THE SPIRIT VISITS GOD'S CHILDREN

THE GRAND INQUISITOR

(Ivan is talking to his brother, Aloysha.)[1]

And now the time came when he wished to appear to the people, if only, for a moment - to the tormented, suffering people, to the people sunk in filthy iniquity,

but who loved him like innocent children. The action of my poem takes

place in Spain, in Seville, during the most terrible time of the Inquisition,

when fires were lighted every day throughout the land, to the glory of God and

In the splendid autos-da-fe

Wicked heretics were burnt

Oh, of course, this was not the second coming when, as he promised, he

would appear at the end of time in all his heavenly glory, and

which would be as sudden "as the lightning cometh out of the east, and

shineth even unto the west". No, all he wanted was to visit his children

only for a moment and just where the stakes of the heretics were

crackling in the flames. In his infinite mercy he once more walked

among men in the semblance of man as he had walked among

men for thirty-three years fifteen centuries ago. He came down

into the hot "streets and lanes" of the southern city just at the moment

when, a day before, nearly a hundred heretics had been burnt

all at once by the cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, ad majorem gloriam Dei in "a magnificent auto da fe", in the presence of the king, the court, the knights, the

cardinals, and the fairest ladies of the Court and the whole population of Seville. He appeared quietly, inconspicuous but everyone - and that is why it is so strange - recognised him. That might have been one of the finest passages m my poem - I mean, why they recognised him. The people are drawn to him by an irresistible force, they surround him, they throng about him, they follow him. He walks among them in silence with a gentle smile of infinite compassion. The sun of love burns in his heart, rays of Light, of Enlightenment, and of Power stream from his eyes and, pouring over the people, stir their hearts with responsive love.

He stretches forth his hands to them, blesses them, and a healing virtue comes

from contact with him, even with his gar­ments.

An old man, blind from childhood, cries out to him from the midst of the crowd,

"O Lord, heal me so that I may see thee", and it is as though scales fell from

his eyes, and the blind man sees him. The people weep and kiss the ground

upon which he walks. Children scatter flowers before him, sing and cry

out to him: "Hosannah!", "It is he, it is he himself," they all repeat. "It

must be he, it can be no one but he." He stops on the steps of the

Cathedral of Seville at the moment when a child's little, open white coffin is

brought in with weeping into the church: in it lies a girl of seven, the only

daughter of a prominent citizen. The dead child is covered with flowers. "He

will raise up your child", people shout from the crowd to the weeping mother.

The canon, who has come out to meet the coffin, looks on perplexed and knits his

brows.

But presently a cry of the dead child's mother is heard. She throws herself at his

feet. "If it is thou," she cries, holding out her hands to him, "then raise my child from the dead!" The funeral cortage halts. The coffin is lowered on to the steps at his feet. He gazes with compassion and his lips once again utter softly the words, "Talitha cumi"

- "and the damsel arose". The little girl rises in the coffin, sits up, and looks

around her with surprise in her smiling, wide-open eyes. In her hands she holds the

nosegay of white roses with which she lay in her coffin. There are cries, sobs, and

confusion among the people, and it is at that very moment that the Cardinal himself, the

Grand Inquisitor, passes by the cathedral in the square. He is in old man of nearly

ninety, tall and erect, with a shrivelled face and sunken eyes, from which, though, a

light like a fiery spark still gleams. Oh, he is not wearing his splendid cardinal robes

in which he appeared before the people the day before when the enemies of the Roman

faith were being burned..

He sees everything. He sees the coffin set down at his feet, he sees the young girl

Rise from the dead, and his face darkens. He knits his grey, beetling brows and his

eyes flash with an ominous fire. He stretches forth his finger and commands the

guards to seize Him..

The guards take their prisoner to the dark, narrow, vaulted prison in the old building

of the Sacred Court and lock him in there. The day passes and night falls, the dark,

hot, and 'breathless' Seville night. The air is 'heavy with the scent of laurel and lemon'.

Amid the profound darkness, the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the old

and Inquisitor himself slowly enters the prison with a light in his hand. He is alone and

the door at once closes behind him. He stops in the doorway and gazes for a long time,

for more than a minute, into his face. At last he approaches him slowly, puts the lamp on the table and says to him:

"IS it You? You?"

But, receiving no answer, he adds quickly: "Do not answer, be silent. And, indeed, what can you say? I know too well what you would say. Besides, you have no right to add anything to what you have said already in the days of old. Why, then, did you come to meddle with us? For you have come to meddle with us, and you know it."

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One of the most incisive and instructive of the moments of Jesus' ministry must have been when, in the synagogue in Nazareth, Jesus read from Isaiah: 'to proclaim the year of the Lord's favour.'[2]

That proclamation, and Jesus' declaration that the outworking of this 'Favour' of the Lord God was already being revealed on earth, is an arresting truth and a continuing reality.

The magnificent gift of the gracious, healing presence of the Divine Presence has been treasured by the community of the church throughout the centuries. But the nature of the 'Favour' as gift is a constant challenge for those who claim to be embraced by it.

The reflection by Dostoyevsky is an expression of the question that raises its head in all ages and which probes and disturbs the community of faith unceasingly: the question of integrity to the call to be a suffering, serving, healing community, infused by joy and grace, obedient to our Lord and Christ.

The language of suffering, of being the crucified, healing community inspired by the Spirit of God, is beyond dispute. What is at issue is the enfleshment of this call.

The turmoil in the UCA on the question of the acceptance of practising homosexual and lesbian clergy has produced a chorus of cries in defence of the institution of the UCA. The desire to maintain what has emerged since union in 1977 is deep and, no doubt, sincere. Nevertheless, what we are experiencing is a change in the membership of the UCA which is unlike anything seen before this time. The institution has changed, and will continue to change. In my own parish, our minister and his wife have left, as have some of our membership: the scars, the sadness, the disappointment all run deep.

To quote from a letter of mine to 'Insights':

Once a denomination is formed, it seems that there are extremely powerful forces that insist that, while the Spirit inspires the creation of the new, it is less likely that the Spirit inspires the shedding of what is no longer necessary. If it were possible in the years leading up to 1977 for old forms to be replaced by the new, why not now?

There appears no way of maintaining the unity of the UCA post-10th Assembly. Many members are saying that they reject what they see as a fundamental change in regard to the possibility of same-sex couples being accepted as candidates and being ordained in the UCA. If, as we are be assured, the 10th Assembly was simply clarifying a position previously adopted, many are even more alarmed that such a policy had been adopted earlier, without many in the church realizing it.

A church which endeavours to be a church of grace is tested at the point of the determination of distinctives: while there is an urge towards toleration, there is also the necessity to discern boundaries. For example, ministers in the UCA are not permitted the luxury of thinking and acting in ways contrary to the UCA stance on baptism and on acceptance of women in leadership in the UCA. Every form of the church, every denomination and congregation/small group, needs a code of such distinctives to exist. The only alternative is chaos, where nothing can be asserted as having meaning or value so as to distinguish the nature and mission of the church. Centrifugal forces appear to have now been unleashed, and new church/es are already forming.

The UCA has been an exciting venture: perhaps it is time to recognize that it has peaked in its present form, and needs to be laid aside with thanksgiving in favour of a new future. A truly diverse church should surely be able to allow diversity to flower in new forms and structures!

I dream of the emergence of distinctive forms of 'church' free of the constraints of trying to maintain the appearance of unity in diversity, freshly energized by the Spirit, evolving in exciting and entirely valid ways appropriate to the 21st century.

Such a journey involves great risk: on the other hand, not to embark on this journey may be more hazardous. I think I would be joined by others in believing that a post-UCA presence in our land offers fresh hope and rich contexts for Spirit-adventure[3].

All who find themselves following the call of God to be the UCA are in a changing church. We are all affected. And any call requires one to see what others aren't seeing. A teacher must imagine a student's moving from not-knowing to knowing. A lawyer must imagine a problem is getting resolved. A salesperson must imagine a sale is being made. Sometimes that seeing is welcome; often it is unwelcome.

Jesus had a clear vision of his people. He saw them as lost, as having returned from exile but finding themselves still oppressed, still captive, still blind. His good news responded to ailments they weren't yet seeing.

Two things had to happen. First, they had to hear and respond to his vision of them. They did so, and they hated it. Second, Jesus had to let go of his vision, allowing reality and God to reshape it. That process commenced immediately and reached its conclusion in Gethsemane. It was a difficult journey for him to live - and difficult for us to understand, because it is a trajectory, not isolated sayings and events.

We tend to view candidates for church leadership as caretakers. We encourage them to think small, to promise us they won't change anything. We imply that their role is to protect some sacred flame that is already burning the way it ought to burn. Honesty, we hint, can be dangerous, vision can imperil their chance of approval, thinking outside the box is to raise suspicion.

But think about it. Why would we want a teacher who cannot imagine a child needing to grow and being capable of growing? Why would we want a minister or a deacon who didn't see us as needing care? Why would we entrust our institutions to people who cannot imagine a future that is different from what we know?

Verifying a call, it seems to me, starts in seeing what there is to see, as Jesus did, and imagining a future. Then comes a critical, and often conflictual, dialogue. What do you see in us? What do we see in you? How do we respond to what you see? How do you deal with our response?

We might as well acknowledge the conflict right up front, because that conflict between today and tomorrow, between my vision and your vision, is what will usher in the "year of the Lord's favour," or stifle it.

Ross Kingham

Director

BARNABAS MINISTRIES INC

STRENGTHENING CHRISTIAN LEADERS

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[1] F M Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Penguin Books, England, 1958, pp.290-305

[2] Luke 4.19

[3] Ross Kingham, Letter, Insights magazine, Aug 13, 2003