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There’s been something of a minor heatwave here in the UK this week and people have immediately rushed to light their barbeques and enjoy al fresco dining. The Great Barbeque Competition in the First Book of Kings is a dramatic encounter between the prophet Elijah and the four hundred and fifty prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel. They set up their rival bonfires and place a prepared sacrificial bull on the top. “The God who answers by fire”, says Elijah, “he is God.”

The prophets call on their God but to no avail; the fire remains unlit. Elijah taunts them – perhaps Baal is meditating, or asleep or has “stepped aside”, a Hebrew euphemism for visiting the toilet!

Elijah has the people pour four large water pots over his offering and calls on the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. “Then the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood and the stones and the dust, and it licked up the water that was in the trench.” It ends badly for the prophets of Baal who are taken down the mountain and executed.

One cannot imagine the Archbishop of Canterbury or any other religious leader today setting up such a challenge to see which, if any, gods exist. As the philosopher John Wisdom wrote “The existence of God is not an experimental issue in the way it once was”. Believers do expect their faith to make a difference, and there is thought to be a difference between believers non-believers. But what is that difference?

John Wisdom writing just before the Second World War in a paper entitled Gods, went on to ask how something that was once an experimental issue could become something very different and tells a parable about two men surveying a piece of ground. One points to things that he thinks show there is a gardener at work. The other sees only signs that no one is looking after it. So they start to look for more evidence in this and other gardens until, having studied everything, they still disagree. You can read the parable here and the full paper. It led to a long debate about the nature of belief. Is belief a way of seeing the world, having a particular attitude towards the world? Is it using a certain vocabulary to talk about life, practising various rituals?

Readers of this blog will know that for me (and I suspect for many believers) God is not an extra thing that exists and is alive in the world but life itself. The practice of faith can make a difference just as art and music can. What matters is that believers and non-believers alike acknowledge that the existence of God is not the experimental issue it once was.



Doubting thomas nicholas piliero


Doubt can play a crucial role within faith; it avoids the certainty of the fanatic, develops humility and as in science, often opens the path to truth. A few years ago, Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby created something of a storm when he questioned whether or not God was actually “there”. He is reported to have said “The other day I was praying over something that I was running, and I ended up saying to God, ‘Look, this is all very well, but isn’t it about time you did something, if you’re there?’ Some headlines ran “Archbishop doubts existence of God”, another columnist of atheist persuasion simply declared “Victory!”, whilst others were keen to support, pointing to the archbishop’s humanity as a man who knew the agony of grief, having lost his first-born child in a car accident.

However there is one concept which cannot be doubted within a Christian philosophy: the existence of God. For Christians, God is that whose existence cannot be doubted because God is existence itself. God is that in whom we live and move and have our being. The language of faith may not always be helpful in exploring that which is essential to life. It may be doubted whether there is any value in exploring existence itself, but to talk about God is to talk about that which cannot be doubted.

People may have reservations about the value of religious practices like prayer and worship, they may have doubts about Jesus and what he said and did and about the institution of the church. They may be uncertain as to what course of action they should take as a Christian, they may lose faith in standing up for justice but not about the existence of God. It simply makes no sense to say existence itself doesn’t exist.

Christian faith should not concern itself with questions over the existence of a separate entity called God, either in or outside our universe. It is about our relationships within the world we inhabit, both with ourselves and those around us. It should lead us in life and love, helping us to make society a better place for more people. The most effective way to bring about these changes may be shrouded in doubt, but God must not.


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As Dido Queen of Carthage, the eponymous heroine of Purcell’s opera faces death, she cries “Remember me but ah forget my fate.”  Dido has pledged herself to newly-found lover, Aeneas, but at the height of their joy, he is summoned back to war. It presents him with an agonising decision. Should he obey the gods and fulfil his military duty or should he follow his heart and stay with Dido? “Offend the gods and love obey” he sings to the queen but ultimately she urges him to follow Jove’s command. He sets sail, abandoning the heartbroken Dido to her fate as she stands before her own funeral pyre. The tragedy is that in fact through an act of treachery and deceit, it was the wicked Sorceress and her crones who summoned away the unsuspecting hero, rather than the gods.
When people die, one of their fondest hopes is to be remembered by friends and family, eclipsing the memories of any pain or suffering.  Another dying wish may be that loved ones will go on to enjoy life, experience good fortune and prosperity and learn from their example. “Look after yourselves” says ancient Greek philosopher Socrates to his friends as he prepares to drink the cup of poison, the punishment meted out to him by the city of Athens for corrupting the youth of the city. “Keep your spirits up. Tell yourself it’s only my body you are burying.” When all this proves too much and one of his followers cannot control his grief, Socrates says. “Really, my friends, what a way to behave. That’s why I sent the women away to avoid this sort of disturbance. We should approach our end in a tranquil frame of mind.
What of Jesus’ hopes on the night he was betrayed and faced his own death? Like Dido he wished to be remembered, but for him, the nature of his earthly demise was an integral part of the legacy of his life and teachings. This explains why Christians take the opportunity in Holy Week, to recall and reflect on the suffering and death of Jesus. A third of the gospel story is taken up with the passion narrative.
In the Garden of Gesthsemane Jesus faced an agonising decision of his own, but unlike Aeneas, in his story as portrayed in the gospel, Jesus’ obedience to death is a response to the call of love. Jesus, like Socrates met with his disciples before his death and urged them to live by his teaching, but not with a “Calm yourself” and “Send the women away”. The women  closest to Jesus are in fact the ones who watch at the foot of cross and attend to his body for burial. Jesus invites his disciples to share his fate, to take up their cross, almost as if Socrates had taken the cup of poison and passed it around his followers. In this way Jesus, with remarkable creativity and daring takes the thousand year old ritual of the Passover meal, traditionally a celebration of the Israelites’s freedom from slavery in Egypt and says “do this in remembrance of me”.
We need to appreciate what a remarkable and unique human story this is before exploring any theological significance.


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Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring caused an uproar at its first performance in 1913, with witnesses reporting that blows were exchanged, objects thrown at the stage and one person at least challenged to a dual. The subject of the ballet was even more shocking, with its depiction of ritual abduction and a young girl dancing herself to death in the presence of old men.

Most ancient societies practised human sacrifice, later abandoning it in favour of the offering of animals. The story of Abraham climbing the mountain to sacrifice his son Isaac, only to be interrupted by God with the order to substitute a ram, originates in this moment of change in human history. However, animal sacrifice might be perceived as no less barbaric: according to the First Book of Kings, at the dedication of the Temple in the space of one day,

“Solomon offered a sacrifice of fellowship offerings to the Lord: twenty-two thousand cattle and a hundred and twenty thousand sheep and goats.”

In 2016, after a break of two millennia, a Paschal Lamb was again sacrificed on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem in an effort by right-wing activists to lay greater claim on the site.

At this time of year Christians prepare to retell the story of Jesus’ passion, the sacrifice of the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of world and brings to an end the need for further human or animal sacrifice. So what place has the notion of sacrifice in our time? We still talk of self-sacrifice and the sacrifice of those who have laid down their lives for our freedom, giving their today for our tomorrow.

During Holy Week we could ask ourselves two questions. Is there anything for which we would sacrifice our lives? Most of us could imagine a context in which we might at least hope for the courage to lay down our lives; to protect our children, defend the freedoms of our society, or in an attempt to prevent abuse and slavery.

The second question follows. If we think there are situations in which we should be prepared to risk our lives, then are we physically and mentally prepared? Part of our Lenten discipline and the following of Jesus’ passion should be to strengthen our resolve and take up our cross if called.



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Before I was accepted for training as a priest, I had to attend a selection conference where I was interviewed by half a dozen men and women from different walks of life. I knocked on the door for the first interview and waited. It was suddenly opened by a man in a very smart suit who shook my hand, greeting me with the words “The trouble with you lot is that you’re all too polite. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” I was glad of the walk into the room while I contemplated the options —  making up a “sinner to saint story”, persuading him of my godliness, or confessing all. 
I’ve never had the nerve to put that question to people within the context of an interview, but it is challenging to ask it of oneself.  Sometimes I would pose it rhetorically, in school assemblies, then turning the question around: “What is the worst thing that has been done to you?” Recognising the hurt and pain inflicted by us and on us can be a way of accepting ourselves and others.
Forgiveness is often said to be central to Jesus’ teaching and the Christian message. “Turn the other cheek, forgive seventy times seven, forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us” – all supersede the Old Testament “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”.  Many sermons are devoted to the subject, and it’s argued by some psychologists that forgiveness is good for our health. As I get older, I think more emphasis should be put on forgiveness as a process rather than something to be completed, a commitment rather than a command, and certainly not something to be asked of everyone.
One modern version of the Lord’s Prayer contains the line “Forgive us our debts …” but forgiving someone isn’t like settling a debt; it involves a change in our feelings, attitude and behaviour towards offence and offender alike. This may may be a lengthy process and one which is not always completed. We have a legal duty to repay debts of a financial nature, but forgiveness is about our relationships with each other, and like love cannot be demanded of us. 
Although God is said to be all-forgiving, the gospels include the rather baffling and apparently contradictory verse “Truly I tell you, all sins and blasphemies will be forgiven….., except those against the Holy Spirit.” If there are things which God will not forgive, then surely we cannot expect more of our fellow human beings. Those who have suffered dreadful abuse, or been robbed of their ability to enjoy the trust and love of others are sufficiently challenged to lead a normal life, without having the demands of forgiveness placed upon them.


harry potter

“Keep the secrets”, the Harry Potter fandom is urged as they leave the theatre, much as an earlier generation was bidden not to disclose the secret of whodunnit in The Mousestrap. Whereas to facilitate a pleasant surprise may involve some elements of secrecy in the short term, the conspiratorial “It will be our little secret” has taken on more sinister and potentially abusive connotations in recent times.
The opening prayer of the Communion Service speaks of the God “from whom no secrets are hidden”, suggesting that one way to an understanding of God is to explore the nature of openness and honesty.
In an early episode of Netflix TV drama The Crown, George VI’s doctors decide not to reveal the true extent of his illness either to him or his family, as many other well-intentioned families hide a negative diagnosis from their loved ones. The justification is often that the full picture will deprive them of hope and possibly worsen their condition. This makes a comforting distinction between telling a blatant lie on the one hand, which many would find distasteful, dishonest and against their conscience, and simply  withholding information on the other.
However, the Old Testament command “Thou shalt not lie” is superseded in the New Testament by Paul’s more demanding dictum to the Ephesians to “speak the truth in love”. This is particularly challenging within the public and political sphere, but there are three areas of our personal life in which we can practise and find ways of speaking the truth in love. 
The first is in dealing with self-understanding; it is so tempting to hide the truth from ourselves, hard sometimes to love the person we have become. Another is within our closest friendships, where learning to receive and offer truth in loving reciprocation can enable its telling.
For ministers and believers, there is a crucial third area, the church community, in which too often preaching and actions belie true belief, as we fail to be transparent about centuries of biblical scholarship and try to protect congregations from the force of contemporary criticism. There is no room for secrecy in love and faith or with God as described in the same communion prayer; the one “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known”.


One of the characters in Aidan Chambers’ novel Now I Know offers a definition of belief by separating the word into two parts “be and “lief”. “Be” is to exist, to live, to have a presence in the world. “Lief” relates to an Old English word for love and means gladly and willingly.

“So belief means: that you will give all your attention to living with loving gladness in the world you think really exists.”

The etymology is a little more complicated than the 17 year old Nik describes and the word belief in English has a variety of meanings, ranging from the conviction that something is true, to having faith and trust in a person’s character. However, Aidan Chambers reminds us that neither definition paints the full picture.

When English-speaking Christians recite the Apostles’ Creed “I believe in God”, what do they mean?

God exists?

God is to be trusted?

God is the means by which they embrace and embark on a meaningful life?

In Latin, each of these has a different construction corresponding to the above:

credo deum

credo deo

credo in deum

Surprisingly perhaps, it is the third option that we find in the original version used in Christian worship dating back to the fourth century. In his Commentary on John’s Gospel, St Augustine writes

“What is it therefore to believe in him? It is in believing to love, in believing to delight, in believing to walk towards him, and be incorporated amongst the limbs or members of his body.”

In The Joy of the Gospel, Pope Francis also makes much of the distinction between credere in Deum and credere Deum. “in the act of faith greater accent is placed on credere in Deum than on credere Deum” as it leads to a loving, dynamic faith, one that doesn’t stop at only marking out the limits of what we believe, but leads to a faith that changes our lives.”


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I was browsing through a book at a friend’s house over Christmas which had been recommended to him by his Baptist minister. Brian D. McLaren’s,  A New Kind of Christianity was an enlightening read; right across the spectrum of the church – from evangelicals to liberals – a new strategy for changing the church is being adopted.

Times change along with our thinking and the church’s teaching needs to respond accordingly. That’s not straightforward, especially in a church where its leader’s declarations are said to be infallible. Some have likened it to altering the course of an ocean liner, so the hope of a new strategy for change is welcome and overdue.

One approach has been to examine. For example, most people no longer believe in the devil but to make a lasting difference this has to be written into the formal beliefs and liturgies of the church. Within the context of infant baptism, parents and priests are required publically to declare their commitment to “fight against sin, the world and the devil” yet privately most will feel the concept is outmoded and inconceivable.

A second strategy is to leave the credal statements as they are and reinterpret them. If there is little hope of getting the church to say “We don’t believe in hell any longer” then ministers can say “I do believe in hell but it’s here, now, among us in the midst of war and famine.” Sooner or later, though, they will be challenged – “So you don’t really believe in hell, do you?”

A third strategy which I proposed in Agenda for Faith, is to say that the faith of the church hasn’t changed but philosophy has. Our understanding of meaning, truth and the self is radically different from that of the ancient Greeks upon whose philosophy most credal statements and doctrines are based. However not many congregations are prepared to tolerate sermons on 21st century philosophy.

Another strategy I adopted in God in the Bath is to show that classical orthodox theology is far more radical than it appears. Thomas Aquinas, for example, who is often regarded as a model of church teaching wrote that “God is not a thing that exists but existence itself”. Whatever “existence itself” might mean, it exposed the metaphorical nature of all religious language.

More recently a new strategy has emerged and has been adopted by radicals and evangelicals alike. Raimon Panikkar, a Spanish Roman Catholic priest and scholar, put forward the view that the history of the Christian tradition can be divided into three periods. In the first, Christendom, culture, faith, political life and territory coincided. People centred around a single ideological world-view and anyone who disagreed was locked up or burnt.

With European exploration and the discovery of the New World, Africa and India, Christendom gave way to Christianity, an integrated system of beliefs which stood in contrast to “-isms” such as Hinduism, Judaism, Buddhism – words coined by the Christian West. With the wane of imperialistic ambitions and the intellectual challenge to systems of belief, Christianity, argued Panikkar, has come to an end. Christianity has given way to Christianness. Jesus, didn’t have a system of belief and his followers were described in the bible as followers of “The Way” . “To be Christian”, writes Panikkar (in Christianity: Opera Omnia Vol. III.2, A Christophany) “can be understood as the confession of a personal faith that adopts an attitude analogous to that of Christ.” Here’s a chance for the church to return to its roots without entangling itself in the doctrinal squabbles.


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Happy Christmas to readers of Canonfodder and thank you for your comments, “likes” and encouragement and to those who have shared the blogs.

As a retired vicar I miss the Christmas Day services when reunited families with visiting grandparents and children home from college would show off, with some embarrassment new scarves, socks and cuddly animals.

One of my favourite traditional Christmas legends is that of the poinsettia brought back from Southern Mexico by Joel Poinsett, the first US ambassador to that country in the nineteenth century. Poor Pepita is walking with her cousin Pedro to the Christmas Eve service with no gift to present at the crib. Picking some roadside flowers she makes a little bouquet and with some embarrassment lays them before the nativity scene in the village church. “The most humble of gifts given in love are acceptable” Pedro had said and suddenly the weeds are transformed into blooms of brilliant red.

The message is simple and needs no explanation; may love transform your Christmas.


In hundreds of Christmas Nativity plays across the land innkeepers and innkeepers’ wives are turning away a dejected holy family with the familiar words “No room at the inn”.

Many of my readers will know as well as I do that in the gospels, in fact no such inhospitable publican exists. In the tale of the Good Samaritan in Luke’s Gospel, there is an inn and an innkeeper but when he tells the Christmas story he doesn’t use that word for inn. The word he uses means more simply room, guest room or place.

Mary and Joseph travel to their family home for the census and stay with relatives. As they are betrothed they are given the guest room – most houses had one. However when the baby is due, there isn’t enough space in the guest room for all the midwives and women to help with the birth, so they would have been moved into the larger downstairs family room. As in most dwellings at the time, this would be where the animals and the manger were kept.

All this, by the way, is not a modern discovery; it was known at the time of the Spanish Inquisition when one hapless Francisco Sánchez de las Brozas was brought before the Inquisitors for teaching it to his students!

Every year some newspaper columnist would tell us that the real Christmas story isn’t like it is in the nativity plays, and every year a well-meaning parishioner would draw my attention to such an article with indignation; do journalists think Christians to be naive and deluded? Do they think we don’t take our biblical studies seriously?

The reality is – in religious terms it’s all of little consequence.

We don’t live and die by the historical accuracy of the Christmas story but by the truths about human life written into it and by the spirit it imbues into our lives. Unless the telling of the Christmas story, the singing of the carols and the coming out in the dead of night for a midnight mass make some difference to our understanding of who we are, it counts for nothing.

If there is one thing that the Christmas story teaches us it’s that the things of God – love, life, happiness – come to us like tiny babies that have to be swaddled and cherished, nurtured and disciplined. Such is the way we should cherish every little bit of love and life and happiness that comes our way.