Flannery O'Connor famously said she liked Barth because he threw the furniture around, an image of the theologian as interior designer weary of the dull, worn out sofas of the theologically comfortable. Marilynne Robinson shares O'Connor's delight in scholar theologians who do theology for the health of the church, even if that offends the settled ideas and complacent certainties of a church too fond of its own home comforts.

Barth's early contemporary Dietrich Bonhoeffer could do some furniture hurling of his own. His is a theology forged under the pressure presses of Nazism and a National Church selling its soul for power. There is something of a temple-cleansing zeal in Bonhoeffer's theology, a deliberate and orchestrated overturning of the theological tables, as he raises his voice and tells what the Church of God is for. Bonhoeffer's is a disturbingly destabilising voice, declaring why the Church can never allow its house and household to be furnished with the alien trappings of power comfortable with whatever it has to do to achieve its all consuming goal, power.This isn't a gentle exercise of feng-shui, this is a house clearing.

One of the major weaknesses in evangelical thought is the absence of an ecclesiology adequate to its own Gospel. What is a theology of the Church that is built on the Gospel of reconciliation, eternal gestures of redemptive love, God's grace as judgement in mercy, forgiveness of sins? Where is the radical community that claims to be founded on a radical Gospel? The works of Dietrich Bonhoeffer are replete with answers to hese questions. From his thesis Sanctum Communio, to Life Together, his survival manual for persecuted pastors, to his exposition of the stringent rigour of the Sermon on the Mount as the paradigm of discipleship, and to letters, sermons and lectures – the recurring insistence, the church is Christ's body, called to be his likeness, and the embodied presence of the redeemer-judge.

Two out of hundreds of examples are enough food for thought for one day:

"The church is subjected to all the weakness and suffering of the world. The church can, at times, like Christ himself, be without a roof over its head….Real worldliness consists in the church's being able to renounce all privileges and all its property but never Christ's Word and the forgiveness of sins. With Christ and the forgiveness of sins to fall back on, the church is free to give up everything else." (True Freedom, p. 87-88)

"Christians should give much more offence, shock the world far more, than they are now doing. Christians should take  stronger stand in favour of the weak rather than consider the possible moral right of the strong." (DBW, vol 13, p.411)

During Lent I have been trying to evolve an ecology of speech, a way with words that is hospitable to life. This includes learning to talk and to be silent at the right times and places, being careful to remember the capacity of words to have an afterlife once they have fallen into the soil of our own or other people's lives. Do they create a fertile, balanced humus in which new life can germinate and flourish?

Once you start looking in the Bible for clues and commandments about how to speak and listen, how to use words and not abuse people, once you are attuned to the words of a God who speaks in the Word and Wisdom of Jesus Christ, and in the words of Scripture, then you begin to notice just how much of Christian obedience depends on a spirituality of words and an ethic of speaking.  What is said and thought and heard in all the speaking and conversing and silences of a community creates an ethos, forms an environment, which either promotes a healthy eco-system or seeps toxins into the landscape of our lives. 

The connection between speech and human flourishing is woven throughout Psalm 19, a Torah psalm which celebrates the Word and words of God. I've read this Psalm countless times, preached on it and pondered its beauty of rhythm, prayed it and felt its power to re-align my inner life. The hymn to creation in verses 1-6 compels the move from introspection to wonder, pushes the horizons of our chronic self-preoccupation outwards into the infinite geometry of the heavens that declare the glory of God, contradicting those default assumptions that place us at the centre of things.

The heavens declare the glory of God;
    the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
² Day after day they pour forth speech;
    night after night they reveal knowledge.
³ They have no speech, they use no words;
    no sound is heard from them.
⁴ Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
    their words to the ends of the world.

Those four parallel couplets link speech to creation, and creation to doxology. Our speaking is a faint and far away echo of Creation's praise, our words but the incidental shuffling of a foot or two, in an audience overwhelmed by a symphony orchestra blazing out the thunderous climax of Gounod's Sanctus from the Messe Solenelle de Sainte Cecilia. The truth and reality of God the Creator is heard in the hum and harmony of the heavens. So all my words and sentences, my serious speaking and most casual or intimate conversations, my truth telling and lies, complaints and prayers, the whole orchestrated cacophony of my lifetime of speaking, take place against the timeless rhythms and cadences of the hymn of the universe, orchestrated by the Creator. As that wise sceptical commentator on human foolishness said, "God is in heaven, you are on earth, so let your words be few." (Ecclesiastes 5.2) This Psalm encourages us to shut up long enough to hear what's going on all around us, and without our say so, usually without our even noticing. And if we shut up long enough we will hear Creation's praise.

What I find impressive in verses 3 and 4 is the eloquence of Creation through the absence of speech, words and sound, a paradox so powerful it calls in question our own addiction to the sound of our own voices. The body langauage of creation demonstrates the glory and generosity, the imagination and purpose, the creativity and wisdom of the God who has made all that is, and sustains it by His Word.

An ethic of language may have to include a willingness to examine not only our words but our body language, our non-verbal communication. What would Christian witness look like if the Gospel was demonstrated by our body language, if Jesus was spoken in our ways of relating and communicating to others by generous giving, sacrificial being alongside, loving interest, if we were compassion, kindness and justice personified. In other words, words are essential to human life and relatedness and community – but just as necessary are those actions and dispositions that tell without saying, that show without defining, those redemptive gestures of which it could be said…

³ They have no speech, they use no words;
    no sound is heard from them.
⁴ Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
    their words to the ends of the world.

I've said enough! For now……

Why I love Jean Vanier

"One of the dangers of our time is that information is reaching saturation point and we only register our superficial knowledge. It is good to train our intelligence onto a tiny fragment of this huge body of knowledge which reflects the hugeness of the universe of things visible and invisible. If we look more deeply at a particular aspect – whether this is the growth cycle of the potato or the meaning of a single word of the Bible – we can touch the mystery through it. When we train our intelligence onto a single subject, we enter the world of wonder and contemplation. Our whole being is renewed when we touch the light of God hidden at the heart of things."

( Jean Vanier, Communty and Growth, 1979 edition, p. 133)

Then there is Psalm 19 which also speaks of the light of God, and the praise of God "hidden at the heart of things:

¹ The heavens declare the glory of God;
    the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
² Day after day they pour forth speech;
    night after night they reveal knowledge.
³ They have no speech, they use no words;
    no sound is heard from them.
⁴ Yet their voice^[b] goes out into all the earth,
    their words to the ends of the world.

On a journey home from Montrose I stopped "to train my intelligence" on an early rising moon, and "entered the world of wonder and contemplation". I take photos for pleasure, and fun, and memories, and love, and curiosity and many other reasons – but also sometimes out of sheer wonder, and the sense of the moment when we glimpse "the light of God hidden at the heart of things. This photo was taken at a time when life was overclouded by anxieties – it is a favourite picture, looked at now and then to remind me I'm not the centre of the universe, God is.

Now that I am semi-retired, a status and role as difficult to play as semi dead, or semi-working, it is true I have a lot more "discretionary time". Now there's a phrase coated in the seasoning of arrogance – as if time was a possession to be used at my discretion. I am a Christian, which means I try to live in that place of paradox, under the cross and beside an empty tomb. As a disciple I am crucified with Christ and risen with Christ; by my baptism I have died, risen and am called to walk in newness of life. That means every moment of time is both gift I receive and service I offer to Christ, and there's nothing discretionary about that.

It's a commonplace, and quite a tired one, to be told that Christians never retire. But that word retire, and it's capacity to enthuse or depress us is going to depend on how any one of us thinks of work, leisure, Christian life and existence, and how we understand our own place and purpose in the life God gives us, and what we make of it. Seeking God's place and purpose, and living faithfully there, remains an imperative shaped by the cross and energised by the Resurrection.

As a semi-retired Christian minister, and a semi-retired theologian, I'm working out how to use my discretionary time, and finding I need quite a lot of, well, discretion. Much of the inner discussions taking place in my mind and in my heart just now are about a number of polarities and priorities, which can be reduced to saying yes, or no. Once you have discretionary time you find yourself choosing between alternatives, considering options, exploring opportunities, resisting temptations, accepting invitations, to do stuff, become involved, lend support or give time and effort to other people's projects, purposes and commitments. This is good, so long as I have some sense of purpose and commitment myself to guide the wisdom of that yes or the disappointments of that no.

In other words "semi-retirement" and "discretionary time" don't reduce the need for purpose and commitment as a Christian, if anything they intensify it. You don't serve God well by retiring from a responsible stewardship of gifts, experience and skills; nor do you live an obedient life by saying yes to everything you can do, dissipating life and energy in an orgy of self- affirming activity. So saying yes and no becomes a spiritual discipline of generosity tempered by obedience to God's call as we understand it now. Indeed choosing wisely where and why to invest time and energy has the potential to teach us to number our days, to not consider ourselves more highly than we ought, and still, in the third third of life, "to press on towards the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus my Lord".

Those words of Paul from Philippians in the Authorised Version, were learned by heart 47 years ago; they are my defining argument for resisting the idea of retirement. Yes a reduced level of remunerative employment; yes a relinquishing of high responsibility in ministry formation at a denominational level; yes a change of role and purpose appropriate to where life is now, and the person I now am. But each of these is not a disjunction of service nor  a discontinuity in vocation, but rather a renewed obedience to where and who God calls me to be now.

Now if you've stayed with this soliloquy till now, here I hope is the point. No matter what stage of life we've reached, the life defining questions for a Christian will always return to the radical centre of our faith and obedience, Jesus Christ. How to love and serve our Lord in ways more adequate to our gratitude, but always and inevitably inadequate to God's grace and love? Where to offer ourselves in Christ's name to others in community, whether in church, in neighbourhood, or in those ways of service that reach beyond and into the broken God-loved world and wounded lives? And why – why go on doing what we do in the third third of life? Because in one sense all our time is discretionary – obedience is to live towards Christ the centre. In another sense, "the love of Christ consrains us", and we gladly live as creatively as we can within that constraint.

For now I have three overlapping circles of family and friends, pastoral ministry in a local church, and ministry formation in the academy. That's enough to be going on with, and somewhere in the variable and unpredictable intersections of love that each produces, I hear the call of Christ and find a more perfect freedom.

(Three photos chosen at random, from places around where I now live, and move and have my being!)

Iona Version of St Patrick's Breastplate

Christ above us, Christ beneath us,
Christ beside us, Christ within us.
Invisible we see you, Christ above us.
With earthly eyes we see above us,
clouds or sunshine, grey or bright.
But with the eye of faith
we know you reign,
instinct in the sun ray,
speaking in the storm,
warming and moving all creation,
Christ above us….
Invisible we see you, Christ beneath us.
With earthly eyes we see beneath us
stones and dust and dross….
But with the eyes of faith,
we know you uphold.
In you all things consist and hang together.
The very atom is light energy,
the grass is vibrant,
the rocks pulsate.
All is in flux;
turn but a stone and an angel moves.
Underneath are the everlasting arms.
Unknowable we know you, Christ beneath us.
Inapprehensible we know you, Christ beside us.
With earthly eyes we see men and women,
exuberant or dull, tall or small.
But with the eye of faith,
we know you dwell in each.
You are imprisoned in the … dope fiend and the drunk,
dark in the dungeon, but you are there.
You are released, resplendent,
in the loving mother, . . . the passionate bride,
and in every sacrificial soul.
Inapprehensible we know you, Christ beside us.
Intangible, we touch you, Christ within us.
With earthly eyes we see ourselves,
dust of the dust, earth of the earth….
But with the eye of faith,
we know ourselves all girt about of eternal stuff,
our minds capable of Divinity,
our bodies groaning, waiting for the revealing,
our souls redeemed, renewed.
Intangible we touch you, Christ within us.
Christ above us, beneath us,
beside us, within us,
what need have we for temples made with hands?

(The photo and poem are shared from  Kenneth R Mackintosh's Facebook page over here.)

Bullying is an exercise of power by people whose own fears are projected onto others. Bullies are cowards, not only by picking on someone who is vulnerable, who can't hurt them back, but by running away from their own fears, and denying their own weakness by all this pretended strength. Bullies require the tolerance of others to get away with what they do. So when bullies get to work on someone there is an immediate challenge to those who witness it – be a bystander or be an advocate. By your silence allow another to suffer or by your words and actions intervene, intercede, interfere, in any case respond in support of the person bullied.

That's what happened at a Middle School Basketball game when a few members of the crowd started picking on a cheer leader who has Down Syndrome. You can read about it here. When a few tall teenagers call time out to confront the bullies, and protect the dignity and give confidence to their victim, something good and redemptive has happened.

I read this the day after the news of Jean Vanier having won the Templeton Prize. Few people have done more to affirm, uphold and champion the worth and dignity of each human being than Jean Vanier. Through his vision of communities where inclusion is the norm, love is the ethos, cherishing of each other is a shared presupposition, and people with disabilities are welcomed as people and invited to be full participants and shareholders in all the decisions and relationships that make community what it is – through that vision he has transformed thousands of lives.

And the transformation is multilateral. Those who come to care find themselves cared for; those who are being looked after become the carers of their carers. Yes, it is like that, a reciprocal exchange of shalom, a pervasive commitment to yes and affirmation, a consistent and persistent faithfulness in living together within and through the tensions of community. Here is Vanier's description of his own vision at its best:

Community is the place where each person grwos toward interior freedom. It is the place where individual conscience, unionwith God, awareness of love and capacity for gift and gratuity all grow. Community can never take precedence over individuals. In fact , its beauty and unity come from the radiance of each individual conscience, in its light, truth, love and free union with others. (Community and Growth, p 31)

This is a man who believes love is a gift, not a possession. A community is not there for itself but to serve a greater purpose, as a witness, a gift, to the poor, to humanity, to God. Vanier exemplifies that spirituality which is active, takes responsibility, is willingly accountable, but which grows out of contemplative prayer and making time and space within ourselves for God to touch and heal us by grace, to embrace and restore us by mercy, and to call us again to our deepest loves.

All of this grew out of Vanier's initial experiment of buying a cottage and inviting two or three people with learning disabilities and mental health issues to come and live together with him and a few others. Thus was born L'Arche, and the beginning of a network of refuge and restoration that now spans the world. Vanier's Catholic faith is not incidental to this – it is the essential core out of which he lives and dreams of rich life for others. The Templeton Prize recognises his achievement; characteristic of Vanier, he recognises the achievements of those thousands of people who live out their lives in commitment to communities where human beings are enabled, encouraged, supported and ultimately invited to flourish.

I'm in the process of preparing four expositions for a Bible Weekend Conference. They are all based on the Letter of James, which I've been musing and mulling over during Lent. Here is the intended programme – some of the earlier blog posts on words and the Christian Ethic of speaking will give a clue as to where some of these studies will lead………

Theme: Before Following Jesus,

Read the Large Print.

Following Jesus. There’s No Such Thing as Freedom of Speech.

James, Words, and a Christian Ethic of Speaking.

Following Jesus. The Realities of a Relationally Challenged Church.

James, Conflict, and the Wisdom from Above.

Following Jesus. Hospitality to the Poor is a Requirement Not an Option

James, the Poor and Christian Neighbourliness

Following Jesus.  Even When Life Hurts.

James, God’s Faithfulness, and Our Suffering.

I love the names of authors which are a challenge to spell and pronounce. Antoine de Saint Exupery, Baron Friedrich Von Hugel, Dag Hammarskjold, Hans Urs Von Balthasar, Wolfhart Pannenberg, and lately reading the magnum opus of Yves Congar, I Believe in the Holy Spirit. Congar was one of the great Catholic theologians of the second half of the 20th Century, one of the leading exponents of the Catholic renewal movement nouvelle theologie, and one of the theological architects of key documents from Vatican II. 

In the introduction to his three volume work on the Holy Spirit he writes a personal apologia as a theologian which resonate with every heart given to the study of theology, prayer, and scripture and which works towards the coalescence of all three in the vocation of serving Christ in His Church.

Each one of us has his own gifts, his own means and his own vocation. Mine are as a Christian who prays and as a theologian who reads a great deal and takes many notes. May I therefore be allowed to sing my own song! The Spirit is breath. The wind sings in the trees. I would like, then, to be an Aeolian harp and let the breath of God make the strings vibrate and sing. Let me stretch and tune the strings – that will be the austere task of research. And then let the Spirit make them sing a clear and tuneful song of prayer and life.

Yves Congar, I Believe in the Holy Spirit. 3 vols in 1, 1979-80, (New York: Crossroad, 1983), x.

You know, I could happily make that my prayer for the remainder of my own life, vocation and love for God.

So what would it look like to do some quality assurance on how we speak? How would we evaluate the quality of the words we exchange with others? Can we asses and evidence the tone and content, the intention and the impact of what we say and how we say it, and why, and to whom?

Is there a form of evaluation which might at least require us to think about how we speak, what we say? Indeed could there be an evaluation form that helps us critically review a day's speaking? During Lent it might be interesting, or it might be dispiriting, to review a day's speaking using the fruit of the Spirit as a grid that quality controls an entire day's conversation. It wouldn't matter that I don't recall very much of what precisely I said – there'll be a big enough remembered sample!

Now of course this could become hilariously serious, ludicrously moralistic, not to mention ridiculously close to semantic OCD! But as a thought experiment, a broad spectrum diagnostic scan, just for a laugh, go on Jim, have a go at the Fruit of the Spirit Speech Quality Control Grid. 

This is how it works. I start every time with a perfect score of 5 stars for all 9 fruits of the Spirit. Let's not overdo the guilt thing. Then I have to take away one star for each occasion I can think of when what I said was deficient in one or other of these 9 dispositions.

So for example my negativity and moaning, however justified, doesn't exactly enhance the joy of others I live with, work with, speak to at the Supermarket checkout. Lose a joy star for every time I recall dumping my complaints on someone else.

This could be fun! Sarcasm is a common if sometimes cruel humour; I'm good at it – a day's worth of that bumps the kindness credit into deficit.

Someone else comes at me with their problem, their turn to be negative. I half listen but wish they'd change the subject or go away, and make that clear by my peremptoriness (if that's a word). Goodness! That one knocks back love, patience, kindness and gentleness in the blink of a sentence.

OK. So that's the idea. A diagnostic of my habits of speech. Will I do this every day for Lent? No. That would be an exercise in guilt manufacture! But just imagining how it might work on this post, suggests it might provide an interesting hour spent on retreat. Then I might be encouraged to think positively how to use words transformatively;

to make other people feel valued (love), to lift their day (joy), to reassure (peace), to show I'm listening (patience), to comfort and encourage (kindness), to make someone feel better (goodness), to affirm and respect (faithfulness), to recognise vulnerability (gentleness), and to avoid hurting (self control).

The photo was taken on the flagstone path which winds towards the 5000 year old Yew tree in Fortingall; it indicates the likely dates on the 5000 year time line, when Collegial Scholarship began to flourish in Scotland. The relation of the photo to this post is the tenuous opinion that I hold, that those who are charged with upholding standards of scholarship, are those who are obliged to be stewards of language, disposed to courtesy in speaking, considerate of the potency of words, and exemplars of that intellectual humility which has no need to dominate or silence others.

Miroslav Volf just posted on Facebook another of his sharp epigrams: "Ministers increasingly see academic theology as irrelevant for their vocation. Unfortunately, theologians return the favour."

Reading around some of the 20th Century's most influential New Testament scholars it's quite evident that many of them didn't fall into the trap of specialist arrogance. By which I mean they didn't try to  privilege their particular approach, or claim primary importance of the subset of their self-chosen discipline, or assume the priority of history, theology, philosophy, hermeneutics or dogmatic presuppositions, whichever was their comfort zone. Some of the most inspiring scholarship of the last hundred years has been carried out by scholars at home in the church and as Christians at home in the academy. Like a keyboard, the black and ivory keys play best together.

Rudolph Bultmann was arguably the most influential New Testament theologian and exegete of the 20th Century. He was and remained a deeply committed Christian, whose preaching at Marburg from the 30's into the 50's is unerringly centred on the reality of Christ preached and present as promised in the proclamation of the Word in the context of Christian worship.

Theology therefore is always exegesis inasmuch as it has access to revelation only through the witness of Scripture and seeks to grasp by exegesis what Scripture, understood as witness, says. In form, therefore, theology is always exegesis of Scripture. Its content speaks of revelation. but since revelation is the eternal event, judging or forgiving man, the object of theology is nothing other than the conceptual presentation of man's existence as determined by God – that is, as man must see it in the light of Scripture. (page 89, History of New Testament Research, vol 3)

There it is. Scripture, theology, theologian, preacher, – a scholar with reverence for the text and a preacher with a passion for intellectual integrity in the service of the Church seeking to live a faithful Christian existence bearing witness to Christ.

Volf is right to point out the failure and unfaithfulness of those charged with preaching, pastoral care and missional leadership, but who ignore, despise or reject academic theology – there is a discipleship of the intellect which also requires obedience. He is equally right to deplore the pursuit of academic theology divorced from the realities of Christian existence and the mandated witness of the Church to the world. The Christian tradition, the Scriptures, and the rich heritage of Christian theology each have their own context and content, to be understood and respected for what they are.

The disconnect between theological learning and pastoral practices is never a service to the church or the academy. Black and ivory keys play best together. To change the metaphor, the pejorative term 'ivory tower' refers not only to academics 'who don't live in the real world', but to those Christian leaders in mission and  ministry for whom stewardship of the mind seems like too much hard work.