Noticing

A couple of weeks ago, I was running along Holes Bay towards the centre of Poole when I

noticed the RNLI building. It’s quite distinctive and I was appreciating the architecture of it

when a thought struck me. How had I failed to spot it before?! For some context, I have lived

in Poole for the best part of 17 years and have regularly run or cycled along the road I was

on at the time. If previously I’d lifted my eyes in the right direction and paid attention, I’d

easily have seen it.

This is not the first time something similar has happened to me. After living in a flat for a year

and a half, I was unable to identify the colour of the distinctive bricks of our residence,

without looking. It was also only in the last couple of weeks that a set of equipment was

found by a colleague in my cupboard. These were resources that that we had been looking

for a couple of weeks. It seems I just find it difficult to notice my surroundings.

Over the last couple of weeks, I have been reading Advent and Christmas, a book based on

Henri Nouwen’s writings. In the very first reflection, it refers to the “small child of Bethlehem,”

hinting at how Jesus’ arrival was not widely acknowledged at the time. If at that first

Christmas, “the promise is hidden in the stable,” where might we find God’s ongoing

promises with his creation today?

It is so easy to speed through life and to give the majority of our attention to that which is

loud, overstated or impressive. Since starting the book, I have tried to be more intentional

with being aware of the presence of the divine in and around me, slowing and concentrating

my thoughts more often. For me, I often find this easier when out running because the time

alone carves space that can be deliberately focused on goodness around me.

Nothing I have encountered is dramatic. I’ve seen the way that even when many trees have

shed their leaves, signs of life still endure on them as ivy or other vine-like plants use their

trunks as supports. When I’ve found myself further away from traffic than normal, my ears

have been drawn to birdsong and the rustling of small creatures in undergrowth that I have

not identified. I have appreciated eating a meal I haven’t been involved in preparing or

cooking. During rainfall, I have enjoyed its cooling sensation and felt gratitude for its vital role

in food production. While at close to my maximum effort on a run, I’ve enjoyed the

combination of pain and childlike appreciation of feeling as fast as I can be. I’ve also

experienced the hair-raising swell from a children’s choir filling the church during a carol

concert. None of these examples have been ecstatic or especially life-changing experiences

but through being mindful of them, they have helped me feel more rooted and connected to

God.

As Christmas edges nearer, in the busyness and the mayhem, we can choose to notice the

signs of the divine around us. Perhaps this is something to motivate you heading into a new

year, to be more intentional about noticing. Although it may be easier outdoors, regardless of

where you are, if you look carefully, there will be evidence of the goodness of God. The

promise that was found in that stable in Bethlehem two millennia ago, can be spotted and

recognised in different guises in our lives today. What will you choose to notice?

Wrestling with God

There is an unusual passage in Genesis 32. It is the night before Jacob is due to meet up
again with Esau. This is the brother whose inheritance he gained through a trick, which
caused him to flee, fearing for his life. Jacob spends the night isolated, away from his family,
nervously awaiting reuniting with his older sibling. It is during this time that the storyteller
says a man came and wrestled with Jacob until dawn. The fighting ends with this man
wrenching his hip out of joint (which interestingly could be translated more as a euphemism–
Jacob has no more children after this event so you can join the dots) when he refuses to let
go of the man. In the unusual dialogue that follows, considering they have been wrestling all
night, Jacob’s name is changed.

“Your name will no longer be Jacob,” the man told him. “From now on you will be called
Israel, because you have fought with God and with men and have won.” Genesis 32: 28
(NLT)

There is a lot going on here in the language of this passage. The name Israel can be
translated as ‘one who struggles with God’ which is relevant etymology because this
becomes the name given to the collective people of God in Hebrew scriptures. God’s people
self-identify not as ‘followers’ or ‘worshippers’ but as those who ‘wrestle with God.’

What kind of a god would let a human wrestle with them? It seems like one that is willing to
get down on the same level of mankind. It speaks of a god who is relatable and intimate, not
one that is distant and aloof. One that is in the sweat and struggles of life, not just a concept
or a construct of the mind. Intriguingly, the man in this story is unable to overpower Jacob,
meaning that the divine figure does not have an all-powerful nature emphasised, one that is
often taught to Christians.

There is a sort of irony tied up that this event from scripture is one it is natural to wrestle
with. For example, who was the man Jacob fought with? Jacob named the place where the
combat took place Peniel, which means ‘face of God,’ claiming in verse 30 to have seen God
face to face and survived. So was this man in some way divine? And how do we square that
with other parts of the Bible, such as John, claiming that no one has seen God? (See John
1:18 for example.)

I’m not going to attempt to try to answer all these questions. What does appear clear is that
wrestling with God seems implicitly encouraged. Jacob is blessed as a result of refusing to
submit to the somehow divine figure he was grappling with, not punished for refusing to
submit or just believing what he had been told. Despite this, struggling with God may also
cause us to limp metaphorically too. When we raise deep and dark situations and questions
with our creator, we may come out the other side changed.

As a result, there is no need for struggling to be the source of guilt about a lack of faith. We
can take reassurance from this story that instead Jacob is part of trend for other biblical
figures. This includes to Abraham negotiating on the number of decent people to be found in
Sodom for it to be saved from destruction, to Moses asking for a speaker in Aaron, to the
many psalms which question God and lament God’s actions. We can be part of a tradition
that encounters the divine in new ways in the struggles and through the challenges life
sends our way.

Surfing

I learned to surf in Máncora. It’s small town in northern Peru. The Pacific was warm
and the ocean’s waves broke evenly and regularly, this pattern aiding the act of
learning a new skill. I had an instructor who guided me as when to start paddling with
the waves. I loved it – immediately I was able to stand and glide along the waves
before hopping into the shallow water and repeating the process. It was such a
brilliant time. Riding the waves was like an exhilarating divine encounter.

I thought I’d learned to surf in Máncora. Within a year or so, I found myself back in
England, at Polzeath in Cornwall. We hired boards and I was keen to put into
practice the skills that I had learned. I didn’t. Or I couldn’t. Rather than the sprawling
Peruvian sands, the costal architecture and the wind meant the waves broke far
more erratically. Time after time, I struggled to my feet on the board only to almost
immediately be wiped out. The sea can be a tyrant – it beats you up and
disorientates you when you’re underwater. It’s powerful and exhausting. It turned out
that there was much more to learning to surf than a couple of fun-filled hours just
south of the Equator.

My experience of faith had a similar honeymoon type of beginning, where everything
seemed to make sense, starting in a supportive context without many problems.
There were then times when faith ended up wiping me out, tipping me off my
metaphorical feet and leaving me battered and confused. Perhaps you can relate to
this. Do you wade back into the spiritual waters or do you give up?

The sea when surfing reminds me of some of the nature of the divine too. There are
times when you are on the crest of the waves, supported and able to have serene or
ecstatic experiences. This smoothness and freedom from distractions can help us
connect with God. Although it may not feel it at the time, rougher conditions also
reveal facets of the divine. When you are buffeted by waves and currents, it can
install in you a healthy respect for the sea. I’m reminded of The Lion, The Witch and
The Wardrobe where Susan questions Mr Beaver about the safety of meeting Aslan,
to which he replies, “Who said anything about safe? Course he isn’t safe. But hes
good.” It can be unpredictable and is definitely worthy of respect. And perhaps like
when we are wiped out and are at our most disorientated in life, figuratively
underwater and thrashing about, that is when we are in a sense most surrounded by
God. Often we won’t feel this way at the time but looking back we can see something
at work to sustain us amidst the difficulties.

My surfing experience remains regrettably limited. I continue, however, to explore
faith, even though it presents me more challenges than when I started out on that
journey. I feel less stable on my spiritual surfboard as a result of having been
dispatched into the depths on a number of occasions. Yet in continuing to choose to
turn and stride back into the waters of faith, I hope to have expanded my
understanding of ultimate goodness and love.

Smashed!

Over the summer I went to Greenbelt for the first time, a festival I’d been looking forward to
attending. It is known for its music, focus on justice and its activist speakers so naturally my
favourite part was watching Smashed, which I think can be fairly described as a quirky and
mildly subversive juggling act. I went in with almost no preconceptions and left having
laughed to the point of tears, feeling that the hour in that tent had spoken to my personal
zeitgeist.

The show began with relative simplicity. Sure, the artists were juggling with apples, dressed
formally in suits and had a varied soundtrack including Music Hall and jazz. Putting that
aside, in terms of the juggling routine itself, the cascades were neatly in unison but not
especially elaborate. Each person seemed to have a role and there was a clear logic and
order. I am someone whose misspent youth included teaching myself to juggle to a level that
might impress the occasional primary-aged child. This meant that I could imagine that with
time and practice, I might be able to fit in with the early part of the performance.

Inevitably, the show became more complex. Intricate combinations of jugglers combined,
sharing the same balls (apples!), controlling each other’s limbs and relying on each other’s
precision. It’s difficult to explain what they were doing – it was very technical and well
beyond my level of expertise. Questions sprang to my mind – how did they come up with
that? How did they make the complicated combinations seem so effortless? And what
message were they trying to communicate with the interactions between male and female
performers? Just as I was starting to figure out the mechanisms of a particular manoeuvre,
another equally beguiling trick began. Occasionally, something went wrong, and a new apple
was picked up from the floor and introduced to the juggling moves being carried out, but the
jugglers did it naturally, seamlessly weaving it into the act.

Later on, the show shifted in tone. At times it felt somewhat manic, maybe rebellious and
almost anarchic in tone. The crescendo was messy, unexpected and, without wanting to give
away too many spoilers, involved far more broken crockery and partly-chewed fruit than I
would have expected. It had moved from complex routines to giving the impression of being
almost out of control – barely a recognisable juggling act at all. Despite this chaotic outcome,
it was performed supremely well, it was hilarious and joyous.

So why this review of this slightly left-field unconventional act? Smashed spoke spoke to me
of faith. Shattered saucers and apple cores? Let me explain.

Like the beginning of the show, sometimes our experience of faith is simple. There is a
clarity to what we believe and how we live out our convictions. It can be explained to others
easily. We may know that there are other areas that could be explored but they are not of
huge interest to us and we are content with simplicity. Our routines are in place and we feel
we fit in with those around us, each performing our own part and feeling like we can join in
with those around us. For some people, their beliefs remain at stage of simplicity throughout
that journey of faith. For me, this was not the case.

Instead, like the juggling act, faith can become complex. There may be tensions between
what you are taught from the Bible and what appears to be conventional or scientific beliefs.
Because the Bible is an ancient book written mostly over 2000 years ago, it can be difficult to
apply some of its teachings to our lives today. Sometimes, certain passages in the Bible
appear to contradict others. All of these things can bring complexity, sometimes a deeper
understanding of theology and a richness in understanding. It can at times be difficult to
grasp everything you would like to and it can be frustrating too, especially when you see
others who seem to have ideas more under control than you do. However, this greater
complexity in our faith can be extremely useful and rewarding.

However, like the disruptive finale, sometimes our faith can be disrupted, with chaos and
disorder reigning. Perhaps one of the reasons that watching Smashed spoke to me so much
was that a couple of days prior, I had attended the funeral of a friend’s son, who had died
after a five-and-a-half-year battle with cancer. Children shouldn’t die. Events like this unsettle
you – they shake your faith. At times, the foundations of our beliefs can also feel like they are
being eroded in other ways. This may occur if we discover that they do not actually
correspond with other convictions or our sustained experience. Faith can become messy
and chaotic, full of nuance and hard to explain. We can feel like we have lost control. If we
are in this place of disorder or deconstruction, it can be easy to wonder whether it even
means anything.

Where is the kingdom of heaven?

At the beginning of his initial main set of teachings that are recorded in the Bible, Jesus
proclaimed that “the kingdom of heaven has come near.” (Matthew 4:17) My understanding
of this as I grew up was this was essentially God’s escape plan for Christians – that
somehow Jesus was focused on announcing that his followers would have eternal life after
they die. Christianity was the golden ticket, the only possible escape route because if you
weren’t going to heaven when you died, the alternative was… uncomfortable to say the
least.

As I read the stories of Jesus’ life more, I started to wonder why Jesus never sat his
disciples down and explained to them more clearly and explicitly that in order to go to
heaven when they died, they needed to say a special type of prayer to God, asking
forgiveness and committing to follow him, thus securing their eternal happiness. That there
was no story in any of the four gospels like this was confusing, especially as I had basically
been taught this was the central part of the Christian faith. The lack of evidence that Jesus
did this opened me to the possibility that perhaps the teaching on the kingdom of heaven
could be re-read and considered in a broader way.

A slightly alternative reading of the announcement of the kingdom of heaven would suggest
that Jesus is stating that God’s realm or order is present in our world and our lives in the
here and now. Shortly after as part of the Lord’s prayer, Jesus says, “May your kingdom
come. May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” (Matthew 6:10) indicating that this
reign is very much in and for our lives on this earth. Some traditions have characterised this
idea with the phrase, “the now and the not yet,” which helpfully recognises that heaven is not
fully seen on earth at present but indicates that parts of it are visible.

It is interesting the context that Jesus announces this new understanding of God presence
being available and accessible. On an individual basis, it says that Jesus had been fasting
for forty days whilst being tempted by Satan. Whatever form we may understand that to have
taken, it doesn’t immediately make one think of optimism. Jesus’ teaching also came in the
setting of an occupied and oppressed people. The Roman occupation and subjugation of the
Jewish people is also difficult for us to fathom yet it is into this context that Jesus states that
God’s reign, God’s kingdom of heaven, is near and at hand. There is no projection to an
afterlife at this point – Jesus seems to be indicating the here and now. This seems to mean
that in whatever circumstances, however sad or desperate, flashes of heaven are available.

There are tastes of the kingdom of heaven all around us. We are fortunate enough to have
been on a holiday abroad recently and sensing the divine in a beautiful sunset or a delicious
meal can be relatively easy if we are open to recognise them. Perhaps we can sense those
hints of heaven in times spent with our family or doing an activity we enjoy. For us in Ocean
Church, our ability to be close to the sea and the nature that is around is one way that we
can do this. But the situation Jesus spoke in was to a people group who were poor and did
not have the privileges most people reading this will have, yet he claimed the kingdom of
heaven was near to them – it was close and accessible, even in much darker times.

This makes me think of two options available to us. The first is related to spotting those
glimpses of heaven in our world. This can involve an intentional attitude, choosing and
almost deciding to see the fingerprints of the divine, even in the mundane or the difficulties of
life. It’s similar to the exercise of counting your blessings – choosing to see God at home, at
school, at work, when out and about. Perhaps it may involve naming what we notice – ‘that
moment was somehow holy’ or ‘I felt close to God then.’

The second action we can take is being agents, the creators of those tastes or moments of
the heaven in the world. Jesus was proactive in demonstrating where God could be seen
through his actions – feeding the hungry, healing the sick and projecting dignity onto all
those he came into contact with. This is our model. Jesus through his presence and actions
allowed shards of heaven to fall into the lives of those he encountered. It will not take us long
to think of someone we know who is struggling or hurting, who could do with a taste of
heaven to strengthen and encourage them. If we are proactive, perhaps we can better
embody and be the answer to the prayer “May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,”
allowing the light of heaven to shine a little bit brighter here with us on earth.

Saying goodbye

A few years ago, the children at school were writing about their memories and time in school as they approached a leavers’ event for parents. One of them wrote the following as part of their reflection: 

Saying ‘hello’ was so simple. Who knew saying ‘goodbye’ would be so complicated? 

Every year, my time with a class begins with the equivalent of a “hello.” After seventeen years of teaching, I’m fairly well-drilled with setting my expectations and it tends to be fairly straightforward. As time passes, each year a tapestry of shared memories and experiences forms between class and teacher. The highs and lows are encountered together – the competitions won, the mistake made with subsequent consequences, the tests passed, the friendship fall-out to negotiate, the opportunities to share successes with parents. It can run deeper too. Dynamics evolve, mutual trust is extended and bonds are forged. 

For some children, leaving primary school barely seems to affect them. For others, their “goodbye” is a complex and upsetting time of change, where routines they have followed as long as they can remember are uprooted and they have to deal with the emotions of friendship groups being split and re-formed. As for me, the beginning of the summer holidays tends to trigger feelings of tiredness and relief but tinged with a sense loss. The class who I have taught, looked after, taken on trips, built relationships with, have gone. That time is over and won’t be the same again. My rational self-narrative may tell me that I wouldn’t want it to stay the same – the children are ready to move onto secondary school and it’s part of my role to prepare them for that jump. This knowledge, however, doesn’t quash the distinctive sense of emptiness I often experience following that last day of the school year. 

There’s a sense of grief that can accompany change because change can often be viewed as a kind of loss. When I finish teaching classes that are full of character, humour and positive work ethics, I miss them. The low-level ‘grieving’ that often follows can help me to reflect on those positive experiences and to be grateful for the times I have had. It can help me focus more on the goodness and joy in life that is around me so consistently and can increase my awareness of it. 

The sense of loss at the end of the academic year doesn’t last forever. But it’s present and I think it is healthy to recognise it. The cycle of teaching means that this is a yearly event for me and one I try to lean into more. It also makes me ponder other cycles in life where these smaller losses can be recognised – finishing a job, ending a holiday, a friend moving away or deciding to finish your time at a club. 

This annual experience in school reminds me of the passage from the Old Testament that says, “For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under the sun; a time to be born, and a time to die.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2) Thinking of seasons reminds me (ironically in July) that the winters, the quieter, more melancholy periods in life, are important in the process growth. During winter, instead of extending energy in attempts to grow, plants prepare for dormancy. If they fail to do so, water stored in their leaves and stems would freeze, causing harm to them. Often though, these will be times where roots are deepened or widened, even though there may be no signs of growth above ground level. This can happen on our faith journeys too. Perhaps it may be characterised in God appearing more distant or when what used to work with connecting us to the divine no longer seems effective. 

For me there is a regular pattern of change that links to the school year. Perhaps we can recognise those patterns in our lives where familiar emotional responses occur and consider what they have to teach us. And during those times where it is tough and potentially a ‘winter’ for our soul, where signs of growth are absent, we can take some comfort in knowing it can be a time of strengthening of our roots and that season will, one day, come to an end. 

Adventure of the emotions

Normally I enjoy a trip on a train. I’d brought a book with me as usual and was preparing for a relaxing hour or so on a relatively quiet journey. This time, I just couldn’t concentrate. I was hyper-aware of my surroundings, taking in the sights through the windows and the sounds of wheels on tracks. My mind was running through a variety of scenarios. And then it was clear to me – these were nerves, this was anticipation. Despite being a full 24 hours before running a marathon and only being on the journey to pick up my race number, my feelings had taken over my consciousness. During the rest of the journey, I had the space to be more fully aware of those emotions and the effects they were having on my body: the flickering of my pupils, the mild jittering in my stomach, the thumping of my pulse. They were real. At the time they were significant. I was nervous because I had been training (no pun intended) for eight months; there was nothing more I could do to prepare; and it mattered to me.  It may only have been a small act of recognition on my part, but I was able in some way to embrace the nervous energy in my body. 

My experience on a train into London marks out roughly the level I’m at, as I consider what setting out on an adventure of the emotions might involve. For me, feelings were not regularly discussed at great depth in the household I grew up. I often find it difficult to articulate my mood or feelings precisely because I’m not sure how I feel. It can be something I struggle to discuss, not from awkwardness or embarrassment, but because I’m less confident. I regularly process changes and events in my head, attempting to make sense of them, rather than following my heart. If anything, I probably developed a habit from childhood of supressing feelings. As a result, going on an adventure of the emotions is not something I feel well-prepared or practised for. But that’s ok. I suspect that as with map-reading, knowing where you are starting from is probably helpful if you want to make progress towards a desired goal. 

Some of my background in emotions is cultural, echoing the attitude of keeping a stiff upper lip. These were not especially developed by my upbringing in church, where perhaps knowledge was more prioritised than feelings. When I learned stories about Jesus’ emotions as told in stories in the gospels, little was made of his feelings. I knew Jesus wept when his friend Lazarus died but I don’t recall links being fully explored about the impact of grief. I was taught the story of Jesus upturning tables in the temple because he was angry but potential connections between the indignation that we may experience today at corruption and injustice could have been developed more. I was aware Jesus was alone and full of despair after the last supper but wasn’t encouraged to draw on experiences of feeling helpless where no one seems to understand your plight. Perhaps a re-reading of some of these stories may serve as a starting point as we reflect on our own emotions and how to link them to faith.

Adventures of the body

“Lord of all pots and pans and things… Make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.”

Brother Lawrence

From a young age, I have noticed a number of football players and other athletes making the sign of the cross before competing. I used to be sceptical about their actions but maybe those who do it are on to something.

Sometimes our experiences of church create the impression that singing songs is our primary way of worshipping God. We can develop a casual use of the word ‘worship’ where essentially all we mean by the term is a focused time of singing. Comments about ‘not enjoying the worship’ or ‘the worship being less good at one church than another’ can pass across our conversation. This type of worship can certainly form part of an adventure of the body but surely, to quote Tim Hughes, “There must be more than this.”

Romans 12: 1-2 says, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, on the basis of God’s mercy, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your reasonable act of worship. 2 Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of the mind, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” 

When this passage speaks of worship, it is in the context of presenting our bodies as living sacrifices. What does this mean? Many of us have lost, or were never taught, how to make our daily lives an act of worship. We never learned to recognise the presence of God in our activities, work and actions. We find it difficult to express how our lives at school, work or home are part of our lived expression of faith. This quest is one we can continue to explore, whatever stage of life we are at. 

In the exert that begins this reflection, Brother Lawrence’s poem links simple actions to the ongoing process of becoming a saint, a follower of Jesus. It is interesting to note that there is no reference to feeling the presence of God in these actions, no lifting of the spirits or ecstatic encounters. Maybe at times these will come but they will probably not be the norm. It does seem that Brother Lawrence was on this path of attempting to be a living sacrifice, making the more mundane areas of this life an act of worship. Our bodies can be used every day in actions that do this and these may form part of exploring an adventure of our bodies.

There’s a challenge though. How do I mow the lawn or hoover or hang washing in a manner that is consistent with a life lived as worship? How do I do my homework or help with household chores in a way that is a sacrifice? Although these might be helpful at times, it probably doesn’t mean I have to be praying or listening to ‘Christian songs’ whilst doing these things. There is probably a risk of creating a binary distinction between spiritual and non-spiritual actions if we just focus on somehow adding Christian language to them. 

One simple practice that some people follow is the habit of saying grace before a meal. This is an easy way of recognising God in the everyday. But do we pause before preparing the food or when clearing up afterwards? Do we even need to pause? I’m not sure if there are neat, one-size-fits-all answers. Could it be that these could differ depending on the circumstances we face? 

Adventures of our bodies include being responsible for them, seeking to follow advice on good practices for diet, exercise and sleep. Perhaps these are simple places to start on our adventures, a dipping of our toes into the waters that deepen as we pursue what we may encounter. Potentially we can come up with our equivalent of the footballer crossing themselves before playing a match – a symbol, a quiet refrain, a mantra – before we start a task to recognise that what we are about to do is part of our ongoing, everyday worship. Perhaps we could place a visible symbol in places we frequent often such as our desks, the kitchen sink, the laundry basket, to help stimulate the openness to recognising that God’s work is in all work. It would also be interesting to explore and discuss this further with others to find out what they actively do to recognise that all work is God’s work. 

In The Message’s translation of John 1:14 it says, “The Word became flesh and blood,

and moved into the neighbourhood.” When we try to imitate the incarnate God, the God expressed in human form as Jesus, we can try to live out Jesus’ values. As we embark on our adventures in and through our bodies, we can increasingly recognise that all our actions, from changing nappies to checking in on grandparents, from finishing homework without being nagged to playing with our friends, from completing paperwork to making lunches – all of this is the work. It’s all spiritual, it’s all part of it and it’s all God’s work. Embarking deeper on our adventures of the body will enable us to discover this more. 

Adventures of the mind

It seems like it is difficult for politicians in our country to admit that they have changed their minds. When they do, it is often branded a U-turn or flip-flopping or another negative term. Is it any easier for people in church to change their beliefs? If we want to go on an adventure of the mind, perhaps we might need to. 

Many readers of the Bible will be familiar with the word ‘repent,’ especially its use in the New Testament. The Greek word that is translated to give us the word ‘repent’ is metanoia which has the meaning of ‘changing one’s mind’. (It is a compound word from meta meaning ‘beyond’ and noia meaning ‘to think.’) If we are to change our minds, it means we recognise that we have more to learn or potentially we were mistaken. Thinking about something in a new way can be a sign of growth or development. 

However, some of us were brought up with an understanding that repentance is bound up with having done something wrong. It is often a guilt-laden word, whereas metanoia is more focused on having a change of heart. Our adventures of the mind do not need to be guilt-trips, where we carry excess emotional baggage, but they are journeys of exploration and discovery. Maybe we should ask ourselves why God would want us to feel guilty about having the humility to recognise we don’t have all the answers and learning a little bit more from others.

One of the regularly repeated lines from a podcast I listen to is “All theology has an adjective.” (Theology means the study of God.) The point is that we cannot learn about faith and God from an objective perspective, free from our background and experiences.  This is not something that I was taught growing up in church. Teaching from the Bible was delivered as the “truth” and the interpretation that was given was not presented as one of a range of possible meanings. In reality, the teaching about God, Jesus and the Bible that I grew up with was a white, Western and relatively wealthy theology. It just wasn’t presented that way to me. 

This is not to say that it was all wrong or that nothing can be learned from it. I’m grateful for the foundations that I was given. But how often did I hear multiple perspectives or interpretations being mentioned during talks or sermons in church? It can be helpful to recognise there are other ways that stories or teachings from the Bible can be looked at and that these can give us a richer understanding. 

An example of this is that much of what I was taught about the Bible was focused on the impact of Jesus’ death and resurrection for me as an individual. There was an emphasis on how Jesus died for me to save me personally. It was in my early twenties that I was introduced to understanding the Bible from a different perspective, namely Liberation Theology. Its focus on faith being about helping those who are oppressed today made me see stories from the Bible that I was familiar with from a different perspective. Thinking about the Exodus where Moses led Israel’s escape from the slavery under the Egyptians was so different when learning about it in another culture which did not have a history of being a world military power or having controlled an empire. It made me realise I only knew one part of the story.  

Adventures of the mind are unsettling. They can be unnerving. It’s a road that well-meaning people within church may warn you against. If it’s going to be an adventure of the mind, it cannot be expected to be cosy all the time. Reading James H. Cone’s The Cross and the Lynching Tree was not a comfortable experience but it expanded my mind as links between Jesus’ crucifixion and the suffering under racism in America were made. Learning about someone’s lived experience of discrimination meant I was better able to rethink some of what Jesus went through in the Easter story. 

As we seek to go on adventures of the mind, taking perhaps tentative steps, what might this involve? To start, we need to begin from the point that we don’t know all the important information already. It may mean exploring the unknown. Practical ways we may begin might involve reading a book or an article from a perspective we know is likely to differ from what we have already heard. We can listen to podcasts that include people from a range of backgrounds, cultures or viewpoints. When we meet or work or play with people from another background to our own, we can be genuinely curious about their beliefs and practices. We can ask what they find compelling about them and why they have chosen to join or stay within their tradition. Learning someone sees things differently doesn’t mean we have to accept all their views. However, embarking on an adventure of the mind can help us to discover treasures we would otherwise miss.