While there is certainly a debate to be had about what university should be for, the value of knowledge for its own sake should be defended and maintained as a central principle in our universities. If we accept that theology is a “useless” subject because it has a nebulous practical application, that principle will be severely undermined, to the profound detriment of higher education in Britain.

One of the things I always recommend to people when they are reading a new thinker is to take careful note of the context into which that person wrote. Context isn’t everything. But it can illumine why someone wrote in a particular way. For instance, the neo-orthodoxy of the 20th century was not only a reaction against the anthropologically centred liberalism of the 19th century, it was also a response to a world at war. Theology, like everything else in Europe, was never the same again after 1918.

What qualifies something as theology, then? Is it the method, or the style, or the terminiology? Julian of Norwich was the first woman (in fact the first person) to write a surviving work of theology in English. Why write in English? Was it a cultural statement, an issue of accessibility? No, it was an accident of history; as a woman she was not schooled in scholastic Latin or in the Medieval Disuptation. SO she wrote in the language she knew, and in a form that, at the time, would not have been recognised as “proper” theology. What qualifies her book as theology is that it looks in depth at the character and being of God, and the consequent understanding of who human beings are in relationship to that God.

Context is important, then. But context isn’t everything. Sometimes the value of reading an old book is not so much to see its context, but to see what things rise above context; what is enduring from one age to the next. C S Lewis was a champion of reading the classics (unsurprisingly, given that he was a Medievalist at Oxford where they strongly resisted the study of literaturea as a “proper” subject until surprisngly late). Never read two “new” books in a row, Lewis advised – always read an old one in between, or read at least one old for every two new. Why? because

“…Every age has its own outlook. It is especially good at seeing certain truths and especially liable to make certain mistakes. Where they are true they will give us truths which we half knew already. Where they are false they will aggravate the error with which we are already dangerously ill. The only palliative is to keep the clean sea breeze of the centuries blowing through our minds, and this can be done only by reading old books.”

Well, I’ve heard some pretty bad forty-five minute sermons in my time, and I’ve heard both good and bad lectures. But does the lecture continue to be a good format, or is it outmoded?

In the ideal world a lecturer will deliver some well-thought out, properly researched ideas and material in such a way that the listener will be informed, but also intrigued and perhaps inspired. Of course it doesn’t allow for dialogue, disagreement, conversation, or space to ponder. It doesn’t allow for meditation, savouring the moment, or multiple options for the direction of the information.  Nevertheless, I think the world would be a poorer place without it. I would hate to see good lectures abandoned (and in order to have good ones you have to put up with the mediochre – it’s a rule of life). Where else would we access, live, the distilled thought of someone really worth listening to? Where else would we get behind the text to see the light in their eyes?

I can recall the grey, wearisome mists of hundreds of useful but not fascinating lectures where I mopped up large consignments of information I needed. Yes, even rather dull lectures have their place; as an undergraduate I used to reckon an hour spent listening to one functional lecture could not only save you several hours in the library but maximise the usefulness of the hours you did spend there. But I’ve also attended lectures that I can still remember with crystal clarity – lectures that not only disseminated information, but offered a point of view, a narrative that threaded the ideas together. Fifteen years ago I heard Nicholas Lash talking about cultural collapse and theological continuity, and it changed the way I thought about theology forever. I remember the mental gymnastics required to keep up with John Millbank threading together the thought of Schleiermacher, Coleridge and Vico all in one lecture.  And the theological ground shifting under my feet listening to Janet Soskice on the impact of the names of God, including why a feminist might still want to call God “father”.

The lecture is not dead. I’m sure of it. And as for not being able to concentrate, well… I’ll add more tomorrow.

“You are the Devil’s Gateway. It is you who plucked the fruit of the forbidden tree. You are the first who deserted the divine law. You are the one who persuaded him whom even the Devil was not strong enough to attack. All too easily you destroyed the image of God, man. Because of your desert, that is death, even the Son of God had to die. . . Therefore cover your head and your figure with sack-cloth and ashes.”

Augustine, On the Trinity: “Why must a woman cover her head? Because, as I explained before, the woman does not possess the image of God in herself, but only when taken together with the male who is her head, so that the whole substance is one image. But when she is assigned the role as helpmate, a function that pertains to her alone, the she is not the image of God. But as far as the man is concerned, he is by himself alone the image of God, just as fully and completely as when he and the woman are joined together into one.”

Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica: “As the philosopher says, ‘Woman is a misbegotten male.’ Yet it is necessary that woman was made in the first production of things as a helpmate. Not indeed as a helpmate in any other works than procreation, for in all other works man can be more efficiently helped by another man than by a woman, but as a helper in the work of generation… The woman is in a state of subjugation in the original order of things. For this reason she cannot represent headship in society or in the Church. Only the male can represent Christ. For this reason it was necessary that Christ be incarnated as a male. It follows, therefore, that she cannot receive the sign of Holy Orders.”

Malleus Maleficarum (fifteenth-century manual of the Dominican Inquisitors against witches): “When a woman thinks alone she thinks evil, for the woman was made from the crooked rib which is bent in the contrary direction from the man. Woman conspired constantly against spiritual good. Her very name, fe-mina means ‘absence of faith’. She is insatiable lust by nature. Because of this lust she consorts even with Devils. It is for this reason that women are especially prone to the crime of witchcraft, from which men have been preserved by the maleness of Christ.”

Martin Luther. ‘On Marriage’: “Eve originally was more equally a partner with Adam, but because of sin the present woman is a far inferior creature. Because she is responsible for the Fall, woman is in a state of subjugation. The man rules the home and the world, wages war and tills the soil. The woman is like a nail driven into the wall, she sits at home.”

Rosemary Radford Ruether, 'Women-Church Theology and Practice of
Feminist Liturgical Communities', Harper and Row, San Francisco, 1985,
pp. 137ff

New Testament isn’t really my area, so I have limited knowledge in this. But I do eat my lunch at least once a week with Professor Morna Hooker, whose books & lectures are excellent, and she is a great conversation partner. A much younger, v. interesting British N.T. scholar is Paula Gooder.

Anyone else like to recommend their top two women in New Testament Studies?

SUNDAY AFTER ASCENSION, 2008

It’s a common mistake in Sunday School theology to make the Ascension sound like the moment when earth and heaven are separated from each other… as if Jesus looks back at the messy earth, post resurrection, and says, "job done, I’m out of here."  A view of the Ascension that separates God from us, heaven from earth, is a woeful theology, and misses the balletic beauty and completeness of the Easter season. So today I was going to tell you about why we celebrate Ascension, and how it was only by leaving the earth that Jesus could become permanently present with all of us. I was going to talk about how the disciples stood there gaping at the sky hoping he would come back, when what they need to do was go and wait in the Upper Room like he’d told them, so that he could send them his Spirit.

But then I came across an ancient story that I think may throw a better light on the subject. See what you think…

In 1999, some archaeologists were having a New Year’s Eve party in a Coptic Church in Egypt, when a champagne cork flew into the air and broke a little part of the ceiling away, revealing a glint of bronze. Abandoning the party, they climbed up and pulled out a container full of old scripts, which contained the sayings and revelations of Abba Sayah, an old hermit who was visited by Gabriel and other heavenly visitors.

One of Abba Sayah’s stories is about the Ascension – a story, he says, that St Anthony told to St. Gregory of Nyssa, and Gregory told to St. Basil and Gregory Nazienzus as they sat around the campfire. It’s a story that can’t be verified with any evidence at all.

But there is no doubt whatsoever that it’s true.

As Abba Sayah tells it, after forty days of resurrection appearances, Jesus knew it was time to leave his disciples – his mother, his brothers and sisters, his companions in the Way. It was hard to say goodbye, but he knew that the time had come. After all, he was the truth and we humans can only take so much of that.

So Jesus called them all together on the mountain top, and made his farewells. It was a tearful moment. Mary was crying. John was crying. Jesus was crying. Even Peter, the immovable rock, was reaching for his handkerchief.

They knew that Jesus had said he would always be with them. But they also knew it wasn’t going to be the same. There would be no more breakfasts by the seashore, no more late night discussions around the campfire.

Jesus was sad too, but he was glad to be returning to his Father, and he knew it was all part of the plan. And so he began to ascend.

As Abba Sayah told the story, just as Jesus began to rise, slowly and gracefully into the air, John just couldn’t bear it. He grabbed hold of Jesus’ right leg, and refused to let go.

"John?" said Jesus “What are you doing?” And John shouted back, "If you won’t stay with us, then I’m coming too."

Jesus calmly continued to rise, hoping that John would let go. But John didn’t let go. And then to make matters more complicated, Mary suddenly jumped up and grabbed hold of Jesus’ other leg. "I’m coming too," she shouted.

By now, Jesus’ big exit had obviously been ruined, but he looked up into heaven, and called out: "Okay, Father… what do I do now?" And a voice came out of the clouds, deep and loud like the rumbling of thunder in the distance.

"Ascend!" the voice said.

"Ascend?" Jesus asked?

"Ascend!" the voice replied.

So Jesus continued to rise through the air, with John and Mary holding on until they too were lifted off the ground.

Well, then, ALL the other apostles, not wanting to be left behind, jumped on too. Imagine if you can – a pyramid of people hanging in the middle of the sky. Jesus at the top. John and Mary next. The apostles hanging on below.

And then – what was this?  Suddenly all kinds of people were appearing out of nowhere.

friends and neighbours that had followed them up the mountain.

The crowds he used to preach to.

Old people.

Young people.

Jews and Gentiles.

Men and women.

All of them grabbing the last pair of ankles and holding on.

And above it all the voice of God calling out, “Ascend!"

But all of a sudden, from the bottom of the pyramid, there came the voice of a small child.

"Wait!” he yelled,  “I’ve lost my dog!  Wait for me”

"I can’t wait," Jesus called back, "I don’t know how this thing works." But the little boy wasn’t going to be left behind, and he was determined his dog was coming with him. So, still holding on with one hand, he grabbed hold of a tree with the other, and held on with all his might.

For a moment, the whole pyramid stopped dead in the air – Jesus pulling upwards, and the little boy holding on to the tree, scanning the horizon for his lost dog.

But Jesus couldn’t stop. The ascension had begun, and God was pulling him back up to heaven. 

At first it looked as if the tree would uproot itself.  But then the tree held on, and it started to pull the ground up with it. Sort of like when you pull a rug up in the middle, the

soil itself started moving up into the sky.  And hundreds of miles away, where the soil met the oceans, the oceans held on. And where the oceans met the shores, the shores held on. All of it held on, like there was no tomorrow.

To make a short story long: Jesus DID ascend to heaven, He went back to his natural habitat, living permanently in the presence of God’s endless love and care and wholeness and laughter. 

But, as Abba Sayah tells it, he pulled all of creation – the whole kit and caboodle – everything that ever was or is or ever will be – he pulled it all up into heaven with him.

Archaeologists are still wondering about the authenticity of Abba Saya’s scrolls. Are they revelations from heaven that are more reliable than Luke’s account? Or are they the work of an over-active imagination?

Which was the truth – was it that Jesus came to earth to transform us with the presence of God? Or was Abba Sayah right, that he took earth back with him to heaven?

Whichever way you look at it, the work of Jesus was to transform us and the world we live in by infusing everything with the presence of God.  Heaven meets earth; earth is drawn into heaven.

And, as Abba Sayah said, that’s where we’ve been ever since.

This homily has shamelessly borrowed the story of Abba Sayah; for more go and find Edward Hays books.

—-

Meantime, the good old Church of England continues in seemingly endless chicken-licken style discussion. In my more bleak moments it makes me think of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. Fresh Expressions? A Missional church? All around us there are people hungry and thirsty for the story we have to tell, yet all they can hear is our endless circumventions of an argument that is out of date. 

Will we ever see women in the Episcopate? Probably. A while from now. And then another round of hissy fits and arguments. Now, I have no personal career/ministry agenda in this: do not mistake me for someone who would want to be a Bishop. My gifts and inclinations clearly lie elsewhere. And in any case by the time the discussions are over I shall be on the verge of retirement. But I still feel deeply sorry that the Church I belong to continues to maintain levels of its organisation as a boys’ club, wastes the talents of women who would be brilliant Bishops, and by inference misrepresents the gospel to the world around us. 

Bishop Alan is on fine form this morning on the subject. Go read.