THE SMALL RE-ORDERS THE WORLD
By Jake Belder
An Anglican priest’s vision of the Church’s work in the world.
Enthusiasts and outsiders of any given activity will perceive its significance differently. As someone who maintains an interest in all things automotive, I can happily spend hours wandering around a car show, admiring trends in vehicle design across different eras, discussing developments in engineering with fellow enthusiasts, or soaking up the symphony of exhaust noises from perfectly tuned performance engines. It is an activity that binds me with a community of people who see, in the car, one of the most significant triumphs of technology and human ability. But I am also well aware that those hours I spend so happily seem like wasted time to those who view cars as nothing more than an appliance.
These differing perceptions exist in regards to the significance of the church, as well. Whether people see the church as hypocritical and power-hungry, or as irrelevant and weird, few think that it offers anything of consequence in an era of private spirituality and self-made meaning, let alone that it could re-order the world. And yet, that is exactly why I get out of bed each morning.
It is a lovely and special place to be. But is it worth it?
It is 8:30 a.m. on Sunday. I have been up for a few hours already and had two cups of coffee while I looked over my sermon one more time, re-worked a few paragraphs, and prayed for the morning’s services. After packing my Bible and sermon notes and checking to make sure my stole is the right color for the liturgical season, I’m ready for the eight-mile journey through some of the area’s most beautiful countryside to preside at the Eucharist at one of the village churches under my care.
The service begins at 9:15. It is very likely I won’t see any other cars or people on my drive up to the church, and when I arrive in the village, it will seem as if everyone is still asleep. Six other people will be at the service, perhaps eight. In winter, I will be glad my cassock is made of wool. On a clear day, the rising sun, especially in early spring, will cast beautiful, warm light through the windows, and splatter rich reflections of red, blue, green, and yellow across the altar.
It is a lovely and special place to be. But is it worth it? This question is increasingly asked by bishops, senior leaders, and other strategists at the center of the Church of England, who are faced with a dire financial situation and mostly shrinking congregations. And their answer, with every flashy new growth strategy, seems to be mostly that it is not. Ancient buildings are a burden, resources should be funneled to bigger churches, and vicars should only focus on the places where enough money can be generated to sustain the institution.
This is not, ultimately, a debate about strategy and resources. This is a debate about the very nature and purpose of the church. At the heart of what Jesus came to do is to re-order the world. To beat back the powers of sin and death that have dis-ordered his world—persistently waging war against God’s purposes for his creation and his people—and to re-establish his rule in every place. The church matters, then, as the primary means by which Jesus continues to work out his victory, calling people to himself and remaking them in his image by his Spirit, to be sent out and point to the reality of his kingdom wherever they are. And that means that this little village church matters, because in this quiet, early morning gathering, these six people are boldly acknowledging in this place that Jesus is King, challenging the powers of the world that do not enthrone him.
One of the distinguishing features of the Anglican tradition, historically, is its commitment to place. Parish churches exist to serve every community in England—every local congregation given a specific geographical focus for mission and ministry. There is something of a Kuyperian orientation here: with the whole of the country covered quite literally by the prayer and worship of the church, every square inch is claimed for Christ. In many places, the church remains a focal point, sitting often noticeably at the center of a community; indeed, the spire of the church I have presided in this morning can be seen for miles. The visibility of the church and the way it orients the community around it is a constant reminder of the way Christ is re-ordering the world under his rule.
And this is what makes it worth it for six people in a small village to gather in an ancient building on a Sunday morning. Their presence in that community remains a living witness to the reality of the world as it should be, and as it will be one day under Christ. In rightly ordered praise, and in humble reception of the gifts of grace, these six people have surrendered themselves to a world re-ordered by the true King of heaven and earth, so that they might be sent out to bear witness to it in their small village.
It is humbling to be a figure whose mere presence is a reminder of a world haunted by transcendence.
It is a few minutes before 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon. I am walking from the vicarage to the main church under my care, one that sits at the heart of a vibrant and bustling market town. It has stood on one of the only elevated spots in town since the 12th century, though a church in some form has been here since the 7th century. The 120-foot tower dominates the skyline. The world around me feels frantic at this hour—children shouting as they run through the churchyard on their way home from school, cars and trucks driving past, dogs barking, the clatter of furniture as the weekly market is dismantled and the traders pack up their wares, while the restaurants and bars set up their outdoor seating areas for the evening.
As I enter the church, the hustle and bustle fades into a distant murmur. A few of us go to sit quietly in the side chapel, where a candle is lit. The clock strikes 4, and we begin: “O God, make speed to save us / O Lord, make haste to help us.” The paradox is never any less striking—in a world that believes it is the busyness and activity we hear outside that shapes the world, it is in fact being re-ordered by God through the intercession of those of us gathered in peace and stillness.
When you begin a process of discernment for priesthood in the Church of England, much of the focus is on the sacramental nature of that ministry, particularly as it relates to the Eucharist. And while that is certainly a key part of being a priest, I have been surprised to find how significant the practice of saying the Daily Office is to me in this ministry. Where the Eucharist and the worship of the church are a witness to the true reality of the world, we spend the vast majority of our week out in the places where things are not as they should be, surrounded by people who do not know the world as it really is.
Our Bible study groups recently spent some time looking at Psalm 2. “The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord and against his anointed,” the Psalmist writes, pointing to the struggle that dis-orders the world. But the Psalm also points to the futility of that struggle, and ends with a call to faithfulness: “Now, therefore, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth. Serve the Lord with fear.” Our conversation moved here to recognizing the importance of God’s people interceding for the world, because we long for all people to hear this call. Once again, the Anglican tradition’s emphasis on place brings a particular focus to these prayers. The streets we walk, the businesses we frequent, the people we chat with in the supermarket aisles—all are held before God each day. We carry their burdens, we celebrate their joys, we pray for peace. And above all, we pray for the Spirit to re-order this part of the world, confident that he is at work through our witness to extend the bounds of Christ’s kingdom, to bring more people to discover the happiness that comes to “all who take refuge in him” (Ps. 2.11).
At the end of the day, Christians serve the King whose final and definitive re-ordering of the world is certain and sure.
It is mid-afternoon. I have been out running a few errands and am now walking through one of the newer housing estates on my way back home. As I round a corner, I bump into another parent I know from the local primary school. We exchange some pleasantries, but casual conversation suddenly turns into tears as she opens up about all the struggles her young family has been through in recent months. Her husband has been diagnosed with a rare and very aggressive form of cancer, and the prognosis is grim. I offer my sympathy and, knowing she has some casual connection with the church in her past, some words of assurance of God’s presence and love, which she gratefully receives.
A couple of months later, I see her again, and we stop to catch up. This time I meet a very different woman. The road ahead remains hard, but her husband has been responding to the treatment, seemingly against all odds. She tells me that our earlier conversation has prompted her to begin praying again and to read her Bible. God, she says in not so many words, has been drawing her closer through this ordeal, and slowly re-ordering her world.
From the start of my ordained ministry, I have been astounded at the doors that are opened with random people simply because of the way I dress. My black shirt and collar are really nothing more than a uniform, yet many people encounter me not as another individual, but as a sort of tangible presence of God. I don’t say that with any pride or inflated sense of self-importance. It is instead humbling to be a figure whose mere presence is a reminder of a world haunted by transcendence—who can, simply by acknowledging someone, exert pressure on the “immanent frame” (to crudely borrow from Charles Taylor), whose visibility is a constant reminder that God is at work in the world.
A colleague once said that we live in “a time of small things.” There are very few large churches in this country, and most of the growth that we see happens incrementally. To be patient and to trust in God’s plans and purposes is often challenging. But that is why another part of my role is to help people take notice of where the Spirit is at work, to become aware of the significance of these everyday moments, to see the signs of resurrection. Because, at the end of the day, Christians serve the King who has already conquered the reign of sin and death, whose final and definitive re-ordering of the world is certain and sure. The church is the evidence that this work has already begun, and with every new sign of life, big or small, our hope and confidence in Christ’s victory is renewed.
Photos by Joel Holland, Tom Podmore, and Jose Llamas on Unsplash.
Jake Belder is a priest in the Church of England, and currently serves as vicar of a group of churches in East Yorkshire. Born and raised in Canada, he has called England home since 2011. Jake is married to Robin, and they have two sons.