A Bible fit for a King…...

When I was young I confess I was fairly cynical. But cynicism is easy when you’re young. Life is simple, and you have all the answers. And even if you don’t, you’re fairly sure that there are answers within easy reach. The fact that you have experienced nothing (or at least very little) of life’s complexities doesn’t give you pause. Now I am older. I have learned that even the simple things in life come with their complexities, so I try not to be cynical. Where others are concerned, whom I might have rushed to criticise in the past, I have learned that their motives and inner workings are closed to me. I can observe their behaviour and infer motives from that. But I am as likely to be wrong as I am to be right. Given that my own deepest motives are often opaque even to me, and given the common human capacity for self-deception, even when someone actually articulates their motives it is only prudent to treat them with a degree of respect and scepticism.

I also have to confess that as well as being a cynic, I was also a bit of an iconoclast, taking great delight in criticising cherished beliefs and institutions, particularity those of others. The institutions that I happened to like or admire (there are always some) were somehow immune to criticism. But when you have nothing invested in a particular institution (because of a lack of age or interest), one to which you have contributed nothing, why not throw few (metaphorical) rocks at it? What then was one to make of the events of today, Saturday 6th May, 2023 – the coronation of King Charles III?

First of all, it was a dramatic reminder that, for all its pretensions, the United Kingdom is not constituted as a secular state. A recent Guardian editorial fairly pointed out that “….modern Britain is not a holy nation. Nor is it even a largely Protestant one. Britain instead is increasingly secular….”. And yet this ceremony, the formal public recognition of our head of state as our head of state and King, and of his wife as our Queen, was a religious, indeed specifically a Christian, service. Hymns and anthems were sung, there were Bible readings, prayers were offered and there was a (short) sermon. At the heart of proceedings, the King was anointed with oil in a ritual lifted deliberately and knowingly from the Old Testament, and communion was celebrated. Less than half of the population may now identify as Christian, but apparently the state both thinks in such terms (if the “state” thinks), and wants to be seen in such terms. This presumably reflected the desires of the King, but it involved many other state actors. The Prime Minster, no less, a practising and for all I know an entirely sincere Hindu, read from Colossians 1:9-17.

But there is a problem. The Prime Minister does not believe that the words that he read are true. And it gets worse, for things were not entirely as they seem. Many other participants either explicitly or implicitly don’t believe much of what was read and sung either. Consider the Bible that was presented to the King. It was accompanied by the following words: “Receive this Book, the most valuable thing that this world affords. Here is Wisdom; this is the royal Law; these are the lively Oracles of God. More valuable than the gold about to be placed on his head is the word of God which shows us our failings and leads us to Christ.” The Christ in question is the one who, in the words read by the PM “is the image of the invisible God”. Such truth is now so hedged about with caveats and redefinitions by many of the clerical participants in today’s proceedings, that it has been emptied of much of its truth. As for Him being the “..firstborn from among the dead..” or the one in whom “the fullness of God was pleased to dwell”, this has become so mangled as to be meaningless. To have the current Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London recommend the Bible as the Word of God to the King added a certain irony to the proceedings, given how they are now viewed by the overwhelming majority (up to 85%) of the world Anglican communion. And at the centre of the debate within the Anglican communion is precisely the authority of the same book presented to the King.

Even the particular Bible presented by the Archbishop appears to be more about the look and ritual than substance. It turns out to be a specially commissioned copy of the edition prepared in 2011 for the 400^th anniversary of the production of the King James version of the Bible. But this rather goes out of its way to preserve not just the mistranslations inherent in the KJV, but about 350 misprints that were produced in the 1611 original. Of course, if the Bible is just a book, then none of this really matters. The misprints kind of take on a charm of their own. On cold nights in a draughty Royal palace, one can imagine “spot the misprint” becoming an entertaining diversion. But if the Bible is authoritative Scripture, indeed in the form of the autographs the very words of God, then accurate translation becomes an important issue. If not quite a matter of life or death (because God’s truth will out), perhaps not far off that. Fortunately, His Majesty has both the means and the intelligence to lay his hands on an improved translation should he wish to do so.

It is at this point that it would be fairly easy for my former cynicism and iconoclasm to manifest themselves. Except that much of what was said (and sung) in today’s ceremony was actually true, even although it is barely recognised as such. And to hear it at the centre of this national occasion is at least faintly heart-warming. It is in the Bible (as was said) that we learn that the King of Kings really did come to serve rather be served, and that this is a model for those in authority. If our King (and our politicians) were to take this to heart, this would be a major turning point for this nation. And the book the King was given is all that he was told it is. And more. For it has a power not confined by the inadequacies of those who were reading it publicly today. For all that we have had a couple of centuries of naive belief in the inevitability of human progress, and the development of multiple human philosophies that have sought to displace Bible truth and the God and Saviour it reveals, actual Truth was at the centre of today’s proceedings. 

Contained in a Bible that is fit for a King. And not just for the King.

Easter 2023: Welcome to the flip side….

Poor Matthew (Parris) doesn’t get it. I get why he doesn’t get it. And he isn’t alone. His problem is both relatively straightforward and relatively common. As Benjamin Franklin wrote in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Le Roy in 1789 “...in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes” – and dead people stay dead. So I can forgive Matthew for being confused as to the significance of Jesus’ death. Writing in his Times column yesterday under the title “I’ll choose heroes before martyrs any day”, Matthew described Jesus as “the supreme example of a great man felled by midgets”. He was objecting to the notion that Jesus death proves or validates His teaching: “That Jesus was falsely accused and cruelly crucified does not make him a better man, or his teachings more true than if he had lived comfortably to ripe old age.. The depth of his suffering has no bearing on the validity of the Christian message..”. His basic thesis was that Jesus died a victim and His victimhood generated such sympathy that it prevented (and prevents) a proper analysis of what He taught. This rather implies that Jesus’ death was either a miscalculation or bad luck, but not in any way key to who He was or what He was seeking to do. But this indicates that Matthew has entirely missed the meaning and significance of Jesus’ death (for it has both). It is something that is easily done.

The reason he misses the point is that he is focussing on only half of the story. There’s lot about Jesus’ death that might make one rage (much as I was doing on Friday). At a minimum it certainly came as a huge disappointment to His earliest followers. But if Jesus simply died, coming to a horrible end, that could not possibly validate His message (to this extent I agree with Matthew). In fact it would convincingly invalidate His message. If He was merely a victim, He could be no example. For on its own, His death would proves nothing beyond Him being either a fool or a liar. Who would want to follow either? This is because He Himself was very clear about the place and circumstances of His death, and spoke about them repeatedly. But He also insisted that His death would not be the end. His original audience either did not hear Him, did not understand Him or did not believe Him. That inner group of disciples, so traumatised by the events of “good” Friday, were every bit as incapable as Matthew at putting it all together. They were so sure that dead people stay dead, and Jesus was certainly dead. So that was that. But then they should also have known that this is not entirely true. Among their wider number was a man called Lazarus. Lazarus had died, but Jesus had raised Him from the dead. You would have thought that this might have caused them to pause and ponder when a number of women reported to them that Jesus tomb was empty on the Sunday morning following Jesus’ Friday death, and that they had been told that the reason the tomb was empty was that Jesus was alive.

We are able to gain bit of an insight into the thought process (or rather the lack of thereof) going on inside the heads of the first Christians that particular Sunday. Luke records a conversation that two of them had with a seemingly ignorant stranger, as they trudged, depressed, from Jerusalem to the village of Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35). They had placed their hopes in Jesus, but these had been dashed by His death. So certain were they that His death had marked the end of those hopes, that they had totally discounted clear evidence that something remarkable had happened. They had heard the report of the women that Jesus’ tomb was empty. And they knew that this was not wishful thinking on the womens’ part, because it had been confirmed by others (i.e. men). They knew that the same demonstrably reliable witnesses (the women) who had reported the empty tomb also claimed to have been told that Jesus was alive. But of course that was ridiculous. Perhaps what might have swayed them was the evidence of their own eyes. If they themselves could have seen Jesus then they would believe. Indeed that would transform the whole situation. This is a common misconception. Because, as it turned out, they could see Jesus. Indeed they were talking to Him; He was the seemingly ignorant stranger they were talking to.

To cut the story short (you can read it for yourself in Luke 24) eventually they recognise the risen Jesus. The rest, as they say, is quite literally history. Jesus alive transforms everything. Now His death is not a tragic miscalculation, nor is it the triumph of midgets and lesser men over a great man. In fact His death is demonstrated not to be the death of just a man at all. But it is His resurrection that validates His own claims, that He did not lose His life but gave it. He died not as a victim, having had death imposed upon Him (by either men or God), but as a willing substitute and sacrifice. His death is not unimportant (merely the prelude to resurrection), but He stresses twice that it was a necessary means through which he accomplishes what had been set for Him, prior to returning to the glory that had always been His. His resurrection demonstrates that He was not at all just another good man and religious teacher from whom we might learn useful things. His resurrection demonstrated that He was uniquely the God-man who had pioneered the way by which death could be overcome for all those who would trust and follow Him. His resurrection is the flip side of the story of his death that Matthew either misses or, perhaps more likely, dismisses.

Because it just can’t be true. Except, of course, it is. All the evidence is there. But then, as the two on their way to Emmaus demonstrate, it is not now, nor has it ever really been, a matter of evidence, of knowing stuff. It’s about recognising Him.

Easter 2023: How come the world still spins?

The death of a child, a spouse, a parent, comes as a shattering blow. It is one that I haven’t experienced personally yet but I know that one day I will. However, what I have observed in others is the way their world just stops. And then complete incomprehension: why hasn’t it stopped for everyone else? Do they not know what’s happened? Are they simply unaware? Or do they not care? How can this be? And so it goes on. It would be less than human if such a loss did not induce, at least for an instant, anger, compounding the grief. But then the death of any particular individual will not be known to the vast bulk of humanity. And consider the numbers involved; it is estimated that just over one hundred people die every moment of every day. It is a tragedy that not every single one will be mourned – there have always been those who die alone and unknown. But many will be mourned, and there will be those who grieve. For those impacted there will always be that question: How can your world continue to spin when mine has come to a shuddering halt?

I found myself wondering about this at church this morning. Although it is a Friday, it is “good” Friday, hence I was in church. Some other time perhaps I will investigate why this particular day on which we remember Jesus giving up His life in appalling circumstances is called “good” (here’s what I came up with previously). So much about that day is grotesque. The injustice of it. Jesus is declared innocent by His human judge, the Roman governor Pilate, three times in quick succession. The case brought against Him collapses under the weight of its own absurdity. One of His two fellow accused, a thief, recognises that while two of the three of them that day were being justly punished (albeit by crucifixion), Jesus had done nothing deserving death. Even His Roman executioner comes to appreciate something of Jesus’ uniqueness (albeit after the event). And yet, there He hangs, there He suffers, there He dies.

I want to explode. I want to point an accusing finger at those limp, wet disciples, and shout: how could you? Judas betrayed Him the previous evening, and Peter had repeatedly denied Him. The rest of the little band of His closest disciples had scattered. Only some women (including His mother) and John are left to watch Him die. He had invested years in a core group of twelve, patiently, painstakingly, teaching and shaping them, feeding them and occasionally rescuing them. They had heard amazing words, they had seen amazing things. And now, outrageously, they are nowhere to be seen, just when you think He might need them most. More startling still is Jesus’ restraint. When Judas and a mob arrived in a garden where Jesus had been praying to arrest Him, a fight had almost broken out. Violence started, but was stopped just as quickly by Jesus Himself. Could He have escaped if He’d let Peter and the rest “get stuck in”? Perhaps. Did He need their assistance? He certainly didn’t want it. But consider. He’d calmed storms, fed thousands and raised the dead! He could have snuffed out the very existence of those who now laid their hands on Him. And yet He didn’t. My immediate response is to ask: why didn’t you? Why didn’t you stand up to such obvious injustice? Why didn’t you make the likes of Judas and the rest pay there and then? I would have.

If I’m confused by Jesus' response, I’m stunned by God the Father who had spoken of His love for, and His pleasure in, His Son. I know that the incarnation takes us to the edge of, and well beyond, human understanding; how can one person be both God and man? But the claims made by Jesus are clear. He had willingly come from the Father’s side, at the Father’s behest, something long planned. Just as the Father took pleasure in the Son, so the Son sought to please the Father. And yet this Father watches this Son unjustly defamed and abused. Part of me me wants to cry out: how could you? Never mind stopping the world spinning, I wonder why God didn’t rip the earth from its axis and hurl it like a discarded marble across the galaxy. He is God after all, and this is His Son being abused and insulted.

As if all of that isn’t bad (or confusing) enough, as Jesus hangs on a cross, the Father apparently abandons His Son, who cries out in agony because this abandonment is so excruciating. And this only part of what is going on; things that those original observers could see, hear and infer. There are those things transpiring that are unseen and so extraordinary that if God Himself had not revealed what was really going on, one would hesitate even to hint at it. It is Paul who writes in 2 Corinthians 5:21: “For our sake he [God] made him [Jesus] to be sin who knew no sin...”. Why? Part of me is outraged at how unfair this all is. How are we to understand it?

But neither my understanding or my feelings are of much interest. My perspective isn’t the one that matters. God is God, He is not me and He is not like me. In fact He is so unlike me (and you) that the very words that we use, human words, cannot communicate accuracy the fullness of what He is like, even if we could understand what He is like in the first place. We mustn’t slip into the misunderstanding that God is just like us, but bigger. He’s not; He is of a completely different order of being. But because we cannot know everything about Him, does not mean we can know nothing. That’s because He has revealed Himself using human language and images that we can understand. Why did He restrain Himself when His Son was brutally taken and crucified by mere creatures? Because this was the means by which that very rebellion could, in justice, be forgiven by God who is just. Breathtakingly, the world still spins on its axis, not because He is somehow indifferent and doesn’t care or love, but precisely because He does. And He does so with a perfect passion unlike anything that is ever true of us. So he watches as He had always watched, because as He is outside of time, the death of His Son has been and is always before Him.

Part of our problem is that we are time-bound and temporal; for us time is linear. Although this story isn’t over, and our picture is incomplete, we’ll have to ponder and wait until Sunday. Then we’ll learn why the world kept, and keeps, on spinning.

Easter 2023: The calm between storms…..

It is unclear what Jesus and His disciples did during the middle of what has come to be called “Holy Week”. In part this is because ancient writers were not as obsessed by high resolution chronologies and itineraries as were are today. But it is possible to work out what happened during most of that particular week.

At the beginning of the week, on the Sunday as we would say, Jesus had entered Jerusalem in the most public manner, riding on a young donkey. He was arriving in a manner which had all sorts of resonances for those who knew their Old Testament. The people of the day came out in force. The Gospel writers record crowds welcoming Him, with waving palm branches and shouts that would have further wound up Jesus’ enemies in the religious establishment of the day. They had been after Him for while, necessitating Jesus avoiding Jerusalem and Judea at one point in His ministry. But apparently no longer. Knowing exactly what they were up to, He heads to what they assumed to be their seat of power. Some of them, particular Pharisees who were still on speaking terms with Him, asked Him to calm some of His more enthusiastic admirers. He politely declined.

He came not just to Jerusalem, but right to the temple in Jerusalem. Then as now, the temple was as much a powder keg as place of worship, it was political as much as spiritual. Jesus had been there before of course, but this time was different. The temple had become a hub of (probably not very honest) commerce, and Jesus wasn’t having it. He drove out animals that were being sold for use in the temple services as sacrifices, and overturned the tables at the “bureau de change”. This no doubt annoyed those with a financial interest, but it was the last straw for His religious opponents. They now looked for a way to “destroy” Him. These were not the actions of man looking for a quiet life, nor those of someone being driven by events. These were the actions of someone who knew exactly what was going on, who knew what was going to happen; He was driving events.

So by midweek, maybe they all just needed to rest up. They probably found a degree of peace and quiet in Bethany, perhaps at the home of Lazarus, Martha and Mary. A rest would have been a good idea for the disciples. It gave them a chance to contemplate the things Jesus had been saying, as well as the strange case of the withered fig tree. There would be lot’s more to think about. While those who were out to get Jesus plotted and schemed, He would continue to teach in and around the temple. At the end of the week, when they all came together for their Passover celebration, He would teach just the inner group of disciples in the most intimate of settings (what we know as “the Last Supper”). What is clear throughout is that Jesus knows that events are unfolding to a timetable. Although uninterested in the kind of chronology of hours, minutes and seconds that tends to obsess us, there was another chronology that was being followed.

One of the striking features of John’s account of these events are the continuing references to time. In fact John structures the first chapter and a bit of his Gospel around a sequence of seven or so days. This is a clue that time is going to play an important role in his recounting of events. Early on, he records Jesus as saying “...my hour has not yet come” (John 2:4). The time not being right will be mentioned again (7:30; 8:20), and then in the week in question the language changes. Early in the week Jesus says “Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour.” (John 12:27). By the end of the week He will know “this hour” is about to arrive, indeed arrive within literal hours. He knew what time it was. He had always known.

So midweek, with a number of momentous events behind Him, and knowing what lay ahead, perhaps there was some time to pause. Was it frustrating to watch the disciples just going about, apparently missing almost entirely the significance of what was was happening and what they were seeing and hearing? We don’t know. I hope not. Because that’s me a lot of the time even now. They didn’t get it as it was happening, no matter how explicit He had been (and He had been fairly explicit). But they would after the event, although admittedly with Divine help.

Knowing that here and now, midweek, prior to all that will be said and sung this coming weekend for us, perhaps a pause to draw breath and prepare for what’s to come is no bad idea. 

The tyranny of the present…..

Although time can be used as an accusation (as in “you’re living in the past”), we appear to be suffering from a different problem at the moment. The Time’s columnist Jenni Russell picked up on this recently in a piece entitled “Ignorance of history feeds certainty in young”, with the subtitle: “The belief that everyone in the past was wicked and today’s digital generation is uniquely virtuous ignores the truth” (The Times 4/3/23 – but it’s behind a paywall). Part of her beef was with historical ignorance, and with the education policy of governments that have tended to encourage it. What had alerted her to this problem was younger friends who were surprised when they were told that idealism, sacrifice and good motives were neither invented or discovered recently, but could also be found in the past. Their view was that in the past everyone was wicked and everything cruel and exploitative. Virtue belonged to the present generation and to it alone, and so it fell to them uniquely to sort out all the mess they had been bequeathed. This is apparently a close relative of the view that we are on a progressive trajectory. The values of the past are in the past and therefore wrong; we have moved on to a better place, and there had better be no going back. If the first set of views depends on an ignorance of history, the second are peculiarly a-historical as though values come from nowhere in time.

C.S. Lewis called out this kind of thinking. He called it “chronological snobbery” which he defined as “..the uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited.” This happens for a whole heap of reasons, some sensible, some less so. It is true that in some ways we know more than previous generations. Thanks to the efforts of my former colleagues among others, we have been forging ahead discovering the intricacies of the inner workings of every cell in our bodies. Whole new fields of endeavour have opened up because of novel, and very often unanticipated findings. Now we not only know about genes, but almost by accident we have discovered how to “edit” them. This offers new ways to tackle disease and improve health as well as providing a powerful new tool for research. Only a century ago, arguments about the inner structure of the atom were yet to give way to the idea of nuclear fission as a  means of energy generation and, unfortunately, a new type of terrifying weapon. Now we have both. What is interesting about these examples is that they illustrate that while the accumulation of knowledge is progress, there are other ways in which we have not moved on. Because both in the case of gene editing and nuclear weapons knowing what can be done has not helped us know what should be done. Indeed, in important ways it may have left us worse off than we were before.

There is another dimension to the hold the present has on us and in the opposite direction. Life is not static because it never arrives at a perfect equilibrium position. Does anyone seriously contend that where we are now is where we want to remain? It may be that there is no clear consensus on where we want to go, but going we are. And yet the present has such a strong pull that is is difficult to imagine anything different let alone anything better. One reason Lewis had a problem with chronological snobbery was that “...our own age is also “a period” and certainly has, like all periods, its own characteristic illusions.” The problem is that without careful thought we might assume that we don’t have such illusions, and we certainly wont know what they are. Funnily enough this may be something the past can help us with. For it may be able to illuminate our illusions given that they are different to those of the past.

If we really are on a journey or a trajectory, the present has the power to obscure the destination or target to which we are heading. This may suit some for whom the present may be an appropriate target. From their perspective after perhaps years or decades of struggle they may feel that they have somehow arrived. They have a position to defend. And yet such a defence must be mounted with regret. After all, who is going to claim that their present world is perfect? More worryingly, maybe for others it’s the fight rather than the victory, the journey rather that the arrival. In which case the present is presumably still their unhappy place. Either way, the present is exercising its pull, its tyranny, even at the cost of the future.

But what if the whole thing was illusory? I mean the idea of progress from a purely barbaric past, with the present as some sort of ideal? For there are ways in which we don’t appear to have improved much at all. Admittedly we no longer leave unwanted babies to die on hillsides (one feature of various periods in classical antiquity) and yet we do tolerate the unborn being chemically, biologically or even surgically destroyed on an almost industrial scale. And for all of our technological progress, we still can’t collectively do as we ought even when we can see what we should and even when we know how to do what we should. Perhaps the current best example is climate change. The science has been clear for decades. And the scientific consensus, notwithstanding the lobbying of various monied concerns, has stood for almost as long. What were predictions about the future are increasing our current disastrous present. Yet for the sake of the present, we have been prepared to continue to risk the future. So we’re stuck between the past (of which we are increasingly happy to be ignorant) and the future. It’s almost as though we can’t help ourselves.

In fact it’s exactly that we can’t help ourselves. Just as well rescue is available. A rescue, procured in the past, able to deal with our dilemmas in the present, and to secure the future. Rescue found in “..the Lord Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for our sins so that He might rescue us from this present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father” (Galatians 1:3,4; NIV).

As I’m a theology student…….

In my former life, conferences played an important role. Far from being mere “jollies”, they provided key opportunities to both hear and share the latest ideas and to network with the community. There were always issues big and small to be aware of. There might be specific new insights or results of real relevance in my own immediate vicinity of the scientific universe. Or there might be big new themes or the re-emergence of old ones that would be context forming and therefore had to be noted. And because science is a team game, conferences provided a space for personal interaction. As the pandemic raged and conferences (if they occurred at all) moved online, it was suggested that this would become the standard going forward. For the big international meetings it saved time and money (and it was good for the planet). But something was lost without the personal face-to-face encounters across continents that conferences provided. So post-pandemic they’ve come roaring back.

But that was then and this is now. After about forty years, I am again a student and neophyte. So I thought I should probably go to the odd theology conference. I was at last year’s Newton House conference in Oxford. But that was a bit of a home fixture because of the association with Union where I am studying. So when I saw that Affinity (formerly the British Evangelical Council) was holding a “Theological Study Conference”, that seemed to fit the bill. I duly headed to Northampton last week for three days on the topic of “Priorities for the Rising Generation”. Here are some observations (in no particular order).

Conferences, particularly those that have been running for a while, are usually composed of regulars (the majority) and newbies. The Affinity conference takes place every two years, and didn’t run two years ago because of COVID. That meant that quite a high proportion of the attendees were newbies. This was probably to the benefit of many of us. That said, quite a lot of folk knew each other from other networks in which they served or to which they belonged. But right from the start there was what I would call friendliness+. I’ve always found that people at conferences are reasonably friendly. After all, no-one is forced to be there, and usually there is a sense of shared purpose. But what linked me to colleagues at the conferences I used to attend were external factors in the main. The Affinity conference had that, but (and this would apply to other gatherings of Christians) we were also linked internally. In additional to a series of outward characteristics and observable shared motivations, there was that instant family rapport and familiarity often experienced when Christians come together. There was an instant ease with each other.

There is another interesting aspect to this that some might find surprising. After all Christians, particularly evangelicals, often have a reputation for not getting on, and for falling out over what, to many non-Christians, seem like trivia. I have no doubt there were lots of issues that we could have found to disagree about, and some are not trivial. Folks had come together from a wide range of churches, committed to different forms of church government, believing different things about baptism, with different ways of celebrating the Lord’s Supper. And yet the genius of evangelicalism is that it has always been possible to distinguish between primary and secondary issues (with an admittedly fuzzy boundary between them). There are those things that are central in Scripture (those great Gospel truths like the identity, life, work, death and resurrection of Jesus, the character of God and man as revealed) and those which are more debatable leading to legitimate discussion and variation in practice among those who all accept the truth, authority and sufficiency of Scripture (how often to celebrate the Lord’s supper, what mode of baptism to practice, never mind the type of songs to sing in worship). What one ends up with is a unity without uniformity that is much closer than is often enjoyed by those nominally belonging to the same institution. There is a contrast here with what was on display at the recent General Synod of the Church of England, although this was but the latest outworking of tensions that have existed within that particular body from its sixteenth century beginnings. Despite debate over the label “evangelical” and its usefulness, there is some continuing value to it when it is properly defined and realised.

But back to the conference. Papers had been pre-circulated so they could be read and digested before we pitched up in Northampton (they will eventually be published in the Affinity journal "Foundations"). So at the conference itself they were only briefly summarised with the bulk of the time spent discussing them in groups. This provided an opportunity to get to grips with the material, but also to reflect collectively on it. I found myself in a group with a rare blend of wisdom and wit, experience and perspective. Most were experienced pastors and ministers with years of service between them in all sorts of settings. There were leaders of national organisations, and some with other experience and expertise (including a publisher and a former GP). This was one of the most enjoyable aspects of the conference for me. It was a pleasure to listen to them, and they (graciously) occasionally listened to the new boy. Sometimes the discussion did range rather far from the topics in question, and to that extent things were probably not quite as focussed and disciplined as at more academic conferences and some of those I attended in a previous life. But this was because the conference attendees were in large measure pastors not academics. It brought a warmth and practicality to the issues being discussed.

I’m sure that there are more academically rigorous conferences out there, and I may even get to go to few. But I’m glad I was able to spend this few days in the company of such brothers and sisters grappling with and reflecting on some serious and difficult issues for now and the future. 

Tolerance and the public square…

I confess I’m not really sure what is meant these days by “the public square”. There probably isn’t just one, and it probably isn’t a physical square in a particular spatial location. But wherever and whatever it is, there’s been a debate going on about who has access to it, and what they can legitimately do once they get there. This has been occasioned by the furore surrounding Kate Forbes who is currently one of the candidates in the Scottish National Party’s leadership contest (and therefore a candidate for First Minister in the Scottish Parliament). She is also a Christian and a member of the Free Church of Scotland. As I suspected, both of these have led to considerable confusion in the media. At one point last week things got so bad that Dr James Eglinton, an academic in the Faculty of Divinity in the University of Edinburgh and also a member of the Free Church of Scotland, was prompted to offer to proof-read journalists’ copy before they further embarrassed themselves. They were not the only ones to be confused.

Apparently, Mhairi Black (the SNP’s deputy leader at Westminster) couldn't care less about someone’s religion until, that is, it actually affects them in any way. For should it affect the way a politician might vote for or against something Ms Black is against or for, that is “intolerance”. One of Forbes’ opponents, Humza Yousaf (Black’s preferred candidate) helpfully opined that religious views were fine if the person holding them “...were able to disassociate their view, and not let that interfere with policymaking or legislating…”. This is presumably the approach Mr Yousaf, a Muslim, has been taking all these years. Partly in response to such statements, the Scottish Association of Mosques issued a statement about the debate: “The tone of the debate around religious beliefs …. is deeply concerning. Some of those beliefs in question, are beliefs that Muslims also share.” The implication is that the Christian in the race is closer to many Muslims in Scotland than the Muslim in the race. They went on to say that it was “..refreshing to hear a political leader [i.e. Forbes] talk about their religious values and principles, in an open and transparent way.” So Black is confused about tolerance, and Yousaf is confused about the teachings of Islam. Both think that religious belief is fine, provided it leads to no discernible action. Anything else is a form of intolerance.

I always assumed that politicians held beliefs that influenced them, otherwise of what value are those beliefs? Now some beliefs might not lead to outward action if they concern abstract concepts (e.g. my belief that a square has four corners). But this type of belief is deeply uninteresting. When added to other kinds of information, it might turn out to be useful, but it’s not the sort of thing that is going to set the heather alight. Many beliefs however, do shape action. My belief that an umbrella can keep the rain off of me means that I am likely to reach for one on a rainy day. If my experience of umbrella use turns out to be positive then I am likely to want to tell you about it so that you might benefit from their use. In sharing this information (which is intimately connected to my beliefs about umbrellas) I am not oppressing or insulting you, although I could obviously share it in an insulting way. If I felt strongly, I might go into politics and argue that there should be pro-umbrella legislation so that society in general could benefit from such an innovation. Why should this be in any way problematic? If it turns out you are not convinced and think that I am acting from impure motives (e.g. I own shares in an umbrella manufacturer) then this should certainly be exposed and factored into the public debate. But that’s what a democracy is; people with different views, in open debate. Beliefs, motives and facts all play a role in this and everyone is entitled to participate. Or so I thought.

It turns out that certain kinds of beliefs are now to be ruled a priori as having no place in public debate. Mhairi Black has certain beliefs, and I dare say she is confident she can justify them. But even justified beliefs are still beliefs. I’m sure they influence how she votes, the positions she takes in debates, and how she seeks to legislate for others. I have no idea what all of her beliefs are, but I suspect I don’t share many of them. But I’m happy that she has them and agitates for them. Some of Yousef’s beliefs are intimately connected to his experience as a Muslim in a culture where Islam is not the majority view. He has said that this aspect of his experience does influence his politics and his actions as a legislator. As has been pointed out in the twitter-sphere and occasionally in other media, he has not yet been quizzed on those aspects of Muslim belief that do not appear to neatly cohere with his politics. But both Black and Yousef claim that religious belief should play no role in politics and presumably no role in public discourse in general. Private good (or at least currently allowed), public bad.

I have no beef with them holding precisely this view (belief) and expressing it. But exactly why should I accept their authority to pronounce on which beliefs are and are not to be expressed publicly, which beliefs are and are not to be allowed to shape behaviour, debate and politics (if such a thing were possible)? At least we know from whence Forbes’ views flow and on what they are based. One might take a dim view of both a Christian’s beliefs and the Bible from which they are drawn. But to exclude them even from scrutiny, from even being presented in the public square, to assert that their defence and justification should not even be attempted, betokens breath-taking intolerance.

Tim Farron, a man who knows a thing or two about expressing Christian beliefs in a political context (to his cost) suggested a much healthier model in a radio interview recently: “The fact is, there is no neutral space in the public square and a genuinely liberal society is one where we bump up against each other respectfully and are helpfully healthily curious about why people think things that are different.” 

That's a public square I'd happily take a stroll in any day.