Yet Another Scandal

So.

Why does the Church have a child abuse problem?

We see it in the new Methodist report covering 2,000 cases of abuse, a third of which were carried out by church members

We see it in the scandal engulfing Josh Dugger.

We see it when the Pope – the Pope – lays into bishops who cover up abuse in the Catholic Church.

We can’t write off these stories as isolated incidents. New stories keep getting uncovered, different people keep getting failed by structures that should be founded on love and grace. Each one of these stories is another crack in the foundations, another cancer in the body, and every time we ignore one of these malignant cells the disease just gets worse.

Of course, not only are awful sexual crimes being committed, they’re being covered up. Maybe that’s because people are more inclined to take the word of a mega church pastor over that of a teenage girl. Maybe it’s fear reporting and investigating abuse with drag the church into disrepute (as if hiding crimes and intimidating survivors wasn’t disreputable enough). Maybe it’s simply because power corrupts and the church still clings on to the vestiges of its earthly power.

Every time something like this happens, it teaches the world that the church can’t be trusted, that it’s willing to sacrifice its moral authority, that it’s capable of throwing child abuse victims under the bus. How does that show compassion and love to those around us? How does that glorify God?

Easy answer – it doesn’t. All it does is make that millstone in Matthew 18:6 all the more heavy.

We have to start being honest with ourselves. We can’t call down judgement on random passers-by when children are being abused behind closed ecclesiastical doors. We need to genuinely start believing that people are important and carry the divine image rather than valuing institutions over children of God. We need to seek forgiveness from survivors, support rehabilitation efforts for offenders and  do everything we can to safeguard our congregations. And this may take years to achieve, because we’ve forfeited our right to be seen as safe spaces.

In the end, our call is to follow Christ, to build his Kingdom. That’s what the church should always be about, not covering up the truth, not sacrificing the innocent. The light of the world should illuminate the darkest corners, even when those corners are in our
churches, and as the light shines, let us be a force for hope and grace; let us repent and begin the hard, messy work of being renewed.

The Stranger on the Road (Luke 24:13-35)

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They were walking to Emmaus, about 7 miles from Jerusalem. About 130 years earlier, this had been the site of a great battle, Jewish rebels triumphing over Greek forces. After Herod the Great died thirty years earlier, the village was burned to the ground after the inhabitants attacked a Roman garrison. Now it had been rebuilt and become home to a disciple called Cleopas, who was now trudging his way back from Jerusalem, the aftermath of the crucifixion bearing down on him.

We celebrate Easter Sunday as a glorious explosion of new life, but as he walks the road to Emmaus, Cleopas is still living in Saturday. He’s leaving Jerusalem, where within the space of a week Jesus has gone from being popular hero to an abandoned victim of conspiracy and crucifixion, all the hopes and expectations of the last three years nailed to a blood-soaked plank of wood. On the horizon is the site of a Jewish victory, yes, but that had been a long time ago and Herod had showed what happens to anyone hoping to change the world.

So when Cleopas encounters a stranger on the road, he explains the situation with a sense of loss: “We’d hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel.” With the benefit of hindsight we can smile at how Cleopas is missing the point – we know the big reveal, after all, that the stranger on the road is the resurrected Jesus. But maybe Cleopas needs this moment of unrecognition for his preconceptions and prejudices to be reconfigured.

And so, despite a long theological conversation, it’s only when the stranger breaks bread and gives thanks – a eucharistic moment that echoes the last supper – that the stranger’s identity is revealed. The Last Supper forms the basis of our communion services, speaking of Christ’s death, but this second meal is its bookend, the revelation of his resurrection.

Maybe we need to hold the revelation of Emmaus in our hearts every time we eat the bread and drink the wine, remembering not just the crucifixion but the fresh vision of Jesus granted us by his emergence from the tomb, the miracle we encounter when the Stranger on the Road turns out to be the risen Saviour.

That’s not a once-a-year moment of sacredness in the Spring. It’s every Lord’s Supper – no, it’s every day. Heaven knows I need to make resurrection a daily remembrance. As we walk with Cleopas into another week, may we meet Jesus once again, and find the Saviour in the Stranger on the Road.

Ashes on the Church Door: Ash Wednesday 2015 (Psalm 51)

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Ash Wednesday’s one of those Christian traditions that’s always been a bit alien to me. It’s not a ritual I’ve ever been involved in; maybe actively so as I’d much rather focus on the grace of God than the sin of Matt.

Don’t get me wrong: I know I’m far from perfect. But I like my penitence to be private,  thank you very much; I’m not keen on sackcloth and ashes, and I have no idea how King David had the guts to write something as raw and confessional as Psalm 51.

Hypocrisy? Probably.

There’s the question of corporate repentance. A lot of people have been hurt by the church – through unChristlike attitudes, through the abuse of power, through shaming and shunning. And while it’s tempting to shake our heads and mutter “Not all Christians!”, the fact is we’re one body and we need to acknowledge where that body’s gone wrong.

So maybe that’s a role for Ash Wednesday. Individual repentance, ashes smeared on the forehead, is fine, but maybe we need to smear some ashes on the door posts of our churches too. It could also be an act of humility too – the church has wielded so much temporal power that it’s always good to pause and remember that we’re not perfect, we have fallen short of the glory, that our true power comes from the Holy Spirit, and that our organisations are just as much in need of God’s grace as our individual lives. Today’s ashes are last year’s palm branches of praise, which is a good reminder that our failings and our worship aren’t that far apart.

Because the fact is this: I can’t throw the Church under the bus. Denominations need to change, some organisations need to fall, but the church as the body of believers remains. I can’t walk away from that body as a whole.

But then we’re back to individual repentance. Preachers are fond of saying that the church isn’t buildings but people, so there we have it: Don’t spread hate instead of love. Don’t fiddle the accounts. Don’t abuse children, or cover up that abuse. Don’t get drunk on power. These things need to be confronted, dragged into the light, brought to justice.

And yet the ultimate message of Easter is resurrection, healing, grace. Don’t dwell in guilt – confront it, be penitent, turn onto another path, but we’re heading towards the Cross, towards the empty tomb. Forgiveness and mercy are central to the story – hope and healing are there for the taking; those ashes get washed away.

Carnival: Shrove Tuesday 2015 (Mark 10:35-45)

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Today is a day of disruption.

We stand on the edge of the Lenten wilderness, forty days of fasting and desolation ahead. We may be heading towards the resurrection, but to get there we have to go through temptation and betrayal, conspiracies and false hopes, the violence of the Cross and the silence of the tomb. Easter is hard won.

We have Pancake Day in the UK, using up what’s left in cupboards. Elsewhere, however, things are more colourful; there’s music and dancing and colour; there’s carnival, in other words, and while there’s something subversive and transgressive about this, it’s also an echo of an upside down Kingdom.

After all, one of the themes of carnival is inversion – peasants become kings for the day, the normal rules can be suspended. This can be limited to taboo-breaking if you want, but there’s something deeper behind this, something that riffs on the words of Jesus:

“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

We don’t always see this around us – kings aren’t servants, they’re politicians and businessmen, celebrities and sports stars. Jesus idea of kingship seems far away.

But that upside-down Kingdom was inaugerated with the Resurrection, and so while it may not always be visible, it is already here. It’s dotted throughout Lent – the mock military procession of Palm Sunday, the foot washing of Maundy Thursday, the victory-through-horror of Good Friday. If Carnival reminds us that another world is possible, then maybe it also serves to remind us that another world is already here.

If you want to really reflect Christ, you need to turn you hierarchy upside-down; don’t pursue riches or power or self; raise up the downtrodden, honour the marginalised, serve rather than be served. They may think you a fool but you’ll be dancing in Christ’s Carnival.

The New Year of Trees: Tu Bishvat (Deuteronomy 14:28-29)

sycomore-fruitIt’s cold. It’s cold and it’s winter and tomorrow I fully expect to see frost on the ground. Rumours have been going around work that we’re expecting snow overnight. It seems a funny time to think of trees and fruit and harvest, and yet that’s what today is: Tu Bishvat, the Jewish New Year of Trees,

But trees in winter are naked silhouettes in the dark – the harvest is a promise at the moment, the almost primordial promise that seedtime and harvest and summer and winter will endure. And maybe that’s a good thing – start thinking about the harvest before anything has even been planted. Hold on to the promise.

That promise isn’t just for those who work the earth – far from it. The harvest is inseparable from justice; the edges of fields are set aside for the poor, tithes are given for foreigners and orphans and widows as well as for God. Harvest is a gift of grace.

It’s a gift we often take for granted. Sustainability is a sign of weakness in some quarters and so we race to despoil the earth, to fill oceans and landfills with toxic leftovers. There’s a perverse ecological eschatology behind this – why worry about the earth when God’s just going to burn it up anyway? – but that’s flawed and twisted and confuses stewardship with profit. And it ignores the human cost, the poor and the vulnerable who God expects to share in the harvest.

It’s hard to know how to square that with the theory that deforestation in Africa has forced bats and humans into closer proximity, contributing to the Ebola outbreak that’s claimed so many lives. Harm the earth, harm ourselves, not in some apocalyptic future in which the climate is changed beyond recognition, but here and now, real people in real communities. This isn’t hypothetical anymore.

We’re slowly emerging from winter – days are getting longer, spring starts to make its presence felt. The promise of the New Year of Trees begins to be fulfilled, and it’s a promise of hope and justice. But it’s not aimed at our greed and our rapaciousness; it’s aimed at the poor, the refugee, the dispossessed. Because it’s the promise of the harvest, and harvest is justice.

(You can help Oxfam plant trees and provide training in forest management here.)