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incarnational ministry

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That you may believe

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A traditional view of the Bible: Jesus performed miracles. They are proof of His power and divinity. The ultimate such proof is His resurrection. The apostles then performed miracles of their own. They are proof of their authority.

Now additionally to this, each miracle recorded in the Gospels has its own story, and each of them has its own, distinctive nugget of wisdom for us. Arguably, the variation between these nuggets is not about Christ or His divinity (which would be established from the very first miracle). Still, we would be wrong to consider the miracles in the Gospels as nothing more than an anthology on human condition.

The core of each miracle is the mystery of the Incarnation; and it is magnified by those words, used to describe the entirety of the miracles: “that you may believe“.

believe

Photo: Flickr user Al, reused under CC license

The traditional view, which I outlined at the start of this post, would be to say that what we are to believe is that Christ is, simply, God. Yet they also show Christ’s humanity. If your friend gets married and runs out of wine, wouldn’t you try and procure that wine for them? If you see a sick person and have it in your power to heal them, isn’t it the one thing you would want to do? And isn’t it the pinnacle of human condition to be overcome with grief or anger?

If all that the miracles were meant to prove was Christ’s divinity, well, then a few smitings would have done the trick. But this is not the only thing that they show. They show Christ displaying at the same time both divinity and humanity.

That we may believe then turns from a conversion power-trip to a statement of love. What we are to believe changes from factual information (that Christ is God) to deeply personal knowledge: that the divine meets the human in the person of Christ. And that is immensely beautiful.

This is the face our own evangelism should adorn. Not one that convinces others for the sake of “winning people over to Christ”. Not one that is simply grounded in the truth of the divinity of Christ; yet rather one that is grounded in the meeting place between  His divinity and humanity; and thereby in a love for all that knows no bounds and no fear. This love cannot be ours to hold on to or to merely dispense. Showing love in evangelism is not merely being nice and caring to others, for this is but a pale image of the love of God. No, the love we display in evangelism needs to see us be mere tools, channels of Christ’s love for others.

Once we realise this, evangelism will, I’m sure, look beautiful rather than dutiful to us.

Liturgy: dust off our feet

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I love liturgy. Not as a set of dead rules, but as something that brings life to common worship. In the more modern evangelical circles, however, where congregational polity is more frequent, it feels rather out of place. After all, clinging on to set words rather than hoping for the inspiration of the Holy Spirit comes across as Romish, backward and at its worst, in contradiction of what Paul says. To people who aren’t used to liturgy, it can look like brainwashing – speaking the words of the prayer without engaging your brain, nor your spirit.

liturgy

Photo: Joe Dunckley, reused under CC license.

So it’s natural that us liturgy-lovers subconsciously jump to its defense. I’ve had conversations with friends where liturgy was defended as, simply, unavoidable. That whether official or not, there was always some level of modern liturgy lurking in the background. I’ve laughed when I saw videos taking fun of Christianese, because they describe exactly what that modern liturgy looks like. I’ve smiled at the use of “Amen” as a pious “Over” or “Over and out”.

But when I look at modern evangelical or charismatic Christianity in that way, all I’m doing is bring their practices down to the level of my, for wont of a better word, insecurities about traditional liturgy. Rather than looking at the positive in the very nature of liturgy, I’m discarding it as something we all do anyway. But in doing that, I don’t leave myself any space to say anything good about liturgy. So all I can do is look at some parts of the liturgy – specific prayers – and explain how much of a good prayer they are. And I have done that on a few occasions here. What I can’t do, is say why using more or less ancient forms of public worship is a good idea in and of itself.

Before I get into that, I should frame what I’m saying. Here’s what Hooker says:

True it is, the ancienter, the better ceremonies of religion are; howbeit, not absolutely true and without exception: but true only so far forth as those different ages do agree in the state of those things, for which at the first those rites, orders, and ceremonies, were instituted.

Preface to the Laws; chapter IV.4

Liturgy does not take precedence over relevance. If it really jars with either law or common secular practice, then you really need another reason to justify keeping the traditional liturgy going.

But as long as it’s not at complete odds with the culture of the age, Hooker concedes: the ancienter, the better. Why is that?

Going with tradition means inscribing yourself in a long line of worshippers before you and after you. There’s a famous image from Jewish tradition suggesting disciples should seek to be covered in the dust of their rabbi (as a result of being so close to them). I like to see liturgy in the same way as I see this dust: in itself, it is nearly insignificant; but it goes hand in hand with the attitude of a follower. And when the disciple turns rabbi, some of that dust will fall on their disciples; making  an unbroken, worshipping communion that stretches through the ages.

But rejecting tradition means breaking that line. And that means breaking yourself off from future generations of worshippers too. The dust that you have lifted will be shaken off the sandals of those who follow you.

That’s why the ancienter the liturgy, the better. Because, intrinsically, it goes hand in hand with the truly humble attitude of following our forebears and allows us to lead on future generations. And simply on the basis that it has been kept alive for this long, suggesting that there might actually be something in it after all!

Liturgy is not a straitjacket, nor should it be treated as such. It is, however, wonderful to use it as a support for our worship: accepting it where appropriate and making it our own. To make it our own can take so many forms, too! We can mix it up, drawing from a variety of traditions; we can write our own prayers; we can experiment a little bit too. But let’s not be ashamed to look at the past to order our services.