I suppose it has its roots in my main concern of evangelicalism. For a very long time I’ve been unhappy about, what seems to me, too heavy a focus on ‘me’. Evangelicalism seems (and I accept that this is somewhat of a caricature) wholly concerned with ‘personal salvation’, ‘Jesus as my personal saviour’, ‘Do I know Jesus?’, ‘a personal relationship with Jesus’ and all sorts of trite phrases that focus on ‘me’, not Jesus. The emphasis for evangelism is to get a person to make that ‘personal decision’ to follow Jesus. If they do that, then they will be saved (whatever that means). I’ve never seen scripture as being that self-focused and I can’t help but think that such an emphasis becomes too self-centred and self-serving. Scripture seems to me to have a much more corporate focus – but more of that later. Anyway, I got over that bias a good while back and have since adopted a much more ‘Kingdom’-focused theology that is less about ‘me’ and much more about community and relationships within that community.

It wasn’t a perfectly settled position though and was sufficiently rough round the edges to merit more thought and, to a degree, that’s where I am now. But, now to introduce one of the threads that’s been dangling. I’ve been reading some books by an American professor, Scot McKnight. He lectures at North Park University. Among his many books, there is what might be described as a very loose trilogy, building on an earlier work called The Jesus Creed. The Blue Parakeet, One.life, and The King Jesus Gospel all build on his project work started in The Jesus Creed. The can be broadly characterised by the phrase, “your [...] is too limited.” In the first, it is our understanding of scripture. In the second it is our understanding of discipleship. In the third it is our understanding of salvation (gospel). Interestingly, they are all written from a very evangelical perspective, but one which seeks to get past the ‘personal’. They’re also written into a very US-centric context, so the issues they address are perhaps less common here in the UK, but nevertheless, in engaging with a creeping narrow fundamentalism, they still have some relevancy.

The books generally chime well with my overall theology – less focus on the personal, and more on the communal. They’re about what the work of the Kingdom is and our place in that. McKnight is less bothered about whether we end up in heaven of hell (for that’s not the trajectory of scripture anyway) but about whether we have a place in the Kingdom or not. And that is characterised by our works – not for salvation, but as an imperative of our faith. And the focus of those works is what Jesus (and the rest of scripture, for that matter) is concerned with – the outcast and stranger, injustice, the downtrodden and excluded, and so on. We may think we’ve ticked the box of ‘personal salvation’, but if we think we have, and do not participate in Kingdom work, then we’ve probably completely misunderstood ‘salvation’ anyway.

I still question elements of McKnight’s writing, but, on the whole, he has ‘redeemed’ evangelicalism, in a sense. He has turned the proclamation of the Good News towards its proper focus and lifted it away from the self-centred ‘soterian gospel’, as he terms it.

OK, so that’s one strand of thought that’s floating around my head. Another comes form last Sunday’s lectionary readings (and subsequent sermon). If you don’t follow the lectionary, or have forgotten already, the gospel reading was from Matthew 25:31-46 – the bit about the sheep and the goats, and doing things for ‘the least of these’. It’s a familiar text, much beloved of those who like their judgement and eternal punishment. But as I read it, and read some commentaries, I began to wonder whether the classic conservative evangelical reading of the passage was entirely merited and whether, indeed, it did not actually challenge much of that Calvinist teaching. But here’s where we hit a rough edge that needs engaged with and I’d appreciate any thoughts on the matter.

This passage makes two distinctions. One is obvious – the sheep and the goats. The other, less so – the Nations and ‘the least of these’. Setting aside the sheep and goats distinction, it’s the other that I find much more interesting and challenging. It seems to me that the ‘flock’ (of sheep and goats) gathered before the King/Judge is the Nations. It also seems to me that a Jewish reading of this would be that this is anyone not Jewish. By extension we could perhaps stretch that then to being anyone who is not Christian. And so what we have in this scene are non-Christians being judged, and rewarded with eternal life, for their works. But it’s more subtle than that. The ‘works’ are actually the deeds and reactions to the needs of ‘the least of these’ – arguably, the Christian community, who are identified as Jesus himself. So, by inference, the reaction to Christians is a tacit acceptance or rejection of Jesus. But note that there is no mention of becoming ‘Christian’ – only how Christians are dealt with. That, to me, raises all sorts of big questions over issues of ‘salvation’ – about who’s in and who’s out. And it turns the focus once again towards the Kingdom and its works and purpose.

So that’s floating around in my head as well along with yet another strand of thought that draws from two sources. The first is slightly more nebulous and involves Advent thoughts and the ‘waiting’ of the Jewish community for God’s direct engagement in the world, bringing freedom from oppression. The second is is related, in a sense. I’ve started reading Tom Wright’s Simply Jesus. If you haven’t read anything of Wright’s, I would highly recommend him as one of today’s most intelligent and accessible theologians. Anyway, I’m not too far into the book, but what struck me was his scene-setting for Jesus’ incarnation (which is what Advent is about, really).

It is patently obvious, or so it seems to me now, that whenever we speak of the scriptural understanding of salvation, or deliverance, or redemption, we can only do so at a ‘communal’ level. The Jewish expectation was that it was the Jews, as a people, as a nation, which would be saved. Personal salvation doesn’t seem to be a factor. And so, again by extension, why do we think that we can turn the very Jewish Jesus, and his very Jewish teachings, into a personal goal? Is this the arrogance of Western Christianity at play? Furthermore, what Jesus achieved through his life, death and resurrection, was not salvation for individuals, or even just for the Jews, but something which extended to the entirety of creation. Christ died for all! in a very communal sense.

So,where these strands of thought have taken me is to a place which feels more ‘coherent’ and has greater integrity, but needs more refinement. The ‘corporate’ or ‘communal’ nature of salvation overcomes the issue of a me-centred gospel. But it also ensures that what I am called into is not only a ‘personal’ relationship with Christ, but into a whole set of redeemed and restored relationships – self, God, community, creation. We cannot stop at the ‘I’m alright, I’m saved’ proclamation, because that only reflects one aspect of those restored relationships. It is our coming into the work and purpose of the Kingdom (that is here now, in imperfect form; a pale reflection of the future Kingdom in all its glory) that shows the restoration of those other relationships.

It also means that I can stop focusing on the question of whether ‘I’ am ‘saved’ – the issue of assurance. I am already ‘saved’ – that ‘corporately-inclusive’ act of Jesus assures me of that. Am I a Christian? (the least of these) is evidenced by my works – also to ‘the least of these’ (this time a more broadly-inclusive definition, for what the Mt25 passage also shows is that we are all, Nation and ‘the least’, under God’s care).

Where does this line of thought push us? It certainly raises issues of universalism. It also raises questions around what defines whether we are ‘in’ or ‘out’ – and it becomes less about ‘me’ and more about who I identify with.

Does this detract from grace and move more towards works? Or does it even place too much emphasis on what I do and decide? I don’t think so (but I’m willing to be corrected) because I think, if anything, it makes God ‘bigger’ than we would often perceive or show Him (that idea of our [...] being too limited). It shows that God’s grace is all-encompassing. It also doesn’t mean that God accepts anything based on a corporate-inclusivity. The idea of faith and works becomes inseparable, both at a personal and communal level – just as the Old Testament witnesses to in its chronicling of the history of the Jews. It doesn’t suggest that works alone will save us, but it does raise awkward questions over what might be termed ‘anonymous Christianity’.

Like I said, this is a brain-dump, just to get some thoughts teased out and work out where they might go. Any comment and critique is welcome.

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Even moving beyond the city walls, things are never really far away (at least in terms of Biblical sites – modern Jerusalem is a sizeable city, similar in size to Edinburgh); a trek from one place to another only extended because of having to descend into and out of the Kidron Valley or the Valley of Hinom (Gehenna). After our morning visit to the Haram, we spent the afternoon wandering across to the Mount of Olives and viewing many of the sites there and enjoying the views from it.

Before we got there though, we stopped off at Bethesda – the place of the healing miracle in John 5. What is fascinating about this place is the excavation of the site. In essence, you can see the ‘layers’ of history. In many respects, when you walk around Jerusalem you’re not entirely walking in Jesus’ footsteps. Many of the buildings and the paths now sit atop the rubble and stone of centuries of building and rebuilding. The site at Bethesda reveals some of those layers, going back, indeed, beyond Jesus’ time. The pool and site is associated with a much older ‘healer’ – Asclepius, the ancient Greek god of medicine. It reminded me of my fascination with the archaeological dig under St. Peter’s Cathedral in Geneva (which I never did get around to blogging about). That site in Geneva had a ‘spiritual’ link going back far into pre-Christian history – it was a burial site for a venerated warrior which, over time played host to various pagan and Christian churches. What fascinated me was the sense that a physical location could become a deeply spiritual place and make that link to the spiritual search within us which pre-dates Christianity and points to our innate spirituality and need to express the ‘beyond’ in some way. Bethesda, in a sense, falls into the same category – a ‘touching place’ with the ‘other’, with God, where the water would ripple from time to time and healing was believed to take place. The miracle Jesus performed didn’t require the water, of course. And how much more powerful would the impact of that miracle have been having been done, in that way, in a place normally associated with healing? Of course, the subsequent events show just what that impact was.

But onwards to the Mount of Olives.

I’m going to skip to the top (believe me, I didn’t do this on the day – it’s a steep climb and it was hot) because we visited the main churches on the way back down. We stopped off at:

• The Church of the Ascension: Russian Orthodox church on the site where it is said Christ ascended to heaven from, leaving just a footprint in the rock.
• The Church of the Paternoster: home to tiled panels with the words of the ‘Our Father’ prayer in many, many languages.
• The Basilica of the Agony (in the Garden of Gethsemane): also known as the Church of All Nations. stunning mosaics depicting Jesus’ prayers on the night of his arrest. It’s either deeply moving or completely over-the-top depending on perspective and mood.
• A couple of people also nipped in to the Dominus Flevit Chapel: meaning ‘the Lord wept’ (over the fate of Jerusalem). A modern church with a breathtaking view across to the Old City.

The churches were, again, a reminder of key events and of just how close together, geographically, they were. I think it was also odd to be looking down on the Old Town and the Temple area. When I think of the Psalms of Ascent I tend to picture the Temple being ‘up’. And, of course, it is. One must first descend into one of the valleys before approaching the Temple from below, pretty much regardless of the direction you come from. But it’s by no means the highest point around.

It was pointed out to us though that the Mount of Olives lies on the road from Bethphage and, as the festive crowd crested the Mount of Olives, the Temple and its courts would be laid out before them. It’s a stunning sight now and, to a crowd of travellers coming to worship in the Temple, would have been, I guess, just as stunning then. It’s no wonder a great shout went up from them as they neared their journey’s end.

The walk up (and down) the Mount of Olives was my last full day in Jerusalem and getting such an ‘overview’ was a great way to spend it. As I’ve said, the ‘compactness’ of the area struck me. I don’t know why I should think things were more spread out. Maybe I just didn’t really give it any real consideration before, more concerned with events than geography. But there’s no doubt that getting a sense of the geography gives colour to the picture we draw of the events which we read of.

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After a trek through the impressive, but somewhat featureless desert to the East of Jerusalem, we arrived at Masada. Masada means ‘rocky promontory’ and this particular ‘Masada’ had a rather civilised cable car to take us to the top. That didn’t stop some of the more adventurous members of the group from walking up the ‘Snake Path’ – presumably so-called because it snakes up the 400-odd metres of precipitous cliff-face to reach the top. The top of Masada is more or less flat and is home to various ruins. Even at this height it is only 33 metres above sea level.

Its primary attraction lies in the history of those ruins. At one end of Masada lie the multi-tiered remains of Herod’s Palace (one of many dotted around the country). As a country retreat for a rich and famous despot it has few equals. That Herod is the Herod the Great of Biblical fame, although there had been fortifications on the site from around the 2nd century BC.

But what makes the place so famous is that it was also the site of a 2-year siege. After Herod’s death, Masada was used by the Romans, but in 66AD it was captured by the Jews in their first revolt against the Romans. The Romans first dealt with the Jews in Jerusalem (resulting in the destruction of the Temple in 70AD) then turned their attention to the remnants. Held by fewer than 100 defenders, Masada held out for 2 years under siege, finally succumbing in 73AD. The Romans breached the wall by building a massive earthen siege ramp on the western side.

According to Josephus, the Jewish historian, the remaining Jewish defenders, rather than be killed by the Romans, chose to commit suicide after first dispatching their own family members. The oath, “Masada shall not fall again” is part of the swearing-in oaths of the present-day Israeli army. Kind of sums up so much, really, and is a remider of just how much history influences a culture and people.

Qumran was the next stop. Despite its somewhat unassuming and even bleak appearance, Qumran is probably one of the most significant sites in the history of Biblical studies. It is where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered. Useful not just for their confirmation of ancient Biblical texts, but significant for the differences they contain, the scrolls were under the safe-keeping of and Essene community – a community which lived by a ‘rule’, not dissimilar to the way communities of monks would live. Property was shared and other distinctive ‘rules’ were followed. Again, like later monastic traditions, not all such communities followed the same set of rules and differences existed.

The focus on communal living and care for one another has given rise to speculation that Jesus’ teachings were widely influenced by such ‘rules’, but there is no great evidence to support that and Jesus’ teachings contain significant deviances from what is known of the Essenes. Perhaps a greater link could be made to another Biblical character – John the Baptist. Again, though, it is more a matter of speculation than any hard evidence existing.

The two sites are visually stunning. Sitting in a desert land, it isn’t hard to imagine how difficult life might be at particular times of the year. Being at the mercy of the life-giving rains meant that Masada, in particular, had some ingenious water storage schemes. The heat is intense, perhaps because of the land sitting below sea level. When you consider settlements like Qumran then it may have been only sensible to ensure such communal-living was ‘formalised’. It ensured that the community was equally supported from the resources available. And the presence of so many scrolls indicates that the community was far from primitive. Life may have been harsh and even basic, but the community was no illiterate bunch of savages. This was an educated and dedicated group of people who understood the significance of the manuscripts they had in their possession.

The day also included the somewhat bizarre experience of going for a swim in the Dead Sea. Actually, swimming is not recommended. The very high levels of salts makes the water extremely unpleasant if you get any near your mouth, but that same dense solution means that you bob around in a most strange manner. You can practically sit on the stuff. Still, it made the swim in the Pool at the Scots’ Hotel in Tiberias all the more welcome when we eventually arrived.

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The ‘blue parakeets’ of the title are those loud, squawking, irritating bits of scripture we prefer to gloss over or ignore – or, as McKnight puts it, tame and cage. They are the bits of scripture that don’t fit neatly into our own system, that challenge our preferred understanding and generally run the risk of putting holes in our favourite arguments.

The first half of the book sets out the various approaches typically taken by Bible readers and interpreters. It’s a necessarily condensed characterisation but the general thrust is that there are those (at least among those who still take scripture seriously) who stick with what the Bible says as valid for all time, those who read the Bible through the lens of their particular denominational or theological ‘creeds’ and those who seek to read scripture in a way that is sympathetic to their tradition but acknowledge the need for ‘contemporising’ their understanding. He offers further, narrower characterisations within, particularly, the first category – for example, those who read the Bible as a ‘rule book’ or those who see only a series of blessings or rewards.

It is into the last category (the contemporising one) I would place myself. And in particular, a preference for what might be described as a fairly post-modern approach. However, I don’t believe that that has to mean that the Bible can be interpreted in any way one chooses. I’ve written about this before and mentioned my appreciation for the literary approach of Stanley Fish and his ‘interpretive communities’. In essence, our interpretations of any literature will always be coloured and bounded by the community within which we find ourselves reading that work. In other words, our church upbringing is going to place the limits on our interpretation of the Bible – always allowing for a bit of pushing the boundaries of course.

Although McKnight doesn’t mention ‘interpretive communities’, that would be my understanding of what he is getting at. But the point McKnight makes takes it a stage further, into an area I hadn’t really appreciated but see as being a necessary and logical extension. Not only does our interpretive community provide the ‘boundary’ conditions, if we are honest in our intention of being part of that community, we must use that tradition actively in our engagement with scripture. But that active engagement is a two-way street. We must bring our faith tradition to bear on our Biblical interpretation, but also allow our reading of scripture to push the boundaries of that tradition. And the crucial thing is that that faith tradition is one which is also affected by and interacts with contemporary culture and society and cannot help but be shaped by it.

Sympathetic contemporising is done with regard to the faith tradition, but acknowledges its changing nature – changes that come about through its mission to remain relevant in a changing world. And the point that McKnight makes is that this ever-changing re-interpretation of God’s will is the story of the Bible. It is a book, or series of stories, which charts the continuing reinterpretation of God’s guidance and will in ever-changing circumstances. Of course there is the unchanging meta-narrative of creation, fall, exile, reconciliation but all else is contemporary re-interpretation.

The second half of the book uses the issue of women in ministry to show how some interpretations of scripture have failed to appreciate this changing interpretation and have made the Bible into a stagnant rule book. I won’t rehearse the arguments here, but I believe them to be fair.

But it leads me to the point I really wanted to make and the point which has struck me as I was reading the book.

If we accept that the Bible is the witness to a continuously-varying contextualisation and contemporising of God’s will (and I am persuaded that it is) then it places in interesting imperative on the church, its leadership and its theologians.

It seems to me that the purpose of the Bible then is not to be a source of blindly-applied rules, but rather a model for sacrilising the profane. In other words, in each and every age, we need to look at contemporary culture and work out where God is in that. The places we find God must then be celebrated, applauded and encouraged. And, of course, where we don’t find God, we seek to effect change.

But what are we looking for?

Once again I find myself in agreement with McKnight as he points out what God is ‘about’ – restoration to wholeness of individuals with themselves, with each other, with creation and, of course, with God.

And he makes one further challenging point – our model for wholeness is pre-fall (however we wish to read Genesis 1 & 2). Everything else up until Christ is a fallen model – so why are we using it? With Jesus, we are renewed, in a new community, enlivened and encouraged by the Spirit, who gifts us with discernment – discernment to see God at work in creation, in relationships, in communities. Again, why reduce that to following a set of rules from a fallen era?

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I think when we visit the story we focus so much on the ‘Christian’ aspects (because that is, rightly so, the important part for believers) that we forget there is a very human story there. Can we really expect Joseph to just accept, unquestioningly, what he has been told in a dream, regardless of how devout he may be? Putting the human face on the story makes it, I would suggest, even more ‘believable’.

Of course, that assumes the historicity of events in the first instance and I was interested to discover that one of my former lecturers at new College was an historical advisor to the programme. Dr Helen Bond writes about her take on the adaptation here. She makes the wise observation that the historical accuracy is, in a sense, a secondary consideration, because it is the story in all its dimensions – the theological, the historical, the human – that is important. To separate out the parts may make for a more acceptable story to the more ‘rational’- or ‘secularly’-minded, but it is only as a whole that it makes sense, because it is a story which must, by virtue of it being a story of faith, contain all of those elements.

The Nativity helps, I would suggest, give that nudge back towards remembering the human story behind it all.

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The entire trajectory of Scripture points to a kaleidoscopic people of God, ever more diverse, with always surprising revelations of unlikely people using their gifts in unexpected and even subversive ways to encourage the family and bless the world.

A simple enough statement but about something that has just whooshed past me without me noticing. It’s such an obvious statement about the witness of scripture that I can’t help but feel somewhat dim for only just noticing it.

Of course, as for the implications…

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Now, one of those churches uses the lectionary and the other two don’t so that sets the agenda for at least one of the Sundays. All three churches are geographically diverse and so there is virtually no risk of ‘being followed’ from one to the other. So, given that it’s unlikely that the lectionary passage is going to crop up in the two other churches any Sunday soon, why not make life easier and use the same sermon and order of service for each church?

It’s probably what I’ll end up doing (with variations to allow for the different length of sermon anticipated at each), but part of me still thinks that it’s ‘cheating’. Mind you, a few years ago we were on holiday and happened to catch a visiting preacher in the church we went to. Soon afterwards we heard that same person in another church and, surprise! surprise! heard the same sermon.

Maybe I should look on it as way of reflecting on how the same text/message is received differently in different contexts. Or maybe it’s an opportunity to present the same text in different ways and so experience the richness to be found in scripture. The next question though is whether I start with the short sermon and pad it out or do the long one and trim it down.

Anyway, as I was saying…

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The first is an article by Richard B Hays which is an adaptation of a lengthier book section. It is a pretty comprehensive statement of the conservative position on homosexuality. I recall reading the full book section in 2nd year New Testament studies and found it to be useful then. That was not long before General Assembly discussed the issue of human sexuality. The Mission and Discipleship report (.doc file, via OneKirk) and the congregation discussion resource document (1.5M pdf file, via OneKirk) they produced drew heavily on this work for the conservative perspective. It was also at the heart of a ‘refutation‘ at the time by Paul Middleton, but that work never fully engaged with Hays and so I was left feeling that it was a somewhat selective and not entirely convincing counter-argument.

The second referenced article is by Kim Fabricius (on Ben Myers blog) is a useful ‘in a nutshell’ view from the other side of the debate. The comments are extensive and worth a skim through. It is not a point-by-point argument and assumes a degree of ‘honest’ scholarship which recognises the ambiguity in many of the scriptural references to homosexual activity. If that’s not your ‘place’ then I would recommend doing some wider reading before decrying what Kim says. An ‘honest’ approach will/should leave Romans 1 as one of the few ‘unambiguous’ texts which need to be dealt with. Thereafter you may engage with his propositions and reach your own conclusion.

Finally, the third article referenced is not a theology one, but rather a media comment on a recent sex scandal in Australia. It makes some very valid moral/ethical observations which, I think, are quite pertinent to the whole discussion.

*Updated 18/7/11 to fix dead links

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Well, it actually got me thinking a lot more than that, although it was primarily because I didn’t agree with a lot of it – or, at least, felt it was ‘lacking’ in certain areas. But it was the ‘So what?” question that got me going and I was wondering how often we don’t adequately deal with the ‘So what?’ of our faith and what we say about it.

Let me explain what my particular ‘So what?’ issue was in this instance.

The preacher took an opportunity to have a bit of a dig at the ‘God is love’ approach to Christian faith. This, they felt, was a limited understanding of God and threw away a significant part of the Bible which speaks of God’s justice, wrath and judgement. We got the ‘God loves us’ bit, but in the usual illustration of a loving parent who chastises (punishes) their child ‘for their own good’. I got the distinct impression that God didn’t do nearly enough of that these days and we would be well warned that he might just decide to smite us all for being miserable sinners one day.

Now, I don’t deny that the Bible speaks of a God of judgement, but surely that is the point of the cross. Jesus was judged in our place. All our iniquities were laid on him. He became sin for us. And whatever other verses you want to throw into the mix. Christ’s death on the cross brought about forgiveness for our sinfulness, did it not? God looks on Jesus and pardons us, does he not? Yes, God judges, but God has judged Jesus so that we won’t be.

Or am I missing something? Was Christ’s death on the cross not quite enough? Did Christ only die for some of our sins?

And if that’s not the case then, other than to illustrate (one of) the purposes of the cross, why keep banging on about God’s judgement and wrath? Is it because it simply goes against the grain to think that people are getting away with things we don’t like? But is this not the very point of God’s grace – we have ‘got away with it’, even the worst of ‘it’? It’s not grace otherwise! It’s our own efforts to self-improve to be ‘good enough’ to be accepted.

But what of texts which speak of a final judgement? We still have to go back to those questions about Christ’s atoning death. It either did it all or it didn’t. If it didn’t, we’re all stuffed. If it did then beating me down with how awful I am and God will judge me is a pointless exercise. What is more likely to get a response – a threat or a gift? If the ‘judgement’ of God only falls on those who reject his gift, then why offer only a threat and ignore the gift? And if it is the gift that matters, why dwell on the threat?

I get the need for a balanced picture of God. I’m just not sure that the correct balance is 50:50 and that whenever ‘God is love’ is preached it needs to be balanced with judgement. Otherwise, we risk, I think, diminishing the life, death and resurrection of Jesus with a whole series of ‘So what?’ questions.

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The text in question was Exodus 27 (the construction details of the tabernacle and associated bits and pieces). It’s the habit of my minister to work through an entire book, leaving nothing out, hence this particular text. The Questions that were asked of the text were “Who can approach God?” and “”How can we approach God?” (the latter with two subsections – ‘by sacrifice’ and ‘through consecration’). Being a sound evangelical sermon, it was, of course, firmly linked to Jesus and the cross. But I have to confess, I struggle to make the link in a meaningful way. Or more to the point, I struggle with a reading of scripture that leans too heavily on the semiological, typological or prototype approach. And I also take issue with the ‘conclusion’ that only those who acknowledge Jesus’ sacrifice and ‘consecrate’ themselves are able to approach God in worship.

Anyway, to the point.

The train of thought that was sparked off was the idea of ‘progress’. It seems to me that what scripture witnesses to is the developing relationship humanity has with God. But it also strikes me as being more than that. When the first ‘sacrifices’ were made to God by Cain and Abel, why didn’t God simply turn round and say, “Well, thanks, but you’ve kind of got the wrong end of the stick about sacrifices.” It would have saved a whole lot of arguing over process and procedure. It would have saved an awful lot of legal wordplay over rules and regulations (and maybe no need for lawyers, so the world’s a better place all round – joke, honest). It would have saved some breath for God to not have to say that actually, He wasn’t overly enthusiastic about burnt offerings.

But, of course, that didn’t happen and I believe that it didn’t for a reason – progress. Being the sort of creatures we are, we have to be led through a process until we get to the realisation of what it’s really all about. (Have you ever tried to get a committee to agree on what you’d like done? You need to make them think it’s their idea or it’ll never happen.)  And so it strikes me that in scripture, and especially the Old Testament, what we have is a witness to the ongoing maturing (and I use the word advisedly) of faith until it gets to the point where Jesus, His ministry, His death on a cross, and His resurrection are actually meaningful. Any earlier and you’re in the middle of the sacrificial cycle with prophecy for/against the nations and prophecy for/against Israel with insufficient stability for the sacrificial system and the place of Israel to be really questioned. Any later and you run the risk of there being no Israel left, or at least a diminished number which would have lessened the significance of a Jew dying on a cross and not enough people around to take notice of what it meant, in terms of past prophecy and future hope.

So, where am I going with this?

That’s what I’m still working through I think. It does mean that we cannot erase the Old Testament as it stands as witness to that progress (or lack thereof) – a warning from history, if you like. But it also does more than that. It gives us our trajectory for future faith. If we only started with Jesus then there are any number of tangents that could be headed on. Not all would be fruitful, but interestingly, I don’t believe all would be dead-ends. Furthermore, it means that we can’t stop with the New Testament. We can’t hanker back to the church of the NT; we can’t ‘get back to basics’. We have to make sense of where we are and make sure that we haven’t entirely disconnected with the past. Progress isn’t about starting all over again every time. It may mean having to throw away a lot of baggage from time to time, but there can never be a clean break. Nor does there need to be.

But it does mean, I think, that we can’t superimpose the present on the past and shout, “Look, that was there all along – we (they) just didn’t see it.” It all has to be seen in the context of progress. Of course, that does also raise some fascinating theological questions, especially around pre- and post-cross salvation. It also means that we have to be rooted in scripture, but always interpreting and reinterpreting it in the light of our culture and context. In what better sense is it God’s ‘living word’ (lower-case ‘w’ deliberate)? To ‘disconnect’ from scripture and rely upon a personal sense of ‘spirituality’ is not Christian. It also raises issues of individuality over and against community (and now I’ve finally managed to drag these thoughts towards my Masters project) and the fact that we must surely draw upon the progress made by the whole faith community. Otherwise, are we not, as a society, simply standing still however much we may appear to progress as individuals?

Anyway, that’s been a bit of a long ramble for no apparent conclusion or purpose other than to be a bit of a brain dump on my part.

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