In contrast to those who would say that God is the greatest conceivable being and those who would claim that God is utterly beyond conception, we have seen how it is pragmatically useful for the Christian to follow Anselm in the idea that God ought to be conceived of as that which is greater than conception. This means that Christianity is about being in a relationship with that which is not reducible to theoretical analysis. Indeed, Jesus spent no time that we know of engaging in deep reflections upon the nature of God, but rather revealed the outworking of God through his ministry.
While modern apologetics has championed the view that we can say substantial things about the existence and nature of God, such a view has been placed into serious question by both those outside the Church and those within it. For example, Marx, Nietzsche and Freud helped to show that any supposedly objective, scientific conception of God can easily be explained as a reflection of our cultural context, education, tradition and unconscious, while theologians such as Barth argued that to make a conceptual image of God is nothing more than forming a conceptual idol made from the materials of the human imagination. In fact we can find such thinking in the Bible itself, for in various passages we find references to God as an unnameable name (YHWH) and as an inaccessible presence that is always mediated (for no one can look upon the unmediated presence of God and live). Here God is understood to be greater than the conceptual construct ‘God’; hence some people’s reference to the God beyond God. ‘God’, rather than being a straightforward concept, is thus a term that stands in the place of the one whom we love but cannot grasp.
This does not rule out the possibility of divine revelation but simply acknowledges that our finite, fragile minds cannot fully understand it, for any revelation will inevitably be affected by our biological limitations, cultural prejudices and upbringing. We can thus think of God’s revelation as a secret that remains secret in its telling, for while a normal secret is no longer a secret when it is shared, God’s revelation, by remaining inaccessible in its telling, remains secret in the sharing. Here mystery and revelation are brought together in an irreducible tension.
By drawing people’s attention to the limits of our understanding, this service explores how, before God, we are all heretics. Far from being something to reject, mourn over or attempt to overcome, we show how such a recognition can be deeply liberating. Indeed, the heart of this service involves a form of repentance over times in our lives when we have suppressed this insight and have become dogmatic and violent in our beliefs.
The tables that usually sit in the centre of the bar have been cleared to make room for a large makeshift cross that lies flat across the room. As people enter they are asked to sign their name on this cross using some black markers that have been left to one side. Spread around the room are various mirrors, some of which have the word ‘heretic’ scrawled across them. Once everyone has signed their name, the music begins to fade and someone comes to the front to speak:
Recently a well-respected church leader attended one of our gatherings in order to witness first hand what took place. Afterwards he leaned over to someone at the bar and said, ‘This has been interesting, but is it Christian?’
When I heard this I was genuinely amazed that someone with his insight and wisdom could have expressed such uncertainty. Is this community Christian? Surely the answer was obvious … of course not.
If Christianity is about expressing a service to Christ, if it means radiating divine love in a broken world or sacrificing oneself selflessly in response to the needs of the other, then this community is nothing more than a fragile group of people struggling to become Christian. This sacred/secret place represents the place within which we openly acknowledge that we are the ones who need to be evangelized. Here we acknowledge our brokenness, frailty and heresy.
After this brief introduction someone approaches the stage and begins to speak:
Christian tradition holds that the apostle Peter, late in his life, travelled to Rome to become that city’s first bishop to its Christian community, and that he was martyred under the persecutions by the emperor Nero around 64 AD. Tradition also holds that Peter was sentenced to crucifixion, and upon hearing his fate, was aghast, protesting his unworthiness to die in the same manner as his lord, saviour and friend, Jesus.
What went through the mind of Peter in these moments? Did he think back to another time, almost seemingly to another life, when he denied even knowing Jesus?
Or perhaps he didn’t think of this past moment of weakness and fear; maybe he thought of some other split second of weakness, in the face of persecution …
Had he actually denied Christ again and, like Christ, been betrayed?
The apocryphal Acts of Peter tells us that Peter, fleeing from persecution in Rome, met Christ on the road and asked him, ‘Lord, where are you going?’ Christ answered, ‘I am going to be crucified again,’ and Peter, struck to the heart, turned around to go back and meet his martyrdom.
Did the guards and soldiers mock this weeping, lunatic old Jew, mumbling something about being unworthy of crucifixion? In response to this, Peter was crucified upside down. And for this reason, the inverted cross, the cross of St Peter, became one of the earliest Christian symbols.
It is a symbol of devotion to Christ in the face of weakness, of humility and self-examination.
It is the cross that freely admits that we now see only confusing images in a mirror, but we look forward to the time when we will see face to face.
It is the cross of a foul-mouthed fisherman who became a bishop.
For us today, it is the cross that says, ‘I am not God.’ ‘I am no Christ.’75
As this is being said, the cross that lies across the floor is slowly lifted until it rests against the wall. It is lifted so that, when upright, it forms the St Peter’s cross.
Everyone is then asked to reflect upon this as our cross, as that which recognizes our humanity and limitations. After a few minutes everyone is encouraged to come up and kneel before or embrace this upside down cross. Once everyone who wishes to do so has come up, the following parable is read, as if from a Bible:
At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people were gathered around him, and he sat down to teach.
At that moment we, the teachers of the law and the Pharisees, brought in a woman caught in the sin of heresy.
We humiliated her by making her stand before the group, then we turned to Jesus and said,
‘Great teacher, this woman was caught perverting the law, spreading false witness and tainting the name of our God. Our law demands that we stone anyone who would so spoil the image of God. Now what do you say?’
We were using this question as a trap, in order to have a base for accusing him.
But Jesus remained silent. Instead of answering us he bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger.
In the sand he inscribed the names of every person in this room.
When we kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said, ‘If any of you have not perverted the law of God, if any among you has not spoken falsely of heavenly things nor muddied the divine image with hasty words and deeds, then you may be the first to cast a stone.’
Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.
Under each of our names he began to carve out the sins and secrets that lay deep in our hearts.
While Jesus wrote, we who were present began to leave, one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus and the woman were left.
After a time Jesus slowly straightened up, looked the woman compassionately in the eyes and tenderly asked her, ‘Woman, where are they now? Has no one condemned you?’
‘No one, sir,’ she replied.
‘Then neither do I,’ Jesus declared.
After some music and discussion the service closes with the following meditation:
It is late in the evening and you are huddled quietly around a campfire with dozens of other disciples, listening intently to Jesus as he tells stories of heaven. For many hours he has spoken eloquently about a land full of great mansions, a world with streets of gold and vast expanses of fertile land.
By the time Jesus has finished, it is approaching dawn and the fire is burning out. While everyone else has drifted off to sleep with the images of treasure and mansions dancing in their minds, you remain awake.
Soon only you and Jesus are left to watch over the dying fire.
After a little time has passed you turn to Jesus and speak:
‘My Lord, each day more people come to worship you. Every day I am surrounded by large numbers of disciples with great learning and courage who have sacrificed everything for you and your message. I can’t help wondering whether someone like me, a self-centred, self-interested sinner, will be overlooked amidst all the great thinkers, politicians, preachers and radicals who are being attracted to you and your message.’
After a few moments you continue:
‘I’ve never lived in a mansion; in fact I have never even been inside one. So I don’t care much if I miss out. But tell me, will there be a place for me when I die?’
Jesus looks at you with compassion:
‘Fear not,’ he whispers, in a tone that could barely be heard over the content noises of the sleeping crowd. ‘Tucked away in a corner of heaven, far from all the mansions and streets of gold, there is a little stable. It is cramped and old, but on a clear night you can see the stars amidst the cracks and feel the warm air on your flesh. It is there that I will dwell, and while it may be no mansion, there is a space in that place for you.’
As the service comes to an end, a bagful of little St Peter’s crosses is passed around. Each person takes and keeps a cross.