The Estate We're In (Or, Terminus Homes)

I've lived in or around London for the best part of 13 years now (having grown up in Bristol), and have spent a considerable number of those years living near mainline terminus stations. I've lived near Victoria, Paddington and King's Cross stations, and I've noticed one common feature of the housing in the local area of each. This feature is not exclusive to these areas, but I think is a broadly 'central-London', inner-city experience.

In each area, the housing is represents extremes of wealth and comfort: there are exclusive and expensive Georgian terraces right across the road from 50s, 60s, and 70s council estates. The proximity of the one to the other is remarkable.

However, having lived in area such as these (and exclusively in the council housing areas!), I've come to realise that the appearances can be deceptive. For there are hidden within the affluent Georgian terraces, pockets of social housing stock that are not privately-owned, and perhaps not recently repaired, renovated or refurbished.

The estates also can be confusing. Ever since Thatcher introduced right-to-buy in the 80s, a large proportion of the council housing stock have been transferred from the social housing sector into private ownership. You will find in some of these properties young, upwardly-mobile, middle-class professionals - perhaps flat sharing, but all expecting to live there just a while, until ways and means allow for them to buy their own properties. You might also find elderly people who are hidden, forgotten, asset-rich but cash poor. They may be vulnerable, lonely, even if they own their council flat, and even if it's worth a fortune. They've probably witnessed decades of social change, and may be hopelessly confused by the way their community has changed.

You will, of course, also find social sector tenants, often being housed temporarily due to emergency need. They may well move on as soon as a more suitable home is found. Either way, council estates can suffer a high degree of social transience.

But what's the picture in the ludicrously expensive terraces? Well, predictably you will also find a large number of upwardly-mobile young professionals sharing properties here. But the surprise is often just how many might live in one house. The late-90s / noughties property boom seems to have tempted ever-increasing numbers of freeholders to convert their properties (note: properties not homes) into flats to gain the highest possible rents. Walking along the terraces, it's worth looking at the front doors to see how many buzzers are mounted. You might find a few freeholder families - but they'll probably not be there at weekends - and the kids probably won't go to the local comprehensive.

The other surprise is that there are plenty of long-term socially housed tenants in these properties as well - thanks in large part to the growth of the housing associations in 1950s Britain to alleviate the post-war urban poverty.

But the real surprise - which relates specifically, it seems to me, to their location - is the number of terrace 'Hotels' or 'B&Bs'. Some of these are genuine hotels catering to the tourism industry. But I'm afraid to say that I've witnessed first-hand through local pastoral ministry some of the hidden poverty in these premises.

Sometimes, large 4 or 5 bedroom Georgian properties are adapted to provide 16-20 'rooms'. These are not necessarily small rooms catering for back-packing, short city-breakers. They often provide the emergency accommodation on which the social housing sector depends. Local authorities will 'temporarily house' mothers in dire circumstances, or homeless families, or asylum seekers. There is often little temporary about them. Residents find themselves stuck for months or years waiting for adequate housing. They can be deeply oppressive places, where mental and emotional difficulties are developed or deepened. Stucco-fronted, white-washed tombs of despair for the poorest and most marginalised in society.

This is simply my experience of the realities of much of the housing in inner-city London. Extremes of wealth and poverty living cheek-by-jowl, though not necessarily where you'd expect to find them.

What would it look like for the kingdom of God to be realised here? Perhaps a renewal of hope and confidence in local community organisations. A re-appropriation of public spaces for community use (no more private squares and gardens). Certainly some creative approaches to planning to help housing supply meet need more adequately. Greater incentives for people to house-swap into appropriate sizes of homes for different life stages.

And certainly, no simple stereotypes, and an active church who will engage in mission and service to everyone in the local community: rich, poor; settled, transient; young, old; muslim, atheist; gay, straight; male, female; and of whatever class, race or religion. The story of God begins in a garden, and ends in a city. The glory of the inner-city can only be revealed and realised in Christ.

Good Friday Poems

So we had our usual Good Friday Vigil service last week on, well, Good Friday! Each year we try to have a creative element to the service - two years ago art works to help us reflect on the passion narratives; last year pieces of music... This year, I gathered six poems all with a Good Friday theme... I'd be surprised if you'll find these six thematically linked together in any collections or anthologies, so I thought I'd re-publish them here... I hope you enjoy them (if that's the appropriate thing to do...)

‘Good Friday’ by George Herbert (1593-1633)

O my chief good,


How shall I measure out thy blood? 


How shall I count what thee befell, 


And each grief tell? 



Shall I thy woes 


Number according to thy foes? 


Or, since one star show'd thy first breath, 


Shall all thy death? 



Or shall each leaf, 


Which falls in Autumn, score a grief? 


Or cannot leaves, but fruit be sign 


Of the true vine? 



Then let each hour 


Of my whole life one grief devour: 


That thy distress through all may run, 


And be my sun. 



Or rather let 


My several sins their sorrows get; 


That as each beast his cure doth know, 


Each sin may so. 



‘Beneath Thy Cross’ by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-94)

Am I a stone, and not a sheep, 


That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross, 


To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss, 


And yet not weep? 



Not so those women loved 


Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; 


Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; 


Not so the thief was moved; 



Not so the Sun and Moon 


Which hid their faces in a starless sky, 


A horror of great darkness at broad noon-- 


I, only I. 



Yet give not o'er, 


But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; 


Greater than Moses, turn and look once more 


And smite a rock.

‘Crucifying’ (from La Corona) by John Donne (1572-1631)

By miracles exceeding power of man,

He faith in some, envy in some begat,

For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate :

In both affections many to Him ran.

But O ! the worst are most, they will and can,

Alas ! and do, unto th' Immaculate,

Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate,

Measuring self-life's infinity to span,

Nay to an inch. Lo ! where condemned He

Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by

When it bears him, He must bear more and die.

Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee,

And at Thy death giving such liberal dole,

Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.

‘Stand To: Good Friday’ by Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)

I’d been on duty from two till four. 


I went and stared at the dug-out door. 


Down in the frowst I heard them snore. 


‘Stand to!’ Somebody grunted and swore. 


Dawn was misty; the skies were still; 


Larks were singing, discordant, shrill; 


They seemed happy; but I felt ill. 


Deep in water I splashed my way 


Up the trench to our bogged front line. 


Rain had fallen the whole damned night. 


O Jesus, send me a wound to-day, 


And I’ll believe in Your bread and wine, 


And get my bloody old sins washed white!

‘On Our Crucified Lord, Naked And Bloody’ by Richard Crashaw (1612-49)

Th’ have left thee naked, Lord, O that they had!
This garment too I would they had denied.
Thee with thyself they have too richly clad,
Opening the purple wardrobe of thy side.
O never could be found garments too good
For thee to wear, but these, of thine own blood.

‘The Passion’ by George Herbert (1593-1633)

Since blood is fittest, Lord to write 


Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight; 


My heart hath store, write there, where in 


One box doth lie both ink and sin: 



That when sin spies so many foes, 


Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes 


All come to lodge there, sin may say, 


'No room for me', and fly away. 



Sin being gone, oh fill the place, 


And keep possession with thy grace; 


Lest sin take courage and return, 


And all the writings blot or burn.

‘God So Loved’: Metaphors of Atonement

About two weeks ago I came across a new song by Ben Cantelon called ‘God So Loved’ and also known as ‘Saviour Of The World’. I was immediately struck by the power and beauty of the song, but also by its lyrical richness.

This week I’ve been reading a fascinating book called ‘The Justifying Judgement of God’ by Justyn Terry. It’s the published version of his doctoral thesis, and in the first half of the book gives a detailed analysis of various metaphors employed in Scripture to describe the atonement.

Terry charts the development and influence in British theology of images and motifs used by British theologians to describe the primary model or theory of the atonement. He concludes that the approach of Colin Gunton in ‘The Actuality of the Atonement’ provides the most helpful approach by adopting the language of metaphor to describe what Scripture tells us about the atonement. Thus, rather than various isolated images (victory, sacrifice, law, redemption or love) being attributed the prime position in any theory of atonement, they are to be seen as a variety of metaphors to convey the meaning of the atonement. Gunton describes the primary metaphors as being victory, sacrifice, redemption and law (justification).

Justyn Terry’s thesis continues to argue that in fact all these metaphors will find coherent unity and inter-relatedness when seen as contributing to our understanding of the Judgement of God as the primary paradigmatic metaphor of the atonement.

Anyway, with all this in mind, I found myself reflecting on the lyrics of the Ben Cantelon song. The lyrics are as follows:

God so loved, that he gave his son

To lay down his life for the sake of us.

He bore the weight of our sin and shame.

With a cry he said, ‘It is finished.'

Christ the Lord overcame the darkness;

He’s alive: death has been defeated.

For He made us a way, by which we have been saved.

He’s the Saviour of the world.

So we lift up a shout for his fame and renown.

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord:

Jesus, Saviour of the world.

We must spread the word of His soon return

To reclaim the world for His glory.

Let the church now sing of this coming King,

Crowned with majesty: our Redeemer.

And He reigns, ruler of the heavens.

And His name is Jesus, the Messiah.

Christ the Lord overcame the darkness;

He’s alive: death has been defeated.

And He reigns, ruler of the heavens.

And His name is Jesus, the Messiah.

It struck me that Cantelon’s song manages to employ at least two of these metaphors in the song, with the kind of unity and inter-relatedness that Justyn Terry might be pointing us towards. The metaphors of sacrifice and victory are most prominent in the song.

Sacrifice is evident from the first couplet: ‘God so loved, that he gave his son / to lay down his life for the sake of us.’ Indeed, this couplet suggests a two-fold sacrifice – that of the Father giving (sending?) the Son; but also the Son laying down his life.

Victory is evident in the pre-chorus, which also forms a ‘tag’ in the middle of the song: ‘Christ the Lord overcame the darkness; / He’s alive: death has been defeated.’ In the second verse, Jesus is described as the ‘coming King / crowned with majesty’. In the second pre-chorus ‘He reigns, ruler of the heavens.’

But what other metaphors of the atonement might we find in the song? Well, in the second verse, the same Jesus who is the Victor, the ‘coming King’, is also ‘our Redeemer. And additionally, we might see the reference to ‘[bearing] the weight of our sin and shame’ in the third line of the first verse as a way of referring to the legal metaphor of the atonement: that is, that a judgement is made and that Christ bears the penalty (or even punishment) for our sin. (There is an interesting discussion of the distinction PT Forsyth draws between ‘penalty’ and ‘punishment’ in Justyn Terry’s book on p84.)

Yet amongst all these metaphors, we’d have to conclude that the dominant image is that of ‘victory’, since that is the metaphor repeatedly used during the ‘tag’ section: itself a confluence of the two pre-choruses. Whether allowing a single metaphor, and indeed this particular one, such a prominent position offer us a satisfactory way of giving an account of the atonement is something that readers of Justyn Terry’s book (and indeed the song) may want to reflect on further. But there are one or two other points worth making in relation to the success (in my view) of this song:

1. I’m impressed by the ‘completeness’ of the atonement image employed: ‘For He made us a way, by which we have been saved’ (emphasis mine). There is no conditionality of our faith response on which the saving work of Christ depends. This is an ‘objectivist’ account of the atonement – following Anselm and most of the orthodox Christian traditions, and avoiding some of the post-Enlightenment accounts of soteriology offered by the ‘subjectivist’ approaches rationalism (cf. Kant) or experience (cf. Schliermacher).

2. I also really like the way that Ben Cantelon moves from the indicative form of address in the first verse, spelling out the content of the Christian gospel, to the imperative form of address in the second verse, where he spells out the appropriate response for the Church.

3. I also like they intuitive way it engages with Christ in his post-Ascension state: ‘He reigns, ruler of the heavens’. Some of our contemporary charismatic songs imply to strongly the closeness of Jesus to us – his proximity – as though he were still present in the earthly sphere. (A prominent example would be ‘What A Friend I’ve Found’ by Martin Smith – which describes Jesus as ‘closer than a brother’, and his touch as being felt ‘more intimate than lovers’.) The shortcoming of the songs which emphasise the proximity of Jesus overlook the work of the Holy Spirit in mediating his presence to us, and concomitantly undermine the work of Jesus as Ascended great high priest who intercedes for us before the Father in heaven (Heb 7:25).

Finally, it’s got a great melody and is fantastic to play / sing – I’m sure we’ll be singing it in the church for some years to come.

What Size Are You?

I've been thinking recently about different church sizes... At St Mary Magdalene's, we're part of what I'd describe as a medium-size church in Church of England terms: we usually have around 120-150 people gather for worship on a Sunday, but probably drawn from a pool of around 200ish... A lovely feature of this size church is that I pretty much know every regular (frequent) worshipper by name, even if I know very little more about some of them!

Speaking with a Bishop recently, I got to thinking about large churches. He was advocating the theory that 'whenever a large church is flourishing, it has a positive effect on all the other churches in the area.' I certainly don't want to fall into the trap that some do of claiming a sort of idealised 'small-church' theory as a way of excusing laziness in relation to mission, evangelism and discipleship. However, there is a serious danger in very large churches that they have a negative effect on other local churches in several ways:

1. At an obvious level, they are often resourced to offer a level of service (children's work, music, facilities etc) which many other smaller churches cannot - thus providing a powerful attraction for Christian to gather to the larger church outside of their local community rather than supporting their local church.
2. In a less obvious way, they actually create and foster an experience of Christian life and worship which is very hard to sustain elsewhere. Thus, when life-stages / situations cause Christians to move on from large churches, they are often ill-prepared or equipped for worshipping life in smaller churches.
3. Large churches often have a large 'crowd' of regular worshippers. These must not be confused with Christian disciples! There are certainly some very good systems for pastoral care and discipleship in some large churches - but I have also encountered many Christians who should be on solid food by now, but still crave infant milk because they have stayed in an environment which caters very well for their appetite for spiritual experience, but not so well for initiating them into cross-bearing service and obedience.
4. This point about experience is important. We should probably all read Schliermacher again (and of course, Barth's critique) and recognise the dangers of letting our Christian experience be the validating and authenticating mark of the Gospel.
5. Large churches invariably have a strong prevailing culture. This is not necessarily a bad thing: we would hope for a strong prevailing Christian culture in any church. But the possibility of a dominant cultural group emerging in a large church is one to watch - a homogenous, like-attracts-like culture will not give us the kind of church St Paul envisages in Galatians 3:28 and similar.
6. We must watch out for sloppy metaphors! It is often said that 'healthy churches grow - it's in their dna'. But if we're using biological metaphors, we must also acknowledge that 'cancerous cells spread'! Growth has to be qualified and assessed beyond simple numerical models: success in the church is not the same as success in the world.

Now, there are lots of positive things to be said for large churches as well, and the only criteria we should reasonably accept for critique of our ecclesial forms is whether people are being led deeper into the life of Christ, and discovering and imitating his self-giving love for the world.

However, I was prompted to write this post when I was tidying my desk and discovered a scrap of paper on which I scribbled a note about Eugene Peterson's observations on church size. Ian Stackhouse writes:

'[Peterson's] convictions about pastoral ministry have been worked out over three decades, in a church that never reached a particularly large membership - a fact that in the North American context could be interpreted as an admission of failure. Peterson, as we shall see, does not think so. the issue of size, for Peterson, is related to a prior commitment to only pastor a congregation where personal knowledge of each and every member is possible. Therefore, a megachurch could not even be countenanced under such a scheme.' (Ian Stackhouse, The Gospel-Driven Church, p227)

Worth some more careful reflection and consideration I think...