles. That’s why we need Fresh Expressions and chaplaincy.

The breadth of the C of E reminds me that I don’t have everything right. I might come from a particular tradition within the church that has great gifts, but actually I need my brothers and sisters who come from different traditions.

God is bigger than any church or tradition, and the fact that the C of E, unlike some of the other denominations, doesn’t have just one way or praying, or doing worship, is that constant living reminder that it’s not about me it’s about God.

God is the one with the resources. God is the one who calls. God is the one who sends.

Being all the same would be a nightmare. It would be a Mark-shaped church or a Rachael-shaped church instead of a Christ-shaped church. So for me it’s about the responsibility for the nation and mission opportunities, and the breadth which draws us back to Christ time and time again.

What’s your own tradition? Mark takes a sip of tea and looks like he’s stalling for time, and about to dodge the question.

I tend not to be too bothered about that as a bishop, and that’s not me trying to dodge the question.

I smile, knowing full well what Mark’s tradition is, but eager to hear the wisdom in his answer. It’s a very good answer. He goes on…

The danger is that if people think the Bishop is only interested in that or that, then we lose the whole truth of what I’m talking about, which is that the C of E is there for the everyone. So I have to say I am rooted in a particular tradition in the church, but I love the breadth of the church.

When I went to Cranmer Hall as Warden, one of the most profound gifts that I had was out of term time, going to choral evensong every night. It was a real life saver for me. That’s not a tradition that I’ve been formed in, but for me, particularly in that period, it was so necessary.

In fact being a bishop, one of the things I miss is being too far away from the cathedral. I genuinely love every type of worship from the informal to the very formal, so long as Jesus is the focus.

What’s more important than the question, “What is your tradition?” is, “Are you focussed on those who don’t yet know the love, the grace, the forgiveness, the hope in Jesus?” The reality is, the vast majority of people in our nation will go to bed tonight, without knowing the things that we, as Christians, just take for granted.

It’s easy to say “Well, why don’t they just come in?” They don’t come in because they don’t actually know that we’re here, that it’s relevant. So in that great missional charge that all clergy get when they are plumbed-in to a parish, is to proclaim afresh in every generation the faith that we have received.

And it doesn’t matter whether you’re catholic or liberal or evangelical. Whichever badge you want to stick on, because that’s the key question.

Amen! I couldn’t agree more. Sense and wisdom like that is why Mark is a Bishop. Part of the trick to good interview is to know what questions to ask. They have to allow the interviewee the space to give answers like this. I feel like I’m on a roll, so hit him with another.

Have you always wanted to wear purple and funny hats? No I’ve always not wanted to wear purple and funny hats.

My interview technique needs a little work I think. I remark on how nice the tea is while thinking of something more mature to ask.

Could you tell me what you’re making of your first few months as a bishop? For me this is all about obedience. So if God had called me to be the cleaner of the church toilets, I genuinely hope I’d do that with as much grace and joy as I do being a bishop.

Obviously it’s a huge privilege being a bishop and I’m delighted to do it. But it’s got to be about obedience to a call. I actually don’t think the bishops are the most important people in the church. It’s those who are out doing day jobs or bringing up kids. We all have a unique calling and there is no hierarchy in terms of actual importance.

Of course the church can seem to be structured hierarchically, but the mission of God is the key thing, and therefore the people who are doing the mission of God are the key people, and that’s all of us. The reality is as a bishop, you spend most of your time with folk who are already Christians, so arguably we are the least important people in the church because we’re the furthest away from the mission field.

But do you think being a bishop opens up missional and evangelism opportunities because of the status? Yes absolutely and that for me is a great privilege and joy. It’s what gets me out of bed on a morning.

Are you invited to events that people would attend mainly because they know the bishop’s going to be there? Certainly. And the bishop can say things that other people can’t. One of the really fascinating things about going to a church is, you’ll stand up and say something and people will listen to it, take notice and try to do something about it.

And the vicar will say to you, “It’s really great you saying that. I’ve tried saying that and nobody listens!” and that’s right, you’re a different person with a different voice and different role and people listen.

What was it like when you got the call to be a bishop? It’s a very strange thing.  Obviously a huge privilege and a huge delight. It was hard to leave Cranmer because that’s a rich and wonderful community. I was there for 5 years. My concern was, and is always, am I doing this or that particular thing out of obedience to Christ?

I would often say to the students at Cranmer Hall, when we are praying, there are four key words we need to say to God out of our obedience: ‘anyone, anywhere, anything, and anytime’.

And I really don’t care whether God calls you to the most prestigious place in the world to be with the nicest people you could possibly imagine with all the resources you need, or whether God calls you to be in the back streets and worst place you could imagine. Your task is to be obedient to Christ because Christ is building his church. Our task is to be obedient.

When I was a kid at Sunday school, a hymn that stuck with me that had a catchy tune and goes “trust and obey for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.” It’s a simple children’s song but actually there’s such wisdom in it. The truth is, if we trust Jesus with what we’ve got, fruit comes from that which, actually isn’t surprising as He’s the one who made it to start with.

And obedience isn’t tradition-dependant. It’s not ordination-dependant. It’s for all of us. It doesn’t matter whether somebody became a Christian 10 minutes ago or they’ve been a Christian for 100 years. It doesn’t matter whether they’re the Archbishop of Canterbury, or they’re the person who turns the tea urn on in the morning.

We’re all called to that common task of reaching out to the least, the lowest and the lost. Those who can’t begin to imagine that God could love them. That’s why we’re here.

Who’s your favourite disciple and why? I think you’re the very first person to ever ask me that question. I haven’t really thought about it. My initial reaction is Luke because at the beginning of his Gospel and at the beginning of Acts he basically says, “Others have written about this but I’ve made a really careful investigation so that you might know the truth”. It’s that sense of, “My heart’s already there, but I’m applying my brain because, if this is a fairy-tale I’m not interested. I want to dig down into the truth and now I’ve found the truth I want to share it”.

You’re stranded on a desert island. You get to take three Bible characters with you. Who do you choose? Can I have Jesus? Yes. Well it’s a toss-up between people who would be good for me, and people I’d actually like to spend time with! So maybe one of each. Very very long pause. I think probably Esther because she had that extraordinary balance between basically thinking she wasn’t up for the job and honouring God.

Like Esther, so often I think I can’t do this. Who am I to do this? And so Mordecai says no you are, you’ve been put in this place and this time for this task. So Esther and Jesus and then I’d probably want Paul. He’d be quite interesting. He travelled and had all those experiences. I don’t think I’d like Paul as a person much, but what I love about Paul is that he’s thought and wrestled with tough stuff. He’s not afraid to come out with the really hard stuff.

And finally Mark, when you’re not bishoping, do you have any hobbies? Well when I have time, I’m out riding blood bikes. Mark volunteers for a charity called Northumbria Blood Bikes, which delivers blood and urgent medical supplies, out of hours, between hospitals and healthcare sites and laboratories in North East England. It’s a pretty cool thing for a bishop (or anyone) to do.

There can’t be many bishops who can put this on their CV. No, I’m probably the only blood biking bishop. There are a couple of others who ride motorbikes, but I think I’m the only blood biker.

This seems like a suitable place to end. We can all sleep a little sounder, knowing that if ever we’re critically injured in hospital and it’s a bank holiday, somewhere in the north east, there’ll be a bishop on a motorbike, cassock and mitre flailing in the wind, making his way to our bedside. Or something like that.