Accessibility and authenticity

Economy is a beautiful thing. When strands weave together effectively in achieving a common purpose, it is so pleasing. There is great wastefulness in the way the religious folk of the world have viewed each other's faiths as being in competition — to be defeated in a perpetual war. Wiser to practice faith economy and use every glimpse into wisdom and holiness we have. The Muslim can learn so much from the Jew, Shinto has so much to teach the Sufi — they are mutually enriching, they speak of divine being, they are all clear shining stars in the frosty night sky, one does not diminish another by being there.

Taoism is probably the religion/philosophy that has most enriched my own faith practice as a Christian. The Taoist way has a lot of vocabulary and perspective in common with the way of Jesus. In particular it has spoken to me of simplicity, humility and littleness as a source of spiritual wisdom and strength.

During the years I was a Methodist presbyter, much of my practice was informed by Taoist wisdom. That was in the days before the internet with its relentless self-exposure and self-promotion had gathered strength, but not before self-marketing and self-advertisement had received the stamp of social approval, travelling to England from America (I think).

So during the years I was a pastor the talk was all of how to attract people, how to increase footfall and build up church numbers and — the holy grail — how to entice men into our congregations. We had enough women, thank you very much. Men were all the thing.

Out of tune with the times, I was more interested in aspects of accessibility and authenticity than in advertisement and attraction. When I prepared couples for marriage, they would ask me resignedly, "How often do we have to come to church to qualify to get married there?" And I'd say, "What? Don't come at all if that's your attitude. Come because you want to, because you're seeking something, because your heart yearns for truth. Otherwise stay in bed and enjoy your Sunday. It's better if our worship of God comes from a true heart, uncluttered by people who are only there because they think they have to be. You are always welcome, but only because you want to be there. You can get married in our church because you really mean it, but you don't have to pay for it with something you don't really mean."

We had a lot of people living with profound disabilities in our congregation, and on a Sunday morning they were brought to church by their carers — who helpfully provided a sort of litmus test for preaching. Standing in the pulpit, I could assess the effectiveness of my preaching by watching for the moment the carers stopped eating sweets and reading their Friday Ad because their attention had been caught and held by what I was saying to them. I wanted them at least to become involved in the spiritual journey of the people they had brought to chapel — and, pleasingly, they did. They became their faith advocates; they didn't necessarily believe in God but they came to believe in being part of what we were doing; because it was real. People feel and respond to authenticity.

There's a kind of evangelism that almost makes me feel physically sick, that speaks about befriending people and inviting them to join in (with golf, with dinner parties, with outings to the cinema), not for the pleasure of their company but with the ulterior motive of trapping them in the ideological snare of one's own perspective. It has a close associate in the equally nauseating approach that uses an enjoyable activity like art or a meal together as a "hook" to draw in unsuspecting souls who thought they were valued for themselves and were pleased to have received an invitation.

I once fell prey to such a system. When I was new to our town as a young mother of a baby, my husband played the organ at an Anglo-Catholic church. One of the priests on the leadership team made friends with us. Because I knew hardly anyone in Hastings at that time, I looked forward to his visits to our home and was happy we had made a friend. Then I discovered from somebody's casual remark that the priest-in-charge had instructed this man to "make friends" with us because they valued my husband's input as a musician and wanted to consolidate the connection and keep him firmly attached to that church. The "friendship" ended right there and then. I am completely uninterested in duplicity and being the collateral of someone's strategic targeting.

So my own approach to ministry was different. One of our teachers in the Ashburnham Stable Family (an affiliation of East Sussex Christians) spoke to us about what he called "question evangelism", where the person you are and the life you live causes others to ask questions about your outlook and motivation — "How do you stay so patient? Why do you feel so peaceful? How did you find the strength to cope?" etc. When they ask, you tell them, as in 1 Peter 3.15: "Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect." Our teacher suggested to us that if our life caused no one to ask any questions, we'd probably do better to keep quiet. No "hooks", no "befriending", no advertising, marketing or church growth strategy; just honest practice of a living faith — authenticity. I believed in that, in the Spirit who leads us into truth.

Then there was accessibility. As the pastor of a church with a high percentage of people living with disability, in Hastings which is a pocket of poverty in East Sussex which is a pocket of poverty in the south east of England, I certainly believed in accessibility. 

I wanted us to practice accessibility of worship, so planning and ordering what we did as to be as inclusive as we possibly could, making children and adults alike feel welcome. Our congregation was equally opening and welcoming to women and men, gay and straight, people of all races and social backgrounds. The alcoholic, the ex-prisoner, the MP, the head teacher, the little child — they were all there. I especially treasured the day an atheist who came to worship every week humbly asked me if it would be all right for him to receive the Eucharist. That converting and sanctifying ordinance, as John Wesley described it: yes, it certainly would.

I wanted us to have accessibility of lifestyle — living in such unassuming simplicity that nobody felt ashamed or shabby alongside us or visiting our homes. We were to be the poor alongside the poor in this town where many people lived in such poverty.

I wanted us to have accessibility in our socialising — events that no one had to pay to attend, and people of all ages and abilities could enjoy and join in at their own level. So we had our pantomime that we wrote and performed ourselves with the help of talented local musicians from our wonderful town in which music flourishes. We had our tea-dance, for which two ballroom dancers in the congregation taught those of us with two left feet to waltz; and those who were in wheelchairs or could only crawl came along for the live band and the strawberry tea. We had our treasure hunt through the countryside where those who had cars took those who did not, in pursuit of solving clues across East Sussex. Everything was for everyone — no hidden agendas, only honest welcome, inclusion, respect and humble love.

I wanted accessibility in our preaching — the gospel explained in such a way that it took fire in the imagination. What people believe is up to them, but what we believe should be accessible to them to make up their minds. Imagination is the doorway into spiritual understanding; why Jesus always taught the people in stories.

But I also wanted a particular kind of inaccessibility: the practice of littleness and hiddenness. It made me quietly happy that our church address did not, as such, exist. It was called "Park Road Church", and there was no "Park Road". Back then in pre-internet days, people relied on map books to look places up. In the map book for Hastings and St Leonards, there was Upper Park Road and Lower Park Road, but not Park Road as such. You had to look under U or L in the index, not P.  When I found a complete stranger in the road outside my house looking for me and wondering if this was the place, when a complete stranger turned up at Sunday morning worship who had been "looking for this church for ages", I knew we were on the right track. 

The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it. (Matt.13.44-46 NIVUK)

The treasure is hidden, and it is real treasure. The pearl is hidden, and it really is a pearl of great price. The treasure is not cheap and tempting baubles displayed to entice people into mistakenly purchasing an acre of disappointing mud. It's not a string of glass beads advertised to look like something special. It's accessible — anyone can dig in the mud, anyone can go fishing — but it's hidden and, when you you find it, it's the real deal.