Normalising Violence: Part 2

To recap from the previous post: The Hebrew theologians looked at the world as it was in the aftermath of the destruction of all they knew and loved, and realized that violence was, at the least, endemic in human society; and that its roots can be found in the primeval past. The impulse to kill a perceived rival—even a brother—is a common human response to differences of opinion. From the earliest times stronger men bullied and dominated other men, and banded together to bully and dominate other groups of men; the pattern of a strong man of influence declaring himself the ruler over the others is seen in tribe, city, and nation. It seems assumed that it is normal for the strongest to force control over those around them—to seek to dominate all others, and to force them to obedience and slavery. Thus the strong man, the warrior, is most valued by society for the ability to bully, to plunder, and to kill for his own community’s prosperity.

[The Flood is a painting by Bill Bell which was uploaded on 15 September 2025]]

This, the theologians of Genesis 1-11 saw. The Flood Narrative begins with a starkly pessimistic statement: ‘God saw that the wickedness of men multiplied on the earth, and that every intention of the human heart was only evil continually’ (6:5). That word ‘intention’ stands in counterpoint to Gen 2:7—the basic sense of the word yester/yatsar is ‘form’. ‘The Lord God formed the human out of the ground…’. After Eden the human yester becomes malformed by persistent abuse.

So, God decides the only solution to this corrupt and violent society is to return the earth to the primordial formlessness that was ‘in the beginning’, before he began to create. The prophet Jeremiah draws a helpful picture of this very action as he watches a potter forming clay into vessels for food and drink. “I went down to the potter’s house, and there he was working at his wheel. The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him … Just like the clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel” (Jer 18:3-4,6). This is a promise of re-formation of the malformed.

Two matters to note by the end of the Flood story. One, there is one family of humanity that survives for the new beginning, ‘Noah finds grace’. Two, the conclusion is not a vision of peace and human kindness, as might be expected. Rather than ‘they lived happily ever after’, the tone is nearly as stark as the beginning of the story: “I will never again curse the ground because of humankind, for the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth” (Gen 8:21). This leaves one asking, why go through all the bother of de-creation for nothing to change afterwards?

There is no neat answer to this, and it is not my purpose here to offer a nuanced response. I will just point to a subtlety of the narrative itself found in verse 21. Note the difference at the end; in 6:5, the formation of the human heart is ‘only evil continually’. Here, the depravity is not total; ‘from youth’ is a way of saying ‘from the age of moral responsibility’.

Which leads to our first note in the paragraph above: Noah found favour. We will come back to this.

Normalizing Violence, Part 1

  Genesis 6:11-13: ¹¹ Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight, and the earth was filled with violence. ¹² And God saw that the earth was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted its ways upon the earth. ¹³ And God said to Noah, “I have determined to make an end of all flesh, for the earth is filled with violence because of them; now I am going to destroy them along with the earth. [NRSV]

 

[From the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki. The earliest writing in the region, 7th C BCE. The pottery handle is inscribed: 'Mine']

This is a story about violence. How one understands its meaning depends on where one starts. It is common in recent times to see the violence and condemn God for bringing about the genocide of humans and animals. This, unfortunately, is not only to miss the point but to ascribe to it quite the opposite of the story’s purpose.

The starting point for hearing the Flood Account is not from our modern, liberal and sceptical rationalism; nor is it from a simplistic literalist approach that considers this a historical account. To appreciate the genius and subtlety of this ancient story we need to place ourselves in the room with those who seek to explain theologically ‘how we got to the mess we are in’. This starting point has to look back from the end of the long ‘historical’ narrative of the people of Israel found in 2 Kings 25—following the destruction of Jerusalem and Temple and the deportation of the population except for the lowly ‘people of the land’. The position we need to take is that of the Wise Men of Judah, in Babylon, seeking to make sense of what had just happened. Was everything they had believed in false? Or, had they missed the point of God’s engagement with them completely?

‘How did we get to the mess we are in?’ Looking at the story of humanity, grasping that ‘every inclination of the human heart was only evil continually’ (Gen 6:6), the theologians came to the rational conclusion that the basic human state is a violent one. And violence leads to destruction.

At the heart of the Hebrew account of how things came to be the way they are, and of how God is involved in it all, is the acknowledgement of the normality of violence in human life. The ‘rest of the story’ in the Bible is about how God deals with this basic reality.

Of course, this part of the story is not the beginning. The earlier narrative describes, without any attempt to gloss over it, how the first human family was torn apart by murder, when Cain slayed his brother. And this is shown to flow directly from the violent decision of the first couple to choose their own way in life, saying of the fruit of the tree, ‘Mine’.

Those early theologians looked past this first ‘sin’ and saw a world of lost potential for human well-being in relation to God. There was a better way of being, but it was lost in what we now call ‘The Fall’.

What does this mean for our troubled present? It means the strong will use violence against those deemed weak. As we read through the story of humanity we see that power is in the hands of the physically strongest, with the best weapons; the bullies. Such has it been, such it is, and such—it seems—it will ever be. This is where we are. Why are we surprised?

The rest of the story? ‘Noah found grace’. That is for another time.

Diversity: The Variegated Grace of God

 [This article was first written in 2018 for the Nazarene Theological College LINK magazine, and then to the MCSCI Blog page. The celebration of diversity seems particularly pertinent in the current atmosphere of hostility to the ‘Other’. This is a slightly revised version of https://www.mcsci.org.uk/blog/post/diversity-the-variegated-grace-of-god. The photo from the Webb telescope of the Milky Way illustrates 'variagation' well.]

Not so long ago I heard a senior church leader in Manchester comment that his experience of the Church in Manchester was of congregations of multi-racial and multi-cultural membership. Someone observed that this is probably an urban phenomenon, and would not be the case across the whole country.

This comment set off a train of thought in my mind. In 1981, when I arrived in Manchester as pastor of a church in a part of the city called Chorlton-on-Medlock, I found a small-but-not-too-small congregation that included people from many parts of the world as well as from all over the UK. I discovered that this diversity was unusual in the city; I found only two or three churches in our very mixed part of the city that reflected that mixture in any way. Indeed, in the ‘80s it was not uncommon for African Christian students to come to our church after first visiting churches (consisting of a handful of people) of their own formerly missionary-sending denomination (where their home churches numbered hundreds of members), reporting that they had been politely told that they ‘might be more comfortable somewhere else with people of their own kind’. They were often in shock at what they found in their Mother Church.

Our church wanted to reach out to our community. Given the significant proportion of our community that was from the Caribbean (largely Jamaican), we wondered if we should focus reaching out to that ‘homogeneous people group’,[1] and searched for a minister of West Indian descent. We decided, ultimately, to affirm our multi-racial and multi-cultural make-up as our strength: we would witness to the variegated (explained below) image of God by our variety. The church did not grow rapidly, but we grew to accept diversity as normal.

The Manchester church was my introduction to the joy of worshipping and learning with the diversity of God’s people. My whole life of service since has been in multi-cultural settings, teaching in three Nazarene educational institutions all serving diverse nations, and returning to be a part of that Manchester congregation again. It has become so much the norm that I feel a sense of shock when I find myself in a single-culture setting—which can happen by travelling only a few miles from my church.

What has happened in nearly 40 years? On one hand, church membership as a whole has continued to decline in Britain at an alarming rate. On the other hand, immigration over the past twenty years—under the generous and highly criticized policies of the governments of the day—has brought a significant number of active Christians into the cities. An unexpected result has been the breath of new life these committed believers have brought to the often-dying local churches they have joined. Many have embraced the newcomers, and such churches are growing. It is a matter for thanksgiving and praise to God that diversity has become the norm across Manchester!

And this under a government system of ‘hostile environment’ to all immigrants. There are lessons to be learned from the debate over immigration that grips so much of the West right now. How do Christ’s people respond to ‘the Other’ on our own territory? The tabloids, as well as prominent politicians, tell us to be afraid, to reject, and expel the Other—the ones not like us, whom we deem to be a threat to our own existence. What do we do when we discover that so many, even among those deemed ‘illegal’ and arriving via leaky boats and across desert borders, are brothers and sisters in Christ?

I have come to the conviction (that is not too strong a word) that God intends us to be all mixed together. The sin of Babel (Genesis 11) was the human attempt to be one homogeneous unit—one language, huddling together in one place. On the Day of Pentecost (Acts 2), echoing the Babel story, the Holy Spirit brought languages and people together into one new community—not by reverting to one language for all, rather, all hear in their own languages. The diversity of God’s people is vividly displayed and celebrated.

The whole biblical story, in truth, is one of migration—Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are all migrants who settle in foreign lands; the Israelites migrate from Egypt to Canaan; Jesus was an undocumented migrant[2] to Egypt as a child.

One New Testament text that illustrates well the biblical affirmation of diversity is found in 1 Peter 4:10. At the beginning Peter describes his audience as ‘exiles of the Dispersion’, that is, scattered groups of God’s people across marginal regions of the Roman empire; these churches are urged to be ‘good stewards of the manifold grace of God’. That word ‘manifold’ (NRSV) can be translated ‘variegated’, ‘diverse’, ‘pluriform’, or ‘many-coloured’. It is the same word used of Joseph’s famous coat, in Genesis 37. We may speak of the ‘many-coloured Church of God’.

Peter’s focus is on the grace-gifts God gives which we are to give to each other. To me, when I look at the Sunday gathering in that church I came to those years ago, it embodies to me the image of God, the imago Dei (Genesis 1:26). Our modern tendency is to read this verse as speaking in the singular of an individual image: ‘I’ am created in the image of God. But the fact is the image is plural, ‘male and female’, and can only be seen fully in the whole of humankind and our manifold colours. ‘I’ am incomplete on my own, a partial picture of how God created humanity; ‘we’ fill out the picture, each adding our part. As the Godhead is triune, and diverse, so is His creation.

This translates into my everyday life in curiosity. When I meet someone different than me, or different than I have met before, rather than fearing the unknown I am curious to learn how this person expands my understanding and experience of the image of God in the human. In the past few years this curiosity has extended towards Muslims of many sorts. The experience has added more colour and texture to my sense of what God has done in creation, confirmed my expectation that God loves them too, and expanded my wonder at the grace of God in Christ.

The Holiness Movement of which I am an heir, in its middle decades stressed the meaning of holiness as separation—separation from sin, and, in its sectarian phase, separation from the world. At times it fell into a rather legalistic emphasis on keeping pure by avoiding any contact with the impure. A grave danger of the holiness-as-separation view is that it leads easily to other kinds of separateness, including racial and national, until churches become excluding rather than welcoming of strangers. When diversity is deemed a bad thing, as we are seeing in much of our world and the Church today, God’s grace becomes diminished to an unattractive narrow, monochrome, homogeneous spirituality of fear and reaction. But, when we catch a glimpse of the riotous diversity of sacred life springing from the creative Word, we can do nothing less than cry out in celebration of the unfathomable grace of God, ‘Holy, holy, holy’!

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[1] A ‘homogeneous unit’ is a group made up of people of the same social, racial, economic and/or political background.

[2] But then, no one was looking for documentation then.

A take on the current economic situation, from a ‘biblical’ slant - Sydenham Life Magazine

[The following is an article published in the June 2025 issue of Sydenham Life, the parish magazine of St Bartholomew's Church, Sydenham. The title was not of my choosing.]

On the morning of Donald Trump’s inauguration as president of the United States of America he attended a service of Christian worship at the national cathedral. In her sermon the Bishop, the Right Rev Mariann Edgar Budde, urged the new president to ‘have mercy’ on people in the country ‘who are scared now’, particularly LGBTQ+ and immigrants. A month later Trump announced cuts to USAid amounting to $60bn in US assistance worldwide. As I write the UN Food Programme announces it is forced to halt treatment for more than 1/2m  malnourished women and children in Ethiopia due to lack of funding.

I have been asked to offer a ‘Biblical take’ on the economics of trade and aid in light of current events. The short response is, there is no economic theory in the Bible as we would think of it. There are certainly a lot of people who think otherwise. Go to your search-engine of choice for advice on what the Bible says about money and you will find many people willing to reveal ’13 secrets of wealth in the Bible’, ‘6 keys to guarantee Biblical wealth and prosperity’, or ‘5 biblical secrets to make you a millionaire!’. There are fewer who offer courses on a ‘Biblical Economics’, yet they select much the same Bible verses, scattered throughout the Bible, and develop ‘principles’ from them. Interestingly, most come solidly down on the side of the free market.

As in any discussion of a ‘biblical view’ on contemporary issues, the biggest question is the presuppositions of the interpreter. The websites just mentioned come to the Bible with a view that it consists of propositional truths that must be mined. One simply looks for verses that say something about money or finance, and derive ‘principles’ from them. Sayings in the Proverbs are favoured highly, then laws from Moses, then from the New Testament—leaning heavily on the letters of Paul. Context does not matter, whether historical or textual. Each text has its own principle. For example, one finds capitalism in the Proverbs: “The scriptures assume an understanding of supply and demand curves (Prov 11:26)”, which says ‘The people curse those who hold back grain, but a blessing is on the head of those who sell it’. It is possible to see this as an example of supply and demand, but it also an example of manipulation of supply of which the Proverbs’ Wise One clearly disapproves. Is it a God-given principle?

Bible verses/contexts that contradict these principles are not difficult to find. From the Old Testament, e.g., Exodus 22:25, ‘If you lend money to my people…you shall not extract interest from them’; not good news for capitalists. Studiously ignored are New Testament portrayals of some sort of communalism at the very beginning of the Jerusalem church, seen in Acts 2:44-45, ‘All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need’. A little later in Acts 4:32, ‘The whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions’ (NRSV translation).

In the years just after the fall of the Iron Curtain and Soviet-style Communism, I taught classes surveying the Bible in both Kiev and Moscow to young people who had never read the Bible before. It was a fascinating learning experience for us all. But what startled me was the responses to reading these stories of the beginning of the Church; these youngsters who had lived their whole lives under Soviet-dictated atheism immediately began speaking heatedly amongst themselves. My interpreters got involved in the discussions as well, and it took me some time to learn what had sparked off the response—they recognized Acts as a description of the socialism they had just discarded. Interesting conversations followed.

The point is, one can find free market capitalism, and one can find socialism in the Bible.

The New Testament is written in a world of empire. Rome was an occupier in Judaea and derived heavy taxes from the occupied. The economy was largely agrarian, and the land owned by a very few. As many as a third of the population were slaves, affecting the labour economy. The upper 1.5% held 20% of the wealth. The cost of military security was the largest budgetary item. Jesus was born into a low-economic status household in an occupied state. How do we apply this to our time?

It is reasonable, I think, to look at the history of Christianity as successive-if-not-successful experiments in engaging scripture with the politics of the day. We are now witnessing the collapse of the attempt to match democracy with capitalism. In the chaos that is the world of Trump we do not yet know what will be next. In 1921 R H Tawney, an economic historian at the University of London, delivered a series of lectures titled, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism. He shared with Max Weber, Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, attribution of the rise of capitalism to late-17^th C Puritanism (there is another article in this!). Tawney lists four main attitudes toward economic relations by religious opinion which remain insightful today:

1. Ascetic aloofness and escape; exemplified in monasticism, and such as the Amish.

2. Ignore them as worldly matters of no concern to religion; seen in much of 20^th Century Evangelicalism.

3. Throw itself into agitation for some particular reform or revolution; found in every era of Christian history, with Christian Socialists (e.g., Methodist chapels and Labour), a British example; and, arguably, Puritans—founders of capitalism as we have come to know it.

4. Accept and criticize, tolerate and amend; probably the majority attitude throughout history.

With these in mind, we turn to the Bible, limited by space here to the Gospels, source of the teaching of Jesus, to see how money and the economy of its time is portrayed. Matthew, and Luke share most of the examples.

Firstly, the Gospels are non-committal on the economic system of the day.

·    In Mt 18 the parable is told of a steward to a king owed 10,000 talents (a talent of silver was equal to 6,000 denarii, which was the standard day-rate for labour) and could not repay it, so was to be thrown into debtor’s prison. The king forgave the debt. The steward then went out and found a co-worker who owed 100 denarii (three months’ minimum wage), could not pay, and had him thrown into prison. When this was reported to the king he had that steward handed over to the torturers until he paid his whole debt. (I know, how can you repay money while being tortured in prison?) Jesus does not comment on the system of debtors prisons, but the common practice is used as an illustration of forgiveness/remission of debts.

·    Mt 20 describes the Day-workers system, still found today, where men wait on street-corners for prospective work for the day. An employer cannot find enough workers at the start of the day, so returns several times to find more workers. At the end of the day he gives all the workers the full day’s wage (a denarius). Again, the system is not commented on, but the justice of giving a daily wage sufficient for the day’s needs (daily bread), regardless of circumstances, is argued.

·    Mt 21 tells the story of a landowner who plants a vineyard and lets it out to tenants. The tenants refuse to pay their rent, and ultimately kill the landowner’s son who is sent to persuade them. Jesus asks his listeners what they think the landowner would do; the answer given is ‘they would put the wretches to a miserable death’. The reader is left in no doubt that the landlord represents God. Jesus makes no comment on the answer given.

·    Perhaps most famous is the parable of the talents, in Mt 25 and Lk 19. A Master entrusts his wealth to three aides while he takes a long journey. They are given varying amounts of money (5, 2, and 1 talents), according to their abilities. Two invest theirs and double their principal. The third buries his money in the ground (no banks available, apparently). When the Master (God?) returns he rebukes this one and gives his money to the first one. There is no criticism of the system; the issue is being trustworthy of their stewardship.

Secondly, the Gospels say a lot about taxes

Tales about tax-collectors are numerous, clearly as the bad guys. We know from other sources that the tax burden was crippling to the Judaean economy—privatized by Rome, with local tax-collectors (tax farming) given license to raise money as they saw possible.

In some places tax-collectors are grouped with ‘sinners’ (Mt 9:9, Lk 5:29-32), who, whatever the nature of their sinning are clearly disapproved of. In one story a tax-collector called Zacchaeus climbed a tree to see Jesus pass by. Jesus saw him, and invited himself to dinner at this rich man’s house. Zacchaeus becomes a disciple of Jesus – and makes 400% restitution to all those he had defrauded (Lk 19:1-10). It is understandable why tax-collectors were hated – but Jesus shows that they are redeemable. Indeed, we know that he made one of them a disciple, Matthew!

3. A bias to the poor

Jesus doesn’t have much good to say about the rich and powerful: 

·    Mary’s song in Luke 1 (commonly called the Magnificat) rejoices in a coming Kingdom reversal that her child will bring – the powerful are brought down from their thrones and the lowly are lifted up; the poor are filled with good things, the rich sent away empty.

·    Lk 16:20-25 tells of a rich man who banqueted every day, and a starving poor man named Lazarus who sat, ignored, at his gate and lived off food rescued from the dumpster. Both die, and Lazarus is seen in Paradise by the rich man, who now languishes in Hades. He begs for Lazarus to be allowed to bring him a sip of water, but there is ‘a gulf fixed between’ that cannot be crossed.

·    All three Gospels tell the tale of a rich young man who comes to Jesus seeking the secret to eternal life, but goes away grieving over the personal cost when Jesus tells him to give all his wealth to the poor. It is hard for the rich to enter the kingdom of God (harder than a camel going through the eye of a needle) but, Jesus says, ‘with God all things are possible’.

It is hard for the rich, but not impossible. It is not that being rich is sinful, but about how wealth is used—and is judged by care for the poor.

 

The Gospel of release: Jesus at Nazareth (Luke 4:16-21)

In sum, the Gospels often depict the economic system of the day, but do not comment on the system. This is not an implicit endorsement of the system, but rather the use of common situations to illustrate the gospel response. As already said, there is no prescribed economic theory in the Bible.

But there is a vision of a better world. There is no single prescription, but there is an ordering of priorities. The Gospel priorities can be seen in the very first words of Jesus in Luke 4, sometimes called his ‘Nazareth Manifesto’. Jesus reads the Sabbath text from Isaiah 61 in his home synagogue: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor...to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour’. The ‘year of the Lord’s favour’ refers to a provision of the Law set out in two places: Deuteronomy 15, which calls for the remission of debts every 7 years; and Leviticus 25, which calls for a Jubilee every 50 years in which all property reverts to the original owners. 

As Jesus’ first public sermon in Luke it has to be read as the template of his coming ministry, and for the community of his followers. We have seen this in Acts 2 and 4 (the Acts of the Apostles being the sequel to the Gospel of Luke). Whatever economic framework we live in, for the family of believers who follow Jesus the question will always be, ‘How does the system provide for the needy?’ It is by the measure to which a society succeeds in such provision that it is to be judged. And, ‘blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy’.

Peace on Earth?

 

Peace on Earth?

Isaiah 9:2-7 and Luke 2:1-14

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”

 

The readings for Christmas night take us from the great political movements (impending invasion of Judah, Isaiah; imperial oppression, Luke) to the intimacy of childbirth (‘Emmanuel’ to a maiden, Isaiah; ‘Saviour/Jesus’ to a virgin, Luke). 

St Luke’s rendering of the birth of Jesus is a story of never-ending wonder, simply told. A new-born sleeping in a manger; startled shepherds and choirs of angels; good news and songs of joy, and declarations of peace.

·        Isaiah brings the word of God to ‘people who live in darkness’. 

We find ourselves in darkness, the problems of the world seeming to overwhelm. Conflict in Ukraine, Sudan, and places forgotten by the news, all overtaken by the daily destruction in Gaza; economic turmoil and crisis of the cost of living; environmental apocalypse foretold; the perils to democracy; crime and drugs and epidemic mental health illness. Where, after thousands of years of the promises, is peace?

·        What comfort can be found in the brief, compact, and familiar account of Jesus’ birth in Luke? 

I was reminded of the simplicity of the account this week when preparing for a talk I was invited to give at an Islamic college in London, for which I was comparing early Christian and Muslim expansions of the story of Jesus’ birth; they imaginatively fill in some of the details we all wish Luke or Matthew had provided. The Qur’anic account movingly portrays the consequences of pregnancy outside of marriage—the shame before the whole community. But, in Luke we are given snapshots: the occupying superpower calls a census for taxation purposes; Joseph must travel the 90 miles to register, and he brings a very pregnant Mary with him; while there, she gives birth.

The reference to the world-wide grip of Roman power that reaches down into the daily lives of ordinary people in a village tucked away in the hills of Galilee signals the poverty and powerlessness of people on the margins of a society on the edge of empire. 

Joseph travels with Mary (was he concerned for her if he was not there to protect her from the shame her pregnancy brought on family and neighbours; or, is this another harsh consequence of government bureaucracy, not taking into account how decrees affect ordinary people, by requiring whole families to attend?). 

The risks of childbirth under the best of conditions were great in that world; the 34-hour journey by foot/donkey (not counting stops) increased the risks to her pregnancy. And she will not be with parents or experienced midwives around her. Did they travel the straight road—down from Nazareth to the Jezreel plain, and then uphill along the ridge of the central hills of Samaria and Judah? Or, avoiding Samaria (as seems to be the case in Jesus’ later life)—travelling along the Jordan Valley, climbing up the 3,800 feet elevation from Jericho to Bethlehem, adding 10 more miles to the journey? Did they travel alone, or with a group? The story does not tell us, as it does later in the chapter when Jesus is twelve years old.

We never hear them speak. They seem to be observers of what happens to themselves. There is a strong sense of delicate vulnerability between them. The economic pressures, the political legal expectations, the cloud of shame, unable to find a place to stay in the lodging place, and having to use the stable for a birth. Is it a ‘Silent Night’? Or, an intensely ordinary story of its time?

This was not for lack of hospitality, as our children’s nativity plays portray with the holy family going from inn to inn looking for a room, and facing indifferent rejection. This is not how hospitality worked then, nor how it works now in that part of the world we call the Global South (I have been recipient of such, even when knowing it was more than the host could afford). But, it was the best that could be offered; the census caused strain on the households of Bethlehem, too. So many trials and dangers; so little help, it seems.

·        At the Shepherds’ Field 

It is in just this setting that a heavenly army visits local shepherds, with the good news of the birth of a Saviour, and Messiah. I sometimes envision this part of the story as the angels watching the birth of Jesus in the celestial maternity waiting room, as it were, and when the child is born they just have to go tell someone, anyone. And the first people they see are the shepherds, who are startled out of their late-night drowsiness when all heaven breaks loose. 

My first visit to Bethlehem was during the first Intifada, seeking to escape the turmoil of Friday Prayers in Jerusalem only to arrive amidst the tension in Nativity Square, and so walking out to Beth Sahour, and the Shepherd’s Field (and realizing no one knew where I was…). Then, the second Intifada, watching the ‘security’ wall draw a barrier around Bethlehem as suicide bombers targeted busses and cafes. This year? No Christmas in Bethlehem.

·        2,000 years later there is no peace in Bethlehem.

I struggle at this point. I am now 71 years-old (I know, I don’t look a day over 69), and through the decades the darkness of warfare and violence has been a constant. I was born in the midst of the Korean War, which had followed on so soon after the joyful celebrations of peace at the end of WWII; my earliest memories have as their background the Cold War, and school drills in case of nuclear attack; my youth the shadow of fear of military draft for the unpopular war in Viet Nam; the one era of hope as barriers between East and West fell, and weapons were destroyed, brutally cut short by the 9/11 attack and the ‘war on terror’. 

Each year, at the time of Advent, the longing for the promised peace, and the heartache of the cruel hatred of men (almost always men) of power and the harsh oppression of the powerless (almost always women and children), clash in a dissonance that has not yet been resolved. 

How long, O Lord? Isaiah did not see the promised Prince of Peace, ‘whose reign of peace will have no end’; Jesus’ mother saw his death, her own heart pierced as with a sword. How long?

 ·        The Angels and the shepherds, and a birth.

The angels arrive in glory and terror—amidst great light and words of peace. The shepherds are told ‘Do not be afraid’, because they are heralds of good news. The hosts of heaven, as in martial array, announce the Word of salvation with singing. 

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”

The Saviour of the world is born. In a feeding trough in a town on the edge of nowhere.

This song has its parallel in Luke 19:38, king Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey to acclamation and praise—this time from the voices of his followers: 

‘Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!’

We call this Jesus’ ‘Triumphal Entry’ into Jerusalem, a fulfilment of the victorious procession of the Davidic king in Psalm 118, the voices shouting ‘This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad!’ 

But this grand display is not the climax of the story of Jesus. Jesus looks over the city and cries, ‘If only you had recognized today the things that made for peace’. Almost we hear him echo our lamenting cry, ‘How long, O People? How long?’ This was ‘the day’ the Lord had made; but the day passed, the moment was lost.

This story is the heart of the gospel, the good news first told to shepherds in a field in a backwater of the empire: God’s purposes in salvation are peace, and that salvation begins on the margins of human power. 

We respond to the oppressor with military power; salvation comes in a stable. In the counsels of palace and party force is met with force, violence with violence; but the Peace begins in a humble birth, and in a feeding trough.

In the strategy of the kingdom of God, peace comes like yeast in dough; it grows like a mustard seed into a tree. The signs of this peace are found amongst stony rubble, entwined amongst thorns. It is does not come through bombs, but through shepherds; through a carpenter and his betrothed; and through people like us, who welcome with gladness the good news that God so loved the world he sent his beloved Son.

And we may echo the early Christian benediction: Come quickly, Lord Jesus!

Face-to-face with Satan

I dreamed I was face-to-face with Satan. It was not a frightening meeting, I felt no sense of evil. It seemed he was simply a man of ordinary features. The extraordinary thing is that I was telling him that I loved him for Jesus’ sake. As I dreamed, my mind/subconscious/nondream-self thought, ‘This is amazing! Who has ever imagined offering the love of God to Satan?

[Robert De Niro in 'Angel Heart', 1987]

In a later point in the dream I was attacked by his body-guard thugs, and tried to fight them off. The dream ended when Kathy told to me to stop, and I awoke to find myself grasping her leg in my hands.

The dream has stayed with me, goading me with the question, just ‘how far can “love your enemies” go?’. 

I don’t suggest that I am the only one who has ever contemplated offering the love of Christ to the Devil. And I admit my subconscious/nondream-self was a bit proud for saying it. But the question niggles: could anyone actually love the Accuser/Slanderer/Evil One? Can he (assuming the masculine form of the name refers to a ‘he’) be moved by love? 

Can love save Satan?

Let me be clear, I am whole-heartedly committed to the central command of the gospel, ‘love your neighbour’, which Jesus clarified to include ‘love your enemy’. I have probably preached dozens of sermons on the point. And I know I am only one of a host of followers of Jesus over the centuries for whom the call to love has been taken seriously. Having said this, even as I hear myself affirm it, I ask myself, ‘What does this sort of love look like? How do I live out such love?’

I am not likely to be tested personally by the Satan on this point. But his minions, local incarnate versions of their Master, are a problem. The second part of the dream is cautionary. The decision to love with the love of Christ does not mean the Evil One will act any differently. Such love does not promise immunity from getting beat up.

 

Here I want to speak to followers of Jesus of all persuasions. We talk a lot about love, but seldom talk about how to love. 

I offer an illustration from the old classic TV programme MASH [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M*A*S*H_(TV_series)]. When it was running in the 70s it was clearly a liberal comment on the ongoing Viet Nam war, but in its perpetual re-run form has become a nostalgic favourite even of conservatives. But, it has become for me the paradigm of liberal/progressive love—Hawkeye and Pierce loved their enemy when that took the form of the North Korean or Chinese Communist patient under their care; but they were unable to love the hyper-patriotic fellow officer who lived in the same tent. That is to say, they could love all humankind in general, but not in the specific.

On the other hand, I think of the open-hearted and generous Christians of my denominational family. My father was a lovely example of this. He could be caustically dismissive of the cultural matters of the day—hippies, drug-takers, sexually permissive, etc—but when he met a person from any of those categories, he would see them only as someone to love. He was very good at love in the particular. That is to say, conservatives can love in the particular, but are not so good at humankind in general.

Here is my challenge to my brothers and sisters in Christ in these polarized and contentious days: To those on ‘the left’, how do you put your all-inclusive love into practice when those who you include do not include you? To those on ‘the right’, why is it that I don’t see calls to love from you, but much condemnation of the other even though you would give all you have to help your neighbour in need?

Love of enemies is not easy. The people I struggle with at the moment include Donald Trump and those who blindly support him. I fully believe his election as president would be a catastrophe for the US and the world. A Harris presidency might be an irritant, but not apocalyptic. For me, I have to figure out how Christ’s love in me can act in love for Trump.

 

So, this is how I plan to address issues of the coming American election. In the next weeks I will focus on ‘the Gospel’, the good news of the kingdom of God in Jesus Christ. I wish to address political issues by looking at whether they are gospel-friendly. The task is how to fulfil the royal command of love in what I write and say. And I invite you to join me in a conversation. Disagree with what I write, even vehemently—but as you do, show the love of Christ to me.

My expectation is that few will have read this far, and those who do will be those who know me and (possibly) love me already.

On reading the times: right-wing riots and ordinary people.

Last week a niece in the US described her recent road trip across America. I was taken by this part:

‘I love a good long road trip, especially in the midst of elections. It’s not nearly as polarized when you get in there. I mean, it’s not great and I know who I’m voting for, that’s easy. But mostly, people are kind. I believe most want to be nice, thoughtful and take care of each other. Gas station clerks especially-not just in Montana, but also Ohio, and on the dang Penn turnpike when my card thought I was fraud while 58 people waited in line- the guy said, “oh man, I see this all the time. It’s on us. All good.” and the sweet lady that calls everyone “honey” in Omaha, they should make all the decisions. 

This is why we take the trip every single year-it is a reset button and it never fails to do its job. People are good and we keep being kind.’

Today I went out to get pastries for our Sunday brunch, and decided to take the long-way round (it adds about a mile). I never know what and who I might meet. A few days ago I experienced another first for my life in London, being offered some weed by a young teenager on a BMX bicycle. The weather today continued a spell of sun and warmth, with people out walking their dogs; young parents with their children at the play-ground; young people at tennis, and cricket practice; street-side tables in front of coffee shops all full. Peaceful scenes, and accompanied by bird-song. Really, at one point I found myself standing between the two sides of a blackbird conversation. This doesn’t feel like civil war.

Go take a walk!

Turning one corner I nearly walked into two people—I assume the people were grandmother and grandson walking their d
og—in the midst of conversation. The South London gran was speaking, ‘People have got to be kind. What’s the point of life if you aren’t kind? You gotta reach out…’.

Just what my beloved niece said! People need to go outside and talk to people. It is not as dark out there as many would have us believe.

 

I am reminded of the story in The Lord of the Rings when Gandalf the White comes to the Golden Hall of King Théoden of Rohan. The king sits in shadows, the fire burning as though in Winter, ‘so bent with age he seemed almost a dwarf’. Learning news only through the filter of his chief adviser, called Wormtongue by all around him, he is prematurely aged by the evil tidings of death and doom that was all he heard of. And Wormtongue offers nothing but ‘twisted tales and crooked promptings’. Gandalf strikes the man down with a roll of thunder, and brings the king outside. A shaft of sun stabs through distant storm clouds. Seeing the light shimmering through showers and on the river, Théoden remarks, ‘It is not so dark here!’

For too long, too many have spent too much time in darkened rooms before flickering screens listening to the twisted tales and crooked promptings of online influencers who would tell us that everything is failing and doomed; that it is all because of people of other politics (or race and faith); and that the response must be anger and outrage.

Go take a walk!