James’s Blog: Like Us or Like Him?

James’s Blog: Like Us or Like Him?

The heart of the gospel speaks, I believe, to all people, regardless of culture, creed or race. Because of this, we can make the mistake of thinking that the gospel belongs solely to us; to our culture, creed or race. If it speaks to us, then God meant it for us, right? And if He meant it for us, then you have to be like us to fully appreciate and understand the gospel, right? Then we find ourselves in a position where we assume that being a true follower of Jesus means fitting in with a particular culture – or as Steve Taylor puts it in I Want to be a Clone, ‘if you want to be one of His, got to act like one of us.’

This was perhaps at its most blatant in past missionary eras, where the line between ‘Christianizing’ and ‘Westernizing’ was blurred at best. In the 19th century, the London Missionary Society established a mission in Bechuanaland in Africa, and the Missionary Magazine reported on its progress in the following way:

‘The people are now dressed in British manufactures and make a very respectable appearance in the house of God. The children who formerly went naked and presented a most disgusting appearance are decently clothed…’

Of course, it’s easy to look down our noses at the missionary pioneers of the past, but we’re guilty of the same crime when we insist that there’s only one ‘proper’ way to do worship, one ‘proper’ way to preach, one ‘proper’ way to look and sound. We’re too quick at times to slap the label ‘Biblical’ on things that turn out to just be cultural traditions, and too slow to deny the implied criticism that traditions which differ from our own are therefore ‘Unbiblical’. Our cultural perspectives enable us to share something of the truth of God with others, but not everything of the truth.

In this blog’s first year, I posted a ‘poem‘ (I use that term loosely), suggesting that sometimes an author will write a book about what Jesus is really like and, what do you know, it turns out that Jesus is just like them.

There’s something in our humanity that seems determined to repeatedly recreate God in our own image, to want to turn Him into one us – whatever we are. The irony is, of course, that God has already turned Himself into one of us, through Christ. When we do it, we make God smaller. When He does it, He makes us bigger. We do it to bring God down to our level, to make Him easily digestible. He does it to bring us up to His level, to make us more than we are.

We can’t help but be shaped by our culture and history, but we can certainly try to make sure that it’s God who is shaping us more.

James’s Blog: For The Quiet Ones.

James’s Blog:  For The Quiet Ones.
I was sad to hear that Hayward’s Heath Baptist Church has lost another faithful servant.  Les Ridd, another who served on the leadership team with me, died at the end of last week.  Like Dick, he had been ill for a while, but it doesn’t make it easier. I was thinking about Les and Dick, and what they gifted to the church, and found it simplest to put my thoughts down into one of my occasional not-poem things.   There are plenty of noisy servants. “Where there are many words,” said the Teacher, “sin is not far behind.” (Loud men and women, we know who we are) Many words booming from the pulpit, or clattering onto the page like a skip full of scrap metal. “I tell you the truth,” says Jesus. “They have received their reward in full.”   But there are also the quiet servants, whom you have never heard, and will maybe never even see, (certainly not in a photo on the back of a book) doing what they do on tiptoe. Stacking chairs, cutting and sticking with children, giving lifts and clearing out guttering silently in the background. “I tell you the truth,” says Jesus. “For them, the best is yet to come.”  

James’s Blog: Father’s Day

James’s Blog:  Father’s Day

And have you ever regretted those words,

spoken in light but planned in darkness?

Did it seem like such a good idea,

in those days before, when the three of you

laughed and danced and joked and sang

with delight, before delight had even been invented?

 

Did you know, when you said to each other,

“Let us make some people now, some good ones,”

that you were sentencing yourself

to years and years of dirty nappies,

bare feet on carelessly discarded Lego bricks,

and ungrateful teenagers blanking you every day?

 

Did you know that you would spend

sleepless nights, longing for the days

of innocence, when a grazed knee was

the worst thing in the world,

but so easily fixed with a hug, and rewarded

with the dried tears that made you feel loved?

 

Did you know that you would bear it all?

Every broken heart?

Every bad decision?

The death of every pure thing?

Every act of cruelty and hate, some so evil

that they leave an irredeemable scar on history?

 

And does the pride outweigh the shame,

and the hope outweigh the despair,

for the three who trust so much?

Do you say, “That’s my boy!”,

or “I’m so proud of her!” when we take

our first faltering steps onto the shore?

 

And do you see beyond the reborn darkness,

to the flicker of light in every act of love,

so small, so frail and yet so vital?

And when you reach down and we slap your hand away,

is your forgiveness and patience really endless?

(Because I know mine isn’t.)

 

And are you looking forward to that time,

when we’ll finally come to our senses,

and you’ll at last be buried under the weight

of all those “Best Dad Ever!” mugs

that we made or bought in secret

with the stuff you gave us in the first place?

 

And do you have a knowing smile,

or a tear in your eye, as Adams and Eves,

so desperate to become gods,

discover that divinity is hard, ugly work?

Do you ever look at the stars and wonder,

these days, who’d be a father?

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