Category: Book Reviews

Reviews of randomly assorted books.

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I have just finished an excellent book. Robert Withycombe’s biography of Henry Montgomery, father of the famous WWII “Montgomery of Alamein” but here Montgomery of Tasmania – the fourth Bishop of Tasmania 1899-1901. The episcopacy of Montgomery has become a talking point for Tasmania’s eleventh and current Bishop and I was blessed with a pre-release copy to review.

The book itself is well-written. A decent biography is a history which is not hagiography. It will outline issues and impacts and provide connectedness to the world of the time. Yet it should also be a decent narrative, a character study, an insight that grips and engages. While admitting that as a Tasmanian cleric I have a natural affinity with the subject matter, I conclude that Withycombe has achieved this. A broad audience would find this book not just informative but enjoyable.

And like any good biography, it is not the author I am impacted by, but the subjects – Henry and Maud Montgomery.

I felt a certain yet imprecise resonance with the character of Montgomery throughout. Towards the end I encountered a specific connecting point. It was in the context of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG), that great Anglican organisation that had provided the resources for many colonial churches such as Tasmania. SPG was about to experience it’s bicentennial in Montgomery’s time and we see a telling quote born of a frustration that rests on both affection and respect: “What are you to do… for a Mother who seems to have become dull and heavy?” (Page 252)

Montgomery was a man empassioned by the mission of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Into a pre-WWI world of colonial fervour he contextualised and embodied this gospel meaningfully and zealously. I look back on that era a century ago and I can see the fruit of his and so many other’s labours. So many of our buildings and organisations were in foment in that pioneering era. It is cause for great affection and respect.

But just as Montgomery looked at SPG and asked about a “dull and heavy” mother a stultified century on from her heyday, I feel to utter the same sentiments looking at the church of Montgomery. The passion of his era is now “dull and heavy,” diluted by generational changes that in the midst of a pain-filled 20th century took the forms but not the heart. And I wonder if Montgomery were here today whether he would look to the Anglican Church of his era and long for it to “burst its grave clothes” (Page 252) and find it’s passion and heart once more.

In this book we are given an insight into that passion and heart. To read about a Bishop demonstrating a real and living gospel, holding a roadside confirmation while walking near where I would spend my own childhood ninety years later stirs the soul (Page 88). To glimpse within the eloquence that which expounds “his belief that the Anglican Church’s primary vocation was to be a missionary agent” (Page 20) is to touch an eternal heartbeat. Even his frustrations – e.g. at the “archaic home practices” of “the old country with its grooves made by 1,400 years of settled life” (Page 28) and the attitudes of others who “have no ideas beyond those of an Evangelical clergyman in a suburban parish” (Page 104) – have a degree of inspiration. There is something to aspire to in the eulogising words of a “Mercury editorial on the day before he departed… ‘He has met the swagman on the road, and has talked to him, not as the Bishop of Tasmania, kindly condescending to notice an inferior, but as one man speaking to another, with the same earth to live on, and with the same God above them.'” (Pages 266-267)

And this is before you get to the more personal insights that Withycombe records in chapters focussed on Montgomery’s wife, Maud. Here we see a young wife, matching her husband in strength and passion, persisting through bereavement, and social complexities. We see them as mother and father finding a freedom in Tasmania to learn (some small aspect of) the preciousness of parenting. They live out that foundation of effective missionary zeal – “to go out, and stay out.”

It is these intangibles – passion, a missional understanding of ministry and episcopacy, an entrenched understanding that the church was “never merely to gather an nurture expatriate members of the Church of England” (Page 20) – that can be integrated into a current vibrant, relevant, fruitful vision for the Anglican Church.

It is the tangible legacy that is the difficulty. The rhetoric of the age was imperialism – which no longer applies. The framework was institutionalism – which no longer works. The mode was ritualism and militarianism – which no longer has a voice. These things produced buildings and organisations – but does their heart still beat?

It may be interesting to see how some of the quirks of Australian Anglicanism – such as the manner of choosing the holder of primatial office – came about. And it is worthwhile pondering some of the ecclesiastical principles that were debated at a constitutional time. But these are not the fundamental things of growing the kingdom.

Yet the hope remains that the intangibles can be grasped – that it not be, for instance, the existence of a St. David’s Cathedral that remains Montgomery’s legacy, but the focus on a “diocesan mission, unity and identity” (Page 27) which was his vision for one. Whenever we study our forerunners we have cause to grip more tightly to those things that are eternal and to loosen our grip on those things that so evidently will fade as grass.

That is the case of this excellent book. It is good to find a forerunner so close to home.

Montgomery of Tasmania is published by Acorn Press.

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I had heard of Nick Spencer’s Parochial Vision because it has come up as an input into the strategic plan for the Diocese of Tasmania. One of the aspects of the plan is the exploration of a so-called “Hub” model and other ways of reenvisioning Anglican structures for doing ministry in this state. The plan has drawn support from Spencer’s key purpose of reappropriating the historic “minster” model.

“This book is a contribution… It looks at the parish system that has dominated the English landscape for a thousand years and proposes a new approach base on the system out of which parish churches grew.” (Pages xii-xiii)

There is a deep exploration to this purpose. Unlike other books I have read recently Spencer gives a thoroughly enjoyable and graspable insight into English church history. This made the book an excellent take-with-me-on-planes-and-trains book for my travels last week.

The first two chapters give an excellent overview of the rise of the parish model – essentially a model for ministry shaped around dividing a region into smaller and smaller heavily demarcated areas in which an individual minister has the so-called cure of souls.

In this overview Spencer has a rhetorical intent and he presents some of the perhaps-less-than-honourable reasons for the genesis of the parish model with its benefices and rights of tithe etc. He makes comparison with methodist and non-conformist post-reformation models and so demonstrate the inherent flaws in the parish model. This leads into the consideration of the industrial and post-industrial eras in the second chapter that leaves us seeing the cracks in the edifice held together only by the fact of the English church’s establishment.

“At the turn of the twenty-first, the Church matters less in people’s lives than it has done at any time over the past 1,000years. Most people neither know nor care which parish they are resident in… For 500 years, the parish had been a natural community in rural areas. It may have originally been a secular unit, it may have evolved in the most ad hoc manner, there may have been a multitude of stresses and strains that twisted and tweaked the structures here and there, but the power of authority kept it in place…

“The deep roots that have kept the parish structure alive for so much longer than might have been predicted a century ago are also the reason why, ultimately, it cannot survive.” (Pages 56-58)

Spencer suggests the minster model as a solution. In pre-modern pre-Parish times, within the celtic foundations of the English Church, these were “communal churches” (Page 69). Not yet a nation of Roman-esque Christendom, England had not been fully converted, and not able or ready to be split into small ecclesiastical and bureaucratic “parish” regions. Rather, minster churches – large churches with relatively larger regional affiliations (parochiae) – acted as “missionary churches, whose task was to educate the people in the faith just as much as it was to pastor to them or administer the sacraments.” (Page 73)

“Anglo-Saxon minsters became centres for missionary activity from which small groups ventured out into the nominally Christian but often culturally pagan territory which surrounded them, and preached and ministered from bases established within local settlements, such as stone crosses in villages… at which local devotions would be performed.” (Page 74)

The parallels with a post-Christian western world are clear (see Page 95) and Spencer suggests a number of related reasons for a “return to minster churches” (Page 83) including social, ecclesiastical and historical aspects.

He speaks of the benefit of “collegiality” (Page 107) in having larger team-ministered regions rather than many single-minister parishes. He promotes a synergistic balance between having local ministries supported by the resources of a larger unit able to bring training and encouragement and providing other aspects of large-scale spectacle and collaboration. He recognises the outcome of the myriad reports and experiments over the years and sees minsters as their end. One thing he draws out from, for instance, is a consideration of a cooperative arrangement of small groups, team-lead local public congregations, and a larger “local church government” level (Page 138). He even begins, in the last chapter, to tentatively suggest some practical ways in which minster model regions may be begun.

I am a supporter of our diocese’s strategic plan. My region, in North-West Tasmania is strongly in need of, and ideally placed for, a reimagining of itself as something akin to the minster model. We are not the same as the Church of England, but many of the problems – particularly with regard to nominalism and inefficient parochial insularities – are replicated here. It would work: a cooperative structure that embraces brother collegiality and individuality – common and particular expressions of a general mission – where congregations (some currently existing as parishes) can walk together, doing the good things of old and exciting new things as well.

Sometimes I disagree with the detail of what Spencer suggests as a way forward – nitpicks about the meaning of membership, the focus of financial arrangements etc. – but these are all peripheral to Spencer’s main purpose. The parish structure now hinders the church from being the church. A minster/hub/network model looks better.

Time to make it happen.

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Once more satisfying my recent desire to delve into some church history this book by James A. Connor, Pascal’s Wager: The Man Who Played Dice with God, caught my eye because a) Pascal is one of those people that I know of but know little about and b) as a software engineer in a former life there is some inherent geekiness to the word “Pascal.”

Connor writes a very helpful biography. Providing a timeline upfront he interleaves narrative about Pascal’s life with necessary contextual expositions about issues such as the state of French politics (this is the era of Cardinal Richelieu and the Three Musketeers – the latter, sadly, not being mentioned) and intellectual and scientific progress (this is the era of Descartes and Fermat). It makes for a very informative and easily accessible read. It’s one of the better attempts at biography that I have read.

Pascal’s intellectual and other contributions are well described and discussed. We read about his invention of the Pascaline calculating machine, his work with conic sections, his “proving” of the existence of the vacuum, and his delving into the means and method of calculating probabilities. However, the tension that Connor draws out foremost in the book is the Pascal’s spiritual deliberations.

This tension revolves around the issue of Jansenism of which Pascal was a follower. Connor paints Jansenism as an extreme counter-reformation wing of the Catholic church with almost Calvinist like propensities towards concepts of predestination and election. Connor’s theological analysis is more than adequate and he helpfully draws the lines from Jansenism back to Augustine and demonstrates the consequent antagonism with the Jesuits.

This is where Connor inserts his own opinion into the story. This book is certainly no starry-eyed hagiography of Pascal for Connor disagrees with the “Augustinian” position explicitly and sees it as antagonistic to the modern enlightenment that was fomenting in Pascal.

“…the Jesuits opposed Augustine’s limitations on human freedom. And their liberality, I would argue, was the wellspring from which the modern idea of liberty fowed.” (page 57)

The entire last chapter is less biography than philosophical treatise on the spirituality of gambling, drawing upon Pascal’s famous “wager” that it is reasonable to “bet” on the existence of God as the comparison of odds to reward demanded it. Augustine theology rests on the understanding of original sin and the total need for grace. Connor insists that probability theory shows that anything can happen when the numbers are big enough, concluding:

“If you have big enough numbers, you don’t need God, and that is the heart of it… It seems finally to come down to choice, perhaps even to the Two Standards: people who believe in God do so because they want to; people who don’t believe don’t because they want to. Almost makes on think of efficacious grace.” (Page 213)

And so while Pascal himself, although sometimes uneasily practiced, is able to intertwine spirituality and intellect, Connor himself is unable to. Pascal’s famous “night of fire” was an encounter with truth beyond reason:

“He began to question the power of reason itself; while never really doubting its capacity to reveal truth, he decided that the capacity was limited to lesser truths and could not supplant the truths of revelation. Piety was no longer an empty practice, and reason was no longer a royal road to truth.” (page 150)

Connor isn’t dismissive of the spiritual (“Mystical experiences are what they are”, page 141) but he doesn’t seem all that comfortable with them. I think he admires Pascal for his contribution to the modern world. I think I admire Pascal for his complexities, his wrestling with experience and reason, his failings, his fervour, his passion, his tragedy.

But I can only enter into that admiration having read a book like this. I’m sure there are plenty of other commentators of Pascal. I enjoyed this one.

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Having interacted with him indirectly through other books I have read, and because he is the keynote at a conference I am going to in October, I thought it was about time I read some Brian McLaren. Apparently A Generous Orthodoxy is as close as definitive of him as it gets.

I think that many reviewers of McClaren have not been able to get past the form and style of his writing. He has a strange style of provocation mixed with self-effacement.

I must admit that the style bugs me at times. The buzzword compliance is one of these annoynaces – I need a non-inline quote to fit the subtitle for instance:

“Why I am missional + evangelical + post/protestant + liberal/conservative + mystical/poetic + biblical + charismatic/contemplative + fundamentalist/calvinist + anabaptist/anglican + methodist + catholic + green + incarnational + depressed-yet-hopeful + emergent + unfinished CHRISTIAN.”

And the self-effacement always reduces the weight of his argument. For instance, after quite a resonable chapter against dead religion entitled “Would Jesus be a Christian?” he writes

“Now I’ve gone and depressed myself. I’m wondering what right we – and especially I – have to even talk about a generous orthodoxy. I feel completely lost and stupid and pathetic. Lord, have mercy.”

All it does is undermine a chapter that does have some prophetic value. The self-effacement, ironically, has the effect of increasing the readers focus on him – as does his annoying use of footnotes to insert parenthetical self-reflections.

And so many commentators argue his style. The provocative words lead to arguments about semantics. The self-effacement leads to ad hominem. But is what he says actually that bad?

Broadly, my answer is “no.” It isn’t that bad. He is not theological precise, or indeed accurate at times. I believe he is on the right side of the line. Jesus is his saviour, I have no doubt. It is not helpful or valid to come at him, as some have, with the “Brian Mclaren is not really a Christian and is just a promoter of liberal fluff” line.

If you’re looking for an exposition of theological precision or accuracy, you won’t find it (despite the word “orthodoxy” being in the title). What you will find is a healthy challenge to face your own doctrine and beliefs and practices. I’m thinking about the sort of lecturer on evangelism who gets up at the front of class and poses the question “Why on earth would you believe in Jesus?” He is not suggesting that believing in Jesus is stupid or wrong, but he wants you to think about it, confront it in yourself, and articulate your reasons.

McLaren’s approach is what he calls “postcritical” – “a way to embrace the good in many traditions and historic streams of Christian faith, and to integrate them, yielding a new, generous, emergent approach that is greater than the sum of its parts” (Page 22). This is at the heart of the word “generous” in the title. It is not necessarily a bad approach – there has always been that form of adage such as “Preach like a Presbyterian, pray like a Pentecostal, serve like a Catholic, etc.” McLaren ends up summarising his own equivalent of this in a table on pages 72 and 73.

The problem with this approach is that it’s very hard to cherry-pick the bits you like from various traditions and still manage to obtain the true heart of that tradition. The so-called synergy can so often come across as being oxymoronic – like a “feminist pluralist” you can’t be 100% both. This is the key issue – even if the building blocks are not of himself, but gained from a myriad of traditions – the eventual arrangement of them is the shape of… Brian McLaren. It’s at the problem of virtually all post-x dialogue. If you haven’t got something absolute to proclaim you end up proclaiming yourself.

But I still find the content broadly acceptable. Because the Brian McLaren that Brian McLaren preaches isn’t all bad.

I like how he keeps a strong tie between orthodoxy and orthopraxy. Hard unemotional, unmoveable, objective academic abstract study of the things of Jesus has always bugged me as futile at best, pride-filled at worst.

I like his chapter on being poetic! It is this encountering of the not-just-purely-rational that puts life into theology. It is where I find the most value in interacting with postmodernity. The quotes from Brueggemann around page 162 are good ones (“Poetic speech is the only proclamation, I submit, that is worthy of the name preaching”).

There are times when he goes to places that are touchstones of liberalism and manages to walk away reasonably intact.

“Although I believe in Jesus as my personal savior, I am not a Christian for that reason. I am a Christian because I believe that Jesus is the Savior of the whole world.“

The reason he gets away with this, in my view, is because he couches such words missiologically. Salvation is personal for sure, but it is towards something that is eschatologically broader than one person – it is towards “Go, baptising”, towards “your kingdom come your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” It is towards right-living, and doing, and speaking – it is towards mission. Good works are not simply personal assurances of personal salvation, they are the things to which we have been saved to and for. There is strength in this that cuts down the secular-sacred divide.

The word “missional” is ugly and an empty vessel into which meaning is squeezed from every quarter. McLaren fills it with that concept engaged with by the worn-out expression. “The church of God does not have a misson in the world, the God of Mission has a church in the world.” It’s reflected in his mission statement, which I like. It is very similar to that of Connections:

“To be and make disciples of Jesus Christ in authentic community for the good of the world.”(Page 117).

He doesn’t always apply this “missional” framework properly however. For instance, when interacting with the universalist/exclusivist dichotomy he tries to cut across the gap between the two by appealing to mission – “my mission isn’t to figure out who is already blessed, or not blessed, or unblessable. My calling is to be blessed so I can bless everyone.” (Page 124). In other words he is trying to say “Missionally speaking, universalism/exclusivism is redundant.” I would argue that a missional regard of universalism/exclusivism may not change that I bless – it certainly changes how I bless and how I see myself as blessed.

I had the most difficulty with his views on Scripture in chapter 10. Even though he begins well by applying missionality by engaging with the purpose of Scripture from 2 Tim 3:16-17. And even though I don’t mind the framework of considering the Bible as narrative – after all Goldsworthy and biblical theologians have done that. And even though I will not even baulk at comments that the Bible is a “timely document” not a “timeless one” – after all that’s what historico-critical exegesis is all about. There is something of the lefty liberal squeamishness about things he doesnt’ like.

His main example in the section on the Bible is about what to do with the genocides committed by the Hebrews in the light of the apparently more pacifistic teachings of Jesus. His argument bottles down to “we know better now, the revelation has deepened, it was description not prescription.” This means, however, he is not even being true to the narrative which includes themes of judgement and divine wrath – a topic he rarely if ever touches on throughout the book.

Sometimes his buzzwords are almost lip service. The best he can say about the Reformed tradition is that it is the “highest expression of Christianity” in terms of it’s “intellectual rigour” (page 210) He attempts to redefine the well-known TULIP acrostic missionally but fails to see the missional aspects of the original. His own version is shallower – Total depravity is replaced with Triune love showing, once again, his squeamishness about sin and judgement and ignoring the myriad of ways in which concepts of Original Sin can and should find expression missionally.

His take on Anglicanism, unsurprisingly, is an embrace of via media. He advances the “practice of dynamic tension” and the “practice of compromise” (pages 234-235). I can now see why he was invited to Lambeth! In many ways I wish the revisionists within Anglicanism would take it to heart. The footnote on page 235 describes something of the present circumstance

“Rather than living with the difficult dynamic tension among Scripture, reason, tradition, or experience, various factions have chosen at times to abandon one or two or three of the four, or have indulged in old-fashioned power politics to get beyond both/and to either/or.”

Of course, this doesn’t mean Anglicanism is always helpful. I would argue that Lambeth 1.10 is an expression of both/and and that the revisionists have by and large “abandoned” the Scripture pillar. I’m sure there are many who would disagree.

And I could go on. Each step of the way McLaren leans over the edge to see what can be seen. Occasionally he points out what others have failed to notice. Sometimes he leans too far or describes what he can see poorly.

But I will be generous with him. He is an enquirer, he is broad, but it seems his centre is Jesus. I will not deny him that.

My concern, however, is for those who come after him and who follow him now. Those who aren’t standing on Jesus but standing on McLaren – who rest not in the gospel being explored but in the exploration itself. In fact we are catching glimpses of this becoming explicit – that the journey and the gospel are the same thing. McLaren would do well to distance himself from that at some point.

The self-effacement ends up being a disservice. He wants us to explore and discover for ourselves. He will not be so bold or as arrogant as to point the way. It’s like someone who finds a treasure in a field, he goes and sells all he has and buys the field. And when he shares the story with his friends, they end up going out in his foot steps, and they all buy fields even if there is no treasure.

I was challenged by this book. Maybe I’ll get to talk to him at this conference. I’d like that.

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How can you go past a book by someone called Bruxy Cavey? I recently read his The End of Religion.

It is a book in the same vein as Dave Andrews’ Christi-Anarchy but with less vindictive and perhaps a tad more towards the evangelical-as-we-know-it end of the spectrum.

Cavey’s basic premise is that the mission of Jesus was not to begin a religion but to bring about the end of religion – to undo the world of human institutions and rituals mediating relationship with God and to inaugurate a time of restoration through grace alone. It is a simple premise, and he does get a little bit repetitive in the many short-sharp chapters that attack the issue from a myriad of angles. Generally speaking I find myself sympathising with his view.

I certainly have some appreciation for his description of most people’s perspective on religion:

“Our world is full of people on a quest for ultimate reality… Often they reject religion for one simple reason: They have had firsthand experience with it.” (Page 11)

“Religion can be tiring – a treadmill of legislated performance powered by guilt and fear.” (Page 13)

“Because she was not raised in a Christian home… my wife has the advantage of seeing Christian culture… with a higher degree of objectivity. Often, when I’m listening to a televangelist or radio preacher… Nina asks, “Why is he so angry?”… She tells me to listen to the tone of his voice… “What would you say if a professor was giving a lecture on biology with that tone of voice? Or if a commercial was describing the merits of a product? Or, even bettter, what would you say if a friend was talking about his or her new love interest this way?”… When I listen this way, a light goes on. Many Christian leaders and teachers seem to have an undercurrent of anger.” (Page 65)

This critique of religion (including an historical “Chamber of Horrors” chapter that is basically a more objective consideration as the same thing as Andrews’ “Why?-Wham” introduction) is the fuel of the first part of the book. From the crusades to the inquisition to empty religion of the present day the negative side of religion is clearly presented.

Against this Cavey brings the second part of the book – an examination of the life and teaching of Jesus. Drawing heavily from the Gospels and the arguments of respected exegetes such as Capon he expounds Jesus’ ministry. For instance, in considering the Last Supper (now one of the most traditionalised religious practices in Christendom) he writes (emphasis mine):

“Through the newly invigorated symbolism of the Last Supper, Jesus shows his disciples what would replace the blood of the sacrificial system – Jesus ‘ own blood. Jesus had condemned the temple system and now he offers himself as the replacement, the final sacrifice that would make all other sacrifices trivial. Jesus claims to have successfully replaced religion with himself.” (Page 146)

The fundamental point is simple gospel: “We don’t need religion as our way to God because God has come to us.” (Page 165). And his consideration is more than adequate.

It is in the implications of all this (covered in the third and last part of the book) that I find that most people on an “anti-religion” kerygmatic wave tend to come unstuck. The eventual application all too readily becomes a pseudo-hippy lets-get-rid-of-institution-and-just-love-one-another-man. And while the name “Bruxy” fits that style his substance is much more mature.

For instance he does not advocate simply the replacing of religion with a “tiring” generic spirituality that “lacks a focal point” (Page 13) – he is about replacing religion with Jesus. The rhetoric is typical – embracing a spirituality of a “centre” rather than patrolling a “perimeter’ (Page 212) and occasionally walking close to the edge of having a weakened view of Scripture (“Bible knowledge is just the first step toward the goal of following Jesus.” Page 182). But Bruxy is far from being a universalist who’s sole task in life is to “find the Jesus in everyone.” His evangelical credentials are evident throughout the book and made explicit in the final chapter (unfortunately an Appendix) which gives a solid overview of the gospel and salvation in Christ alone.

Moreover, he is also not on some sort of quest to see the end of all organisation. He writes “The problem with organised religion is not that it’s organised but that it is religious.” (Page 223). And I admire a spirituality that leads to this:

“Because I am a pastor of a church that seems healthy and vibrant, occasionally someone asks me about the question of sustainability: ‘What are the leaders of The Meeting House doing to ensure that the organization endures in good form for the next generation?’ Although there are some specific things I could mention in response, my answer always begins with this question: What makes you think we think The Meeting House needs to endure? Organizational expression of faith and spirituality can come and go… Knowing that no organization is indispensable to God, I can celebrate the present health of The Meeting House and elight in how God is using this organization for now without worrying about the future. This is joyfully freeing, and deeply restful.” (Page 222)

The weakness of this is that it is an overly-utilitarian ecclesiology. Cavey is right in that, in the end, organisations are the means not the end. But the visible church is meant to reflect the invisible church – and brevity of life can sometimes undermine that reflection. The true church transcends history and geography and so there is testimony in an institution being able to do that as well. It is not wrong to strive for spiritual health in our institutions – but truly for the sake of God’s glory, not the glory of the machine.

There are other niggles in the book with overstatements and implications left hanging in a number of places. It is not rocket science. It is prophetic and a speaking of truth but with no real clear step of “how do I put this into practice in my church?” But it remains thought-provoking and for those of us who are part of ecclesiastical machines, a healthy challenge of the sort we should consider frequently.

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I was lent this book by a friend who urged me to read it. I took it on holiday with me and read it over a couple of nights in a Canberra caravan park. It is a well-written (with ghost-writer help) autobiography of Carolyn Jessop, a young woman who was once a member of the polygamous cult, “Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints.” It details her life growing up in the FLDS, her marriage at eighteen as the fourth wife of a fifty-year old man, and ultimately her escape from the community and the struggle for the custody of her eight children.

It is a gripping book, well crafted to keep the suspense going. It’s a don’t-want-to-put-this down story. My reaction was emotional – angry, sad, wistful etc.

The subject matter is, of course, disturbing. The accounts of spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, and sexual abuse while not graphic are described rather than alluded to. What comes through is this young woman’s intelligence and tenacity. In the end, as she finds herself becoming free of the religious mindset that would keep her subservient we see her make use of her in-built ability to assess people and situations, to manipulate to survive, to balance the covert and the overt, until she is able to not just rescue herself but also her children, one of whom was seriously ill.

The books’ blurb describes the situation:

“Carolyn’s every move was dictated by her huband’s whims. He decided where she lived and how her children would be treated. He controlled the money she earned as a schoolteacher. He chose when they had sex; Carolyn could only refuse – at her peril… No woman in the country had ever escaped from the FLDS and managed to get her children out too. But in 2003, Carolyn chose freedom over fear and fled her home with her eight children. She had $20 to her name… in 2006 her reports to the Utah attorney general on church abuses formed a crucial part of the case that led to the arrest of its notorious leader, Warren Jeffs.”

My gut reaction was “I want this woman to know Jesus, to know the love of God, the Truth that sets free rather than the Lie that so crushes and spoils.” Despite the inevitable sensationalism that comes with a book that is mass-marketed we can tell that Carolyn Jessop is obviously a victim who has learned to fight a fight which she won. I pray for peace for her and her children.

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This book, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, was one of my holiday readings. It was nice to read something light and “novelly” for a change, although this was not an idle pick-up-from-the-newsagent read. I was reading it for a reason.

The main (first-person) character in the book, Christopher, has high-functioning autism. It is the insight into this character that is the heart and soul of this book. The plot and everything else serves this end of helping us get inside the autistic mind.

It is this aspect that intrigued me because our son, Samuel, has recently been diagnosed with very mild form of Aspergers Syndrome. Samuel is perfectly able to operate in normal social situations such as school and is a “normal” kid who occasionally needs help as he processes emotions and social situations. The Christopher character has a severe form which completely incapacitates his social and emotional ability. These extremes of Christopher help give insight into the subtleties of others.

The book is written as Christopher’s diary, written, we are told by Christopher, at the urging of one of his teachers at the special school he attends to help him deal with and process the fact that a neighbours dog has been killed. Christopher decides to follow his hero Sherlock Holmes (the title is a Conan Doyle quote) in being a detective to discover why Wellington (the dog) was killed.

In the process he stumbles across truths about his family life that causes him to do the unthinkable and venture out alone on a journey to find a loved one. It is here that Haddon’s skill of getting us into Christopher’s head comes to the fore. Here he describes the situation in a train station:

“And then I was at the bottom of the escalators and I had to jump off and I tripped and bumped into someone and they said ‘Easy,’ and there were two ways to go and one said Northbound and I went that way because Willesden was on the top half of the map and the top is always north on maps.

And then I was in another train station but it was tiny and it was in a tunnel and there was only one track and the walls were curved and they were covered in big adverts and they said WAY OUT and London’s Transport Museum and Take time out to regret your career choice and JAMAICA and British Rail and No Smoking and Be Moved and Be Moved and Be Moved and For Stations beyond Queen’s Park take the first train and change Queen’s Park if necessary and Hammersmith and City Line and You’re closer than my family every gets. And there were lots of people standing in the little station and it was underground so there weren’t any windows and I didn’t like that, so I found a seat which was a bench and I sat at the end of the bench…

And then there was a sound like people fighting with swords and I could feel a strong wind and roaring started and I closed my eyes and roaring got louder and I groaned really loudly but I couldn’t block it out of my ears and I thought the little station was going to collapse or there was a big fire somewhere and I was going to die. And then the roaring turned into a clattering and a squealing and it got slowly quieter and then it stopped and I kept my eyes closed because I felt safer not seeing what was happening…” (Pages 215-216)

Haddon uses devices such as Christopher’s interest with mathematics (the chapters are the sequence of prime numbers) and maps and algorithms. He demonstrates how the completely non-intuitive Christopher interacts with a world that demands intuition. The ending of the book, with an appendix that is Christopher’s full answer of a mathematical proof from his highly-valued A-Level exam, is cause for a wistful smile at a way of saying goodbye to the character to which you have been so closely attached for the whole story.

There is genius in how this book is written. That alone makes it worth the read.

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I picked up Michelle P. Brown’s How Christianity Came to Britain and Ireland while browsing at Koorong in my recent mood of getting back into some church history. I won’t tell a lie – I bought it because it was cheap and had a bunch of pretty pictures and reminded me of one of my all-time favourite TV shows, Time Team.

Despite the pretty pictures I found it to be quite a dry exploration of British ecclesiastical history that presumed a lot of prior knowledge. Consequently it was hard to tie the detail into any broader narrative – to gain an overall picture of the history. Simple devices such as timelines or maps would have helped this problem and it is an indictment that they are not included. It as if this book was produced with the coffee-table in mind, under the assumption that no-one was actually going to read it, just browse it and look at the pictures.

Having said that, there were the odd gem to pluck out and savour. For instance, our diocese is currently considering the “minster” model or “hub” model as a framework for arranging ministry in this state. Often this is explained by talking about it’s structure (central resourcing church, outlying ministry centres etc.) and so I was heartened to see the primary description of an “Anglo-Saxon Minster” as a “missionary church to the locality” (Page 32). That’s something to pick up for my own context.

I appreciated the exploration of the so-called “dark-ages” of the post-Roman, pre-Norman (or at least pre-Augustine-of-Canterbury) era which are shown to be not so dark at all. The life of Gildas (Page 55) is an example. The influence of the Celtic church is considered in detail throughout.

I delighted in how the Celtic understanding of episcopal ministry was presented – primarily apostolic and missional. I was also intrigued in the organisation of the celtic church not so much through geography but through networks or parochia of relationships between monasteries. There are many parallels here for today’s context. I suspect there are many lessons to learn but I was not able to through this book.

In the end I was left wanting more. Having tasted this stale bread (involuntarily overdosing on an over-abundance of expositions of illuminations and the legacy of manuscripts and the like) I now need to find a decent presentation of the story of that time so that I can learn the lessons for now.

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Peter McHugh was a speaker at a conference I attended a few weeks ago at Careforce Church in Mt. Evelyn, Vic. Speaking to an audience with a high number of church leaders he tackled the issue of resisting the performance bias of today’s culture.

The topic scratched an itch for me. I have had my fill of leadership programs that over-emphasise KPI’s and precise vision statements above the more spiritual (and therefore substantial) aspects of leadership. But that’s not what I heard from this pastor of a successful pentecostal church (CCC Whitehorse). I was impressed with how he spoke of his own journey in leadership and his conclusion that brought his spirituality back to our identity in God.

So I bought his book, A Voyage of Mercy, which is largely autobiographical. Having noted that by any human and ecclesiastical measure, he “began so well” his ministry, he portrays a crisis he faced with respect to his ministry performance that caused him to re-evaluate his faith and his calling.

“I did not see God’s power and presence in my congregation and I was not aware of these things being an ongoing reality for other church leaders and their congregations. I was no longer prepared to bring my theology to the level that justified my experience… I wanted to live out a faith that was incarnate in me, no longer living as someone educated way beyond my level of obedience. I longed for a greater awareness of, and appreciation for, the freedom and transformation that were won for me on the Cross.” (Pages 38-39)

And so he invites us:

“Let’s go on a journey together. We’ll explore the impact of our response to a performance based culture. We’ll look at how this response can produce and feed fear and insecurity in us. We will then examine how this affects the way we live our Christian lives.” (Page 37)

And let’s us know where we are going:

“I have found that the answer to the fear and insecurity I am describing, with its attendant works based, or achivement theology, is found in experiencing the complete acceptance of God.” (Page 41)

The journey touches on issues of family-of-origin (“hard work avoided bad grades and brought affirmation I was seeking” – Page 48) and the presence of an insidious gospel of “justification by works” in church culture. He unpacks the resultant performance mentality and characterises it with a gospel of acceptance:

“Internally a conflict can exist between the importance of God and His place in our lives and a desire for more, bigger, better and breakthrough to meet the unquenchable thirst for significance. Pick me. Notice me. Listen to me. Spend time with me. Include me…
“…performance is concerned with… having to deliver… competition… striving… ideas of God rewarding and punishing… wrestling with shame and guilt because failure is my responsibility…
“…acceptance is concerned with… God is love… being adopted… our inheritance… rest… the pursuit of who He is, who we are in Him and our response to what He has done and is doing.” (Pages 62-63)

I find some personal resonance here (An “unquenchable thirst for significance.” Ouch.)

The journey concludes by showing how this gospel of acceptance impacts “our view of God.” For example, it is refreshing to see someone apply the concept of intimacy with God to leadership!

“To be intimate with God is to place our total confidence and trust in someone we can’t control but who is good and kind. It is being in love with God not just the idea of God. It is like learning to float where we have to let go of the side of the boat. We have to stop standing on the bottom, stop trying to tread water, and stop lifting our head to see where we are going. The performance based mind-set in our inner secret kingdom cannot do this.” (Page 93)

Most of the remainder of the book is taken up with his own personal testimony. This is a little less helpful as we are required to exegete the author as well as consider the principles. There are points of resonance (“Numbers make a difference in the way we are accepted, honoured and treated” – Page 114) and snippets of wisdom despite it becoming a little self-serving and cathartic. Chapter 7 which contains the journal of his time through his crisis and escape from a performance mindset is too long.

The book ends prophetically, challenging church culture to not simply ape the performance bias of the surrounding society. He poses questions such as “What if… church culture is addictive and co-dependent?” and applies some of the principles alluded to. These are some challenges worthy of consideration.

I am glad I read this book. It is refreshingly different to the sort of literary fare that is often put forward in leadership circles. It scratches some of my own frustrations.

There are some niggles with the book along the way. He handles Luther’s view of “justificaton by faith” in a sloppy way, for instance (page 52). And the book is too personal which reduces it’s impact, allows the prophetic punch to be pulled, and gives those who need to hear it an “out” by considering it simply to be “Peter’s story.”

The main frustration I had with the book, however, was a personal gripe. As I was reading it I couldn’t help thinking “It’ s easy for him to say – he already is successful.” His previous performance has given him a place of influence as he heads up a large church – an influence that means that when he writes a book, people will read it, and he will be invited to speak at conferences. Where is the assistance for the up-and-coming pastor, the young gun just off the starting line who has only a small voice and upon whom every expectation of performance is loaded? The principles are not invalid – that young pastor also needs to learn to rest first in the gospel. But this book is post-crisis catharsis, not a pre-crisis encouragement.

I came across a snippet in a Peter Jensen sermon once that said this:

Only through the death of Jesus Christ on the cross can there be forgiveness and redemption; only by abandoning all attempts, even religious attempts to win God’s approval, can I gain access to him. Then I cast myself upon him for his mercy and forgiveness. Here is an experience, the experience of confidence in the presence of God, not based on anything good in us, but entirely on what is good in him and what his has done for us through Jesus.

At the time that small word moved me to tears and encouraged me immensely. I’m glad Peter McHugh has encountered the same truth and is seeking to lead others to it.

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My family and I are just about to go away on holiday. I’m going to not be blogging (or rss feed reading) for a month!

But… I will be reading books and writing reviews (which I find useful for myself and my own thoughts) and publishing them later.

And… I will be visiting Ridley College bookshop at the beginning of the holidays.

So… Anybody got any recommendations for books that I can read while I’m away?

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