In which I explore this world called Church | Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Through Scoundrels and Scallywags, Ruffians and Ragamuffins, the Kingdom Advances

So Bill Gothard, who taught 2.5 million people his 32 hour Bible course, is widely accused of sexual harassment, but wealthy Christians attribute their family and business success to him.

2.5 million people study the Bible for 32 hours! Despite him, above him, around him, and quite possibly through him, the kingdom advances.

Joyce Meyer’s finances perennially raise eyebrows, but, on a blogger’s trip to Cambodia, I meet a young man who became a Christian after listening to her on TV for 3 months, and then converted his whole village.

And the Kingdom marches on.

And so I suspend judgement on all morally ambiguous preachers—lest I find myself fighting against God.

For somehow above them, around them, perhaps even through them, still the Kingdom advances.

* * *

The Lord gave the word; great was the company of the preachers (Psalm 68:11). Ruffian and ragamuffins, saints and scoundrels, great was their company.

They had affairs; their greed corrupted them; they gave full vent to their jealousies; their ambition was unrestrained.

They preached the word, they prayed, they spread the fire, strange or otherwise.

And despite them, above them, around them, perhaps even through them, the Kingdom advanced.

* * *

And through those who sighed and volunteered to teach Sunday school, and to lead youth groups. Through those who led Bible studies to which people thronged to talk about themselves, and to make friends—but who yet were hospitable. Through those who gave their widow’s mite to churches and ministries which squandered it on a leader’s ego. But on the kingdom too, a little. Oh yes, on the kingdom too.

Through all these, the kingdom advances.

* * *

Despite—or through–crusaders and inquisitors and conquistadors and colonizers with a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other, the Kingdom advances.

It advanced to Mangalore on India’s west coast, when the Portuguese converted the entire town to Roman Catholicism in the sixteenth century, and so Jesus was one the first words I spoke.

It advances through those who are mean about abortion or immigration or gays or women preaching or women bishoping. Who support guns and invasions and bombings and all things Israeli. It advances.

“Gold, girls, glory, power yes; mixed-up motives, yes; but still the kingdom advances.”

It is like a mustard seed, bursting into a tree, which one day shall cover every nation, every village, the entire world, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it, and neither shall our shenanigans.

We forget about the Kingdom at times, and seek power and glory, but you, God, are not perturbed.

For you know it’s all yours, the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.

On Being Christian with a small c or a big C

By Anita Mathias

Image Credit

Our family was discussing a writer who has done paradigm-breaking innovative work.

“Is she a Christian?” my daughter Irene asked.

“Yes. She’s a Christian. With a small C, I’d guess.”

“What’s that?” Irene asked.

“Hmm… Someone who goes to church, more or less respects Jesus and the Bible, but who does not see the existence of God, and the coming of Christ as the central axis on which their life spins.”

Irene: “Are you a Christian with a small c or a big C?”

Me, “Oh, I am hopelessly Christian. Christian with a Big C.”

Zoe adds, “Except you do not go to church.”

We all laugh.

* * *

This is slander, dear readers; I do go to church. But these splendid summer days often find me exhausted by 5.30 p.m. when it’s time to leave to church, and so I, on occasion, worship God by a long solitary walk through the fields around our house, or a nap, or gardening, or even quietly praying in the empty house.

Having grown up Catholic, there is glorious freedom in being able to skip church without guilt. I, however, truly believe in the value of Christian fellowship and in belonging to an excellent church; I frequently come back from services at our church, St. Andrew’s, Oxford, with peace in my heart, and a smile on my lips. However, a key life verse since my twenties has been “In repentance and in rest, you shall be saved. In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength”(Is 30:15). So when I am tired, I try not to push, not even spiritually.

We talked about the writer’s brilliant book, Daring Greatly which I loved. It is about understanding and developing the self, and about bravery. Saying it’s about being your best self sounds too pop-culturish, but that’s one way of summarizing it. It is an excellent book, just not a Christian book, particularly: it isn’t one that Jesus would have written. Jesus would have said that we find our best selves in losing ourselves, in serving, in washing feet.

Oh Jesus! You do complicate a girl’s life, don’t you? I would be Christian with a small c if I could, but you have stretched my mind and spirit to a new dimension, and so I have to follow you, slow step by step.

Why I Am No Longer a Roman Catholic

By Anita Mathias

I was brought up Roman Catholic, was taught that missing Sunday Mass was a mortal sin, except when you were sick. (And a mortal sin meant you would burn in hell, for eternity, unless you confessed it, and were absolved.)

How could I have believed that? Children believe what they are taught.

It’s taken me years to learn not to accept other people’s theology, but to question everything, including other people’s interpretations of Scripture. (As I’ve blogged in Inerrancy and Me, I’ve been to Catholic, Presbyterian, Baptist, Charismatic, Anglican and non-denomination churches. They all believed in inerrancy, and all taught different things.)

* * *

The first time I skipped Church (to study for an exam!) I was 21. And—incredibly–I wondered if I would go to hell if I died before I went to confession. (The whole system–missing Mass is mortal sin; we are only forgiven through confession–of course, bolsters the power and authority of the priesthood. But I didn’t see that then.)

And then, after skipping Mass again, I realised that since I was so often excruciatingly bored by the ancient words of the liturgy that I knew by heart, it was extremely unlikely that a just and merciful God would send me to hell for missing Sunday Mass.

Or that he would forgive me upon the say-so of a priest, when I wasn’t truly, truly sorry. Or that he would not forgive me without formal confession, if I were sorry.

Being a Catholic Charismatic had me reading Scripture, and Scripture did not say that missing Sunday Mass was a mortal sin.

And so I didn’t go the next Sunday, or the next…

In fact, because of memories of almost unbearable boredom during 21 years of Catholic Masses, I simply cannot force myself to go to a Catholic Mass now, even when I visit parents, in-laws, Catholic relatives or friends. (A minor case of post-traumatic stress syndrome, I suppose!)

* * *

As Martin Luther discovered, once you start questioning the extra-Biblical doctrines of the Catholic Church, there is no end to it. I questioned other things.

An aspect of my family’s faith which annoyed me was their large donations for masses to be said for dead relatives to spring them from purgatory. My mother still pays for masses for my little family, so let me not totally discount any spiritual blessing from this, because we have certainly been blessed.

I thought of Sister Josephine in school, who told me that she loved me best of all the students she’d taught over 40 years, and would use her discretionary “pocket money” to buy masses to be said for me in perpetuity in Rome. I would look at the Mass cards dubiously, and wish she had bought herself (or me!) chocolate instead.

But she would be delighted with the woman I now am, the life I now live, and my durable faith, so perhaps her intention of buying prayer for me was honoured by God—or perhaps there are still priests in Rome praying for me. Perhaps.

* * *

The shawl of faith kept unravelling.

Come on, did the words spoken by a priest change the host to the very Body and Blood of Christ? If it did, if I were indeed eating GOD, wouldn’t I be radically changed?

But after Mass, I, and everyone else at boarding school, was as bitchy as before. I mentioned that to Sister Josephine, and she said, “But how do you know what you would have been if you had not received Holy Communion?” And that indeed, who knows.

Nah, didn’t believe in transubstantiation any more. We do it in memory of him, that’s all.

* * *

Gotterdamerung. The Twilight or Destruction of False Gods. It’s very sad, very stressful, very painful—and very liberating!

And what was all this praying to saints? Wasn’t Jesus, God himself, who died to atone for our sins enough? Who could have enough devotion to pray to Therese, Catherine, and Francis in addition? To Anthony when you lose something, Jude when the cause is hopeless, Monica when your children are wayward? And why, why, why pray to this crowded communion when you can go up the waterfall, through the veil, to the presence of the Most Holy God himself?

* * *

And the dreadful Rosary, the dreaded recitation of 50 Hail Marys, 5 Our Fathers and 5 Glory Bes, which so marred my childhood with its unutterable noisy boredom, which blocked out the possibility of quiet communion with God.

Didn’t Jesus say we shouldn’t be like the pagans who think they will be heard for their many words? Instead how I suffered through the gabble, the noise of the Catholicism I was brought up in, the Novenas, the Litanies, the Rosaries, the Masses…

* * *

And all the extra-Biblical dogmas men with too much time on their hands have conjured up—the Infallibility of the Pope, the Immaculate Conception of Mary, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into heaven, these “infallible dogmas” were mere invented ideas, conceits.

Oh, let me not get started!! Especially on the sentimental, ubiquitous, extra-Scriptural reverencing Mary. The prayers to her. Where is all this in Scripture, I used to ask? an anguished, roaring bull–knowing little of Luther, little knowing he asked the same questions 500 years ago!!

* * *

So what is coming from Catholicism to Mere Christianity like?

Imagine the Lord Jesus sitting by a quiet, still mountain spring.

You walk to him through the noise, the chaos, the cacophony, the music, the poetry, the art, the kitsch. Through all the apparitions of the virgin, dogmas, novenas, litanies, rosaries. The terracotta army of saints. The noisy crowd of witnesses . That was Catholicism for me.

And how grateful I am to the tormented Martin Luther for pointing out that a man is saved by Jesus alone, without all this paraphernalia.

We can come back to the heart of worship, which is all about Jesus.

* * *

And we must make sure we ignore the moneychangers and those selling doves in Protestantism too, steer clear of the noise of too many festivals, conferences, retreats; celebrities, big name speakers, big egos, all flogging their course, book, blog, their way to the Way. Their Latest Greatest Shortcut to Heaven. For the house of prayer always risks becoming a den of thieves.

But you, Man and Woman of God, flee all this, and come back to the Jesus you’ll encounter in the Gospels, those simple sparse first century narratives. Come back to the heart of worship.

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“Fine, Let Them Judge Me”: The Peace of Boundaries

By Anita Mathias

Several years ago now, I was in a Bible study which had some very assertive people who were often unwell. And so there were endless rotas: to take meals around, clean their houses, do their ironing, or give them lifts.

Now, I was over-burdened myself, but I didn’t want the leader to judge me as a pretend Christian, or a talking head Christian, a chattering class Christian, a “knows the word but doesn’t do it” Christian, or “a puffed up with knowledge” Christian–oh you know the cruel categories we come up with to judge those whose different gifting threatens us.

And so I signed up for rota upon rota. The leader, who had a lowly job in real life, got a real charge and real energy from dominating this church group, mainly well-paid professionals, as if she were our line manager, and we her unpaid employees; these nagging rotas came around even when the group was not in session.

But for all my signing up, the leader did not really like me and I did not really like her, oh the irony!

* * *

And then—last straw– the leader asked one of the unwell Taker ladies, “What more can we do to help you?” And the lady said, “My children would like fresh-baked caked when they come home from school.” And a fresh baked cake rota was passed around. I jest not!

I thought, “This is ridiculous. I have never baked a cake in my life, and I am not driving across town—past exquisite bakeries– bearing sugar and white flour which anyway I’ve banished from my own life.

That’s it. I am going to do the work God has given me to do.

And if the work God has given me to do is to write, then I am going to write, not wake early to chauffeur the woman with mild ME who drives herself to work 4 days a week but is too tired to drive to Bible study. Perhaps she could host it instead, or call in a taxi. I am not going to take my turn of cleaning the house of the lady, who has been feeling too tired to clean, but eats out all the time; she can get a cleaner. I need to stop visiting that negative lady, who said she was lonely and wanted visitors, but depresses me and tears me down. And I am no longer going to drive across town with meals; the supermarkets deliver better meals than I could cook.”

I thought of Rabbi Friedman’s Parable of the Bridge. Whenever you try to fulfull your destiny, they will be people who will insist they are going to drown unless you hold the rope. You can help them up, but you cannot indefinitely hold the rope.

In this case, none of the people who wanted us to provide cleaning, cooking, ironing, chauffeuring and home-baked cakes would have drowned if I did not provide these services.

All this may be the work God has given the leader to do; it was not the work God has given me to do.

If the leader judges me for not taking my turn on her rotas, she judges me.

Fine. Let her judge me.

So she kept asking me to host fund-raisers, to take my turn providing domestic services (equivalent to a part-time job if I’d agreed to all) and I kept saying No. With a bully as with a toddler and or a puppy, one has to be consistent. No, no, no.

And I was happy with my decision, and I did not sign up to her rotas, and I got even happier.

And I incredibly began to get on far better with the leader, which I did not when I was feeling bullied by her demands, and was simmering with resentment , and she, on her part, felt the uncertainty and restlessness of the bully who scents blood, has been successful in some thrusts, and wonders how far she could go in manipulating people to do things both she and they knew they did not want to do.

I now had boundaries. She knew I wasn’t going to crumble, and that brought some peace to our relationship. Ah, boundaries, they are good for both parties.

If you are doing things which are not the work God has given you to do out of fear of judgement, or to curry favour, just stop. You will not curry favour. You will just place the mark of a easy mark on your forehead. You will just be used and abused. You will just get angrier.

Figure out the work God has given you to do, and do just that and do no more out of fear of judgement.

Fine. Let them judge me.

How liberating that was. The peace of that: To train myself not fear men’s judgements, but only to care for the judgement of the Lord, the righteous judge.

Germany and Me: How Nations Change their National Character. At His Place, Saarland, Germany

By Anita Mathias

Community Without Walls

When I was a teenager in the seventies, the libraries of the two clubs we belonged to were flooded with World War II novels. I remember, at the age of 11, reading QB VII set in a German concentration camp, Mila 18 about the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, The Angry Hills, and Exodus.

Gosh, they scarred me for life, becoming the stuff of nightmares. I watched a few Nazi films with my parents, but very few since; I find them too upsetting. I had a horror of the Nazis, and by extension (and ignorance) a fear of all Germans.

And it didn’t help that my boarding school, St. Mary’s Convent, Nainital was run by German I.B.M.V. missionary nuns. As a new girl, aged nine, I once walked in to make my confession when Sister Mary Joseph was making hers. I stood stunned for a minute. She made her confession, came out and beat me savagely with her umbrella. Sister Secunda told the girls that I brought “the bad spirit,” into the class, and wondered if I were demon-possessed, I was so naughty.

Of course, not all of them were mean. Sister Cecilia lived for music, and I hated singing. I disrupted so many choir practices by singing through my nose or crawling out of the room that she finally exempted me from attending them—the only girl so exempted. However, at the end of the year, when there was the long awaited “Choir Treat,” pastries, Indian sweets, and Hershey’s Kisses her niece sent her from America (which I privately mourned that I’d miss) she told me to come to. Without going to a single practice. Grace, grace, for those who repent at the 11^th hour!!

* * *

When I first came to England 28 years ago, I had a housemate who had done military service in the army, and was German in the stereotype of the World War II novels. But I noticed over the years, that the Germans I met were lovelier and lovelier. I think of my friends, Jan and Karoline Sassenberg—beautiful, lovely human beings. And I’ve met more and more sweet German Christians in Oxford, smiley, kind, mellow, and easy-going.

My first cousin, Margaret, dated a German man, Dirk Burghagen. He supposedly told her that the very best people in the whole world were Germans, and the very worst people in the whole world were Indians. In spite of that, they married each other!! Anyone who knows both nations can guess what Dirk meant. In many ways, the nations are diametrically opposed.

But nations change. The diametric opposite of an Indian is no longer a German, but probably the Swiss, antithetical in every respect. (And no, I am not going to get myself into trouble with either nation by spelling it out!)

* * *

After the Second World War, Jewish survivors and the nation of Israel had an unofficial motto, “Never Again.” Israelis no longer had time for Yiddishkeit, a gentleness, unworldliness, scholarliness, and sense of humour. Israelis call themselves Sabras, after the prickly pear–thorny, prickly, tough on the outside and (supposedly) sweet on the inside.

Well, the Germans have their own version of “Never Again,” their own collective shame and guilt. The vast majority are deeply ashamed of the sins of their fathers and grandfathers, ashamed of the Nazis, and are warm, hearty, decent people, law-abiding, hard-working, and disciplined.

And, ironically, the nation which destroyed Europe twice in the last century is keeping the European Union together, contributing a disproportionate amount to the European Union’s budget!!

Ah, hope! If nations can change their self-definition and national character, how much more can individuals!

* * *

We are visiting His Place, a lovely guesthouse run by the Community Without Walls, Saarland, Germany.

It was founded by Wayne and Irene Negini, who felt a call to carry on the reformation Martin Luther began in Germany, restoring the emphasis on the grace of God.

The Negrinis began to take people into their home in the tiny, rural village of Wehingen, Saarland and care for them physically, spiritually and psychologically. More and more people moved there with their families, and they gradually formed a Christian community, friendships growing into lifelong covenant relationships.

His Place, the community-run guest-house, is quite a unique experience. The Pastor lights the fire. The worship leader takes your orders. The worship team serves the food.

The Guesthouse is German. Well, it’s what I expected a German guesthouse to be–beautiful, detail-oriented, sweet-smelling, efficient, hearty and welcoming. Love it here!

And the food is a delight. Pea soup with coconut milk cream; stir-fried chicken, sweet potatoes and veg; and an almond cake for dessert. Heavily fruit and veg based, no sugar, hardly any carbs.

Physical health is too little emphasized by the Western church, but now that I have started to restoring my health through running, reducing sugar and carbs, and increasing fruit and vegetables, I am so enjoying the increased vitality, and energy. I have increased my writing hours by 50% with the increased energy, concentration and focus that feeling and being stronger, and sleeping better is giving me.

* * *

We attended the morning service at the church. I enjoyed the worship SO much. The fact that the worship was in German, which I barely know, helped me to switch off my analytical linguistic mind, and just enter the presence of God. Interesting worship—some familiar English language songs translated into German, some original German language worship songs, and some sung in English. Wow, Europeans are SO linguistic!!

The founders of the community, Wayne and Irene Negrini are currently on a cruise, and the ship is stalled because of turbulent weather somewhere in the Mediterranean. Well, perhaps it’s just how it was translated, but we, the church community, stood up, extended our hands and commanded the Mediterranean to be calm.

“Roy, are we commanding the Mediterranean to be calm?” I whispered, half-amused, half-impressed. Indeed, we were! I stood up, extended my arm dramatically with the rest, and had great fun commanding the wind and the waves. “Greater things than these shall you do, because I go to my Father.”

And now to check the weather report!

When to Keep a Secret and When to Refuse To

By Anita Mathias

Image Credit

I once attended a rather toxic Charismatic church in England. There was a sentence you heard rather often there, and it was, “Don’t tell anyone.”

The leader’s wife (untrained, and not particularly intelligent, who proudly and accurately publicly described herself as a “rhino,”) was then the paid women’s “Pastor.” She was always meddling in church affairs and politics, causing messes and dramas , and then acting abusively and sadistically.

And then, after something cruel or stupid she said or did, came her trademark sentence, “Don’t tell anyone.”

* * *

I was chatting to a friend who had been emotionally abused and isolated by this woman, which seriously affected her health. Sure enough, she was asked “not to tell anyone” while the woman “sorted things out.” Which, of course, she had no intention of doing. My friend obeyed. So did I for a while when told the same thing, but then, I finally told my blog!! Obliquely, but not too obliquely!!

So there’s an example of a secret you should never keep: If you’ve suffered spiritual, emotional, verbal or physical abuse, or know someone who has, never agree to keep it secret. If you’ve been bullied to promise to keep the bad behaviour, abusiveness and wrong-doing of those in power secret, sin boldly, and let it be known. Appropriately and effectively though—and these aren’t always the same thing in a circle-the-wagons culture.

Keeping the secret of other people’s abusive behaviour will only enable them to continue and accelerate their spiritual or emotional abuse of other people. Never do so.

* * *

And when should you be silent? And secret?

Perhaps about sharing things which put you in a very good light. Which might make people envious of you.

And this does not come easily to me. Chronologically, I am middle-aged. Inwardly, I am a happy child. If I make unexpected money, or have unexpected success, or something wonderful and exciting happens, it comes naturally to me to bound up to all my friends and tell them. To tell my blog. And my facebook.

And expect everyone to rejoice with me at this magical event. Even if, well, windfalls are not falling around them too.

* * *

This excited expecting-the-whole-world-to-rejoice-with-you got Joseph into trouble.

He was the favourite son, who alone had a richly ornamented robe. His brothers hated him. And in this atmosphere, he excitedly shares his dream with them—his brother’s sheaves bow to his; the sun and moon and eleven stars bow to him.

Exciting dreams. Dreams which shouted out to be shared. But dreams which should not be shared. There was nothing to be achieved in sharing them; all that would happen is that the owners of the eleven sheaves would be put out and cross and feel insecure.

Which is what happened.

* * *

Joseph’s dreams were given to him for his own future preparation. And to strengthen him in the decades during which the destiny tarried. They were not to be shared, because there was nothing in them to build and strengthen anyone else. They were meant to be a private heads up and encouragement to Joseph.

* * *

And the reason that God sometimes reveals the dreams and destiny he has for us in advance is that dreams can be deferred—can take decades to be fulfilled.

Heidi Baker shares how God gave her a powerful vision of her destiny when she was 16, and some of those things took decades to be fulfilled—and some things have still not been fulfilled. But they are the North Star of her life.

For myself, I felt God tell me what he wanted me to do when I was 21—and it has still not been fulfilled, though I have proceeded more or less steadily in that direction.

Last summer, I spent a day lying on the rocks on the beach in Sweden where we were on holiday, and the sense of the presence of God was very strong. I could almost sense Jesus lying next to me, smiling, telling me his plans for the rest of my life, and smiling, almost laughing at my surprise.

I shared it with Roy, who told me not to share it, as some of my friends might not necessarily be pleased. And so I didn’t. That prophetic vision was given to me, and for me, and it’s changed the way I work and organize my life. It was not given for anyone else.

* * *

I have been reading R. T. Kendall’s brilliant book, The Anointing, which he defines as the presence of the Holy Spirit which makes difficult things easy when you are operating in it. And so I have been praying for an anointing, a filling of a Holy Spirit, on my life and work.

And I felt God give it to me, though not in the area in which I was praying for it–but in an area in which I am a whole lot less confident and more diffident (though in which I have worked successfully in the past). Again, I feel I received this to help me with bold, confident and decisive action—but that the specifics of this “anointing” are for me alone, and not to be shared.

I wonder if this is almost a rule of thumb in the spiritual life. The wonderful Norwegian writer, O. Hallesby, said that one’s secret life with Christ in the secret places of prayer is like a cosy, warm Norwegian cottage in a blustery winter. If you talk about your prayer life, you open the door, and cold wintry blasts enter.

Things which build other people up: share them. But things which make you look good—“Let another praise you, and not your own mouth; someone else, and not your own lips.” Proverbs 27:2.

Children, of course, are unabashed about sharing their excellencies. Your own children will always happily tell you how great and marvellous are. And the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

So I guess, we need to strike a balance between a childlike, happy spirit, and sharing too many things about which we are glad—but which might, by the very contrast, make other people feel sad. And so we might escape the traumas that Joseph’s jealous brothers put him through!!

Why God is Profoundly Egalitarian and Why we Need More Female Clergy

By Anita Mathias

Image, Dave Walker, and yes, I have met him, and he does exist.

Why God is Profoundly Egalitarian and Why we Need More Female Clergy.

My Eureka moment: Some time ago, in a church I once attended, I listened to a gorgeous friend tell her heart-breaking story of adultery and abandonment. My friend was, understandably, distraught.

What she needs, I thought, as I moved closer, was someone to sit next to her, hold her hand, put their other arm around her, and just listen. For starters.

And then, she mentioned, in passing, that not a single member of the clergy had visited her. My friend had spent hours and years of her life in devoted, humble service and giving to that church.

Ouch. Why was this? Well, my friend was an attractive woman, and the clergy were all attractive young or middle-aged men. The love she needed, the listening, the sympathy, the hug, the hand held, the tissues offered, the components of the full-bodied ministry we need when we are crumbling—well, male clergy could not have offered this to a female parishioner without awkwardness, certainly not in England, or perhaps anywhere…

And our church had NO female clergy. It had “a masculine feel.”

* * *

The very words, “masculine feel,” make me angry. “God has given Christianity a masculine feel. He has done that for our maximum flourishing both male and female,” John Piper says.

Nonsense. If a woman goes to church, and the pastor is male, and the preacher, and the presider, and the readers and worship leaders and elders and deacons, how seriously is she going to be taken? This, unfortunately, is a rhetorical question. I have been to such churches, and I know the answer. A woman will not flourish in such a culture. She might, at most, survive.

And if she has been given gifts in preaching, teaching, counselling, understanding Scripture, or a prophetic insight, how seriously will she be taken in such a masculine-feeling church? Well, to be honest, less seriously that the indispensable women who run the coffee rota, the pot-lucks, and the crèche.

And then, how seriously will she take herself?

And what is this going to do to her self-esteem, her sense of herself as a beloved child of God, on whom has sovereignly been bestowed gifts some male leaders consider their preserve—leading, teaching, and preaching?

If she continues in such a church, it will be dangerous for her. It could very likely lead to depression, frustration, a silencing, the wellspring of gifts given to her for the common good going underground, becoming fetid in silence and sadness.

And this, sadly, has been the fate of too many women I know.

* * *

God did not design Christianity to have a masculine feel. What an outrageous idea! He would never make it so boring. Would men feel comfortable in a church with an exclusively feminine feel—candlelight, flowers, chick flicks, and frequent, perfect mandatory presents? Then why am I supposed to flourish in a church with a masculine feel?

This is what God designed Christianity to feel like, as Peter describes in the first Christian sermon. It is profoundly egalitarian:

In the last days, God says,
I will pour out my Spirit on all people.

   Your sons and daughters will prophesy.
   Even on my servants, both men and women,
    I will pour out my Spirit in those days.

The Spirit is poured out on all flesh—both men and women. And our church leadership must mirror this.

* * *

Church should have neither a masculine feel, nor a feminine feel, but a human feel. God envisioned it as a magical new creation, beyond male and female, black and white, native and immigrant. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.

I know the same man who wrote that also wrote I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent.

That’s okay, Paul. I forgive you. We all have our neuroses. But we live two thousand years after you wrote that. You did not declare it was a commandment from the Lord. Nowhere did the Lord command it. Or those who walked with him.

And should women in love with Christ, in love with Scripture, who long to minister, who feel a calling to lead churches, and preach and teach be held back because of what you did not permit 2000 years ago?

Why have we taken our eyes off Jesus? Who came to give life in its fullness to both men and women? Who entrusted the great news of his resurrection to women because they loved him enough to just be there, when the men thought he was history? Why are we focusing on what Paul did not allow?

Generations of women have been silenced, been silenced, because of what Paul did not permit in Ephesus and Corinth and Galatia. No more!

We need women priests and we need women bishops. We need equality.

We need a church which looks beyond male or female, Jew or Greek, to the great truth that we are a new creation, all one in Christ Jesus. Such a church will lead to our maximum flourishing, both male and female.

We need a church in which we women will graciously promise to mention none of the top ten reasons why men should not be ordained if they stop mentioning the one reason we should not be ordained.

We need to tactfully explain to our brothers in Christ that the marriage feast of the Lamb has come, and the bride has made herself ready. And if lace, satin and pearls do not have quite a masculine feel, well then, the masculine feel must go.

The Bride of Christ. Flourishing in a church with a feminine feel?

The Parable of the Thornbush and the Seeking of Power and Significance in the Christian World.

By Anita Mathias

Thornbushes in Samaria

Jotham, in the Book of Judges, tells The Parable of the Thornbush. The trees want to anoint a king. However, all the useful trees don’t want to give up their pleasant, beneficial work for power.

The olive tree says, “ ‘Should I give up my oil to hold sway over the trees?’ The fig tree says ‘Should I give up my fruit, so good and sweet, to hold sway over the trees?’ The vine says ‘Should I give up my wine, which cheers both gods and humans, to hold sway over the trees?’

However, the thornbush, agrees to be king, provided that the other trees “take refuge in his shade” (which is negligible, and means they will remain stunted, and never grow taller than the thornbush). And for those who did not agree, he says, “let fire come out of the thornbush and consume the cedars of Lebanon!”

What a brilliant description of controlling, toxic church leadership. Submit, hold yourself back, minimize who you are, pose no threat, or be destroyed. What is important in such a church is not encouragement of the spiritual gifts of the congregation, but submission to the leader–to be less than “the thornbush,” to be in his shade.

And the only people who would seek power and significance in such an environment are those who have no useful role to play at work, in society, or in their own families or circles of friendship. Insecure people needing validation. People, who for that very reason, should not be leaders, or in positions of significance or power.

If you are an olive tree, a fig tree, or a vine in a church in which the leader is an insecure thornbush who wants you to be in his shade or be destroyed, you will never flourish. Flee, oh man and woman of God!

* * *

We are each significant to God, and so he designed us to be born into little circles of significance: the apple of our parents’ eyes, our friends’ beloved friend, and to steadily develop circles of significance and influence in which we can be a blessing. The desire to be significant is a natural, not an unnatural desire.

But we Christians live in an upside Kingdom. If one wishes to be significant in one’s church, or in the body of Christ, one way to go about it is the way of the politician. Find out who’s important, toady up to them, drop them when they lose significance, manoeuvre, volunteer, be humble until you can afford not to be. And sure, you can work your way up the church’s inner power structure that way.

But not peacefully. You will surround yourself with other Inner Ringers (in C.S. Lewis’s phase) who also desire power. You may be friends with them, but you will be dropped once you are no longer significant, or potentially useful to them. You have to keep on the right side of the king-makers, and what shifts and compromises and flattery and biting back of your true self that will take. Oh horror!!

I once attended an Anglican charismatic church which was run like a court (with a mediocre, insecure king and queen, sort of Macbethish.) Stephen Arterburn notes in his book Toxic Faith that those deeply involved with toxic churches were “physically ill, emotionally distraught, and spiritually dead.”

I was at lunch with a group of inner circle people from my old church recently and was surprised by two things. One, as Arterburn says, almost all of them were ill with a variety of psychosomatic, but painful, illnesses. Many were unhappy, overwhelmed and distraught, as he observes.

Secondly, much of the talk was about power—their relationship with the Rector, the small groups, women’s groups, prophecy groups they were leading, or angling to lead… “No, no, no, first things first,” I wanted to say. “Flee to the secret places for real strength, not to leadership.”

* * *

Jesus understands the human drive to be significant. It’s universal—because he put it in our hearts. No one wants to be the least interesting person at the party, the last one picked. He watches guests angle for “places of honour” at a party, and observes that seeking honour is fraught with danger and humiliation—for there will, sooner or later, be someone “more distinguished” than ourselves, and we’ll be told, “Give this person your seat.” Don’t seek honour, Jesus advises; instead, take the lowest place, so your host cries out, ‘Friend, come higher.’ “Then you will be honoured in the presence of all the other guests.”

So when we move to a new town or a new church, and no one knows our name, or our talents, or our specialness, and we don’t like being anonymous and invisible, the stressful, pointless thing we can do is to elbow ourselves next to the important people, like the banquet guests Jesus wryly observed.

But there are useful ways of being significant. Seek out those you can be a blessing to. Whom you can bless with your extra-virgin olive oil, figs and wine. And you will be precious and beloved to them. In accordance with your free time, seek one-on-one ministry, or the ministry of meals, the ministry of the welcome team, or the ministries the church implores for help with, unheeded, Sunday after Sunday, until such time as, if God wills, when his time is ripe, you hear him say, “Friend, come higher.”

And inevitably, He will, because that is the way the Kingdom works.