Michael Pearson

06 Mar

ROOM WITH A (WORLD) VIEW

In

If you have ever visited England, you may well have made your way to Oxford. You may remember charming buildings of yellowish Cotswold stone. Bookshops and libraries everywhere. A bell sounding somewhere. The feeling that you might just have walked past a future prime minister. Old black bicycles flying in all directions, student gowns flapping in the wind. Arched gatehouses giving on to college quadrangles.

Walk into a quadrangle and you will find student rooms built maybe two or three levels high overlooking a carefully manicured lawn carrying the warning “Keep off the grass.” It is like stepping into another world. If you were to trespass a little and walk past the sign which says “Staircase not open to visitors—residents only” you would find yourself on a rather bare corridor. A few strides and through an open door and you will be in a student room. It has a
window overlooking the quad.

The sun is streaming in. From the window, you can see a few bicycles propped up against the wall. The porter’s lodge at the arched entrance is visible to the right. In the center of the quad is a modern sculpture, roughly in the shape of an “S,” gifted by some wealthy benefactor who wanted to be remembered by future generations.

Wander further into another corridor at right angles to the present one and another open door. This room is not yet touched by the sun. Over to the window and there’s a different view on to the quad. You can no longer see those bicycles. Neither is the gatehouse visible. You can now see the window of the room you were just in. But the sculpture now looks like a kind of fat vertical—nothing more. No shape of an “S.”

Another few strides. Another open door. The sun is slanting across this room. Through this window, yet another aspect of the quad. Everything is somehow familiar but it’s all in a different place. And the sculpture now looks like a back-to-front “S.” The bicycles must be leaning against the wall below this window.

Your wander into the quad has taught you a valuable lesson: that it all depends on which window you look out of as to what you see in the quad.

+ + +

It’s a little like this with our windows on the world. Familiar things look strange under an unfamiliar aspect. And some things are just not visible to us.

Go into the Adventist room, go to the Adventist window, go to your Adventist window, and what do you see from there? Something different from what others see from their own windows.

What can you see? I can only describe what I see from my own window on the world.

+ + +

First, I see a place, the church, where the story of Jesus is kept alive. Where the Living God is part of the reality in which we live. Where God’s unpredictable Spirit moves where the Spirit wills. Where, mysteriously, we can have direct access to God in prayer and worship, and so learn who we really are and who God really is. That is the center piece of the Adventist worldview.

The church is like the Oxford quad in offering a protected space. The noise of the busy street outside is quickly excluded by the old walls. But once in the quad it will not be long before you sniff a sense of privilege. Of exclusivism. Of superiority. One university wit said that the great virtue of Oxford was its tolerance, its great vice was its arrogance. He was not wrong.

Adventism is somewhat similar. Certainly, it can offer a safe place in this conflicted world. Tolerant? Often but not always, and perhaps less so now in this binary world, in this binary church, in which we live. Arrogant? Maybe to some extent. The idea of being “a remnant,” of being a “peculiar people,” of having a unique mission in Christianity, is perhaps not of itself toxic but it easily becomes so. A superior, self-regarding group? The idea of being “special” can easily lead to distorted ideas of entitlement.

But I see other things through my Adventist window.

I see a community which tends to see things in terms of conflict. Its lead story, the “Great controversy,” pits one against another with no middle ground. Battle, competition, strife. This is not an inaccurate description of the world in which we live. At least on the grand scale. The danger is that we take an adversarial spirit into the smaller world in which we go about our daily business. It is dangerous to see the enemy everywhere. It is thus that conspiracy theories breed. Paranoia sets in. The will to see the good in other communities is squeezed.

I see a church which has become so heavily bureaucratized that it appears to differ little from a multinational corporation like Coca Cola. With a worldwide membership of 20 million plus and a multitude of institutions, this is probably inevitable. It is too easy to measure success simply in terms of growing “sales”—baptisms, size, rising tithes and offerings, and other empirical indicators used to measure the unmeasurable. The danger is that at the heart of things is not God, just the concept of God. The church easily degenerates into a mere religious bureaucracy.

Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, has identified the wider church’s “constant struggle not to become the object of its own faith.” Christ on Trial (Fount, 2000, p. 135). That’s a short but devastating indictment and we Adventists do well to reflect on it.

But the Church wants to be a worldwide family too. It offers warmth and a sense of direction. A home. I see a community of people who have given me a sense of belonging. It is a large family with many different personalities, and so it needs some sort of structure to contain it. And that is where identity problems begin.

Members tend to think of the church either as a family or a multinational corporation as it suits them. Family for warmth and institution for structure. Flesh and bones. But families and corporations are regulated in different ways. When members seek a sympathetic understanding, they think of the church as family. At other times they think of the church as a corporation with procedures and rules. It inevitably creates conflict in our church.

I also see a community where the teaching of the imminent Advent has been in tension with the doctrine of the divine creation. It is strange that Adventists are not especially interested in the well-being of our planet. We say that it makes no sense to protect the Creator’s handiwork when it will soon be destroyed at Christ’s return. A strange logic for creationists. Similarly, I see a community which is more interested in providing social welfare than in seeking social justice. These are expressions of the tension between the now and the not-yet. There are tensions aplenty in this Adventist worldview.

+ + +

But enough of things in the shadows. I see other things too out of my Adventist window.

I see a concern for excellence. The charity Oxfam began in Oxford and has become a worldwide force for good. So too is ADRA. It is smaller but the humanitarian impulse is the same. I see some fine academic institutions. I also see institutions which have given a chance to those on the margins. I see vital medical institutions, large and small, where great human need exists. I see a strong musical tradition. I see a church which has been well ahead of the curve when it comes to matters of healthy lifestyle.

Most of all, I see a chain of local church communities which are good at transmitting the love of Jesus not only among their members but often those beyond too. They provide support, warmth, and direction for those who make them their home. I see friendships which last a lifetime sometimes despite barriers of great distance and culture. I see people swimming against the strong tide of changing values. They are an inspiration. I see people who can find some peace amid the frenetic activity of the wider world thanks to the Sabbath rest and all it entails.

+ + +

Perhaps there is no such thing as a single Adventist worldview nowadays. The global spread of the Adventist Church is perhaps also its fragility. When Adventism meets any culture, it will inevitably produce variants. And so today we have many Seventh-day Adventist windows on the world.

But the genius of Adventism is its uniting value of wholeness. A whole mind in a whole body in a whole world. At its best, it creates coherence in a fragmented world. This hunger for wholeness finds different expression in different places in the world. And not just personal wholeness but community wholeness. And not stiff uniformity but organic wholeness. Creating community, generating wholeness is valuable but hard work. It demands no less than our whole self.

To this, we are called.

Michael Pearson is Principal Lecturer Emeritus at Newbold College in the U.K. For many years, he taught topics in ethics, philosophy, and spirituality. He and his wife, Helen, write a weekly blog pearsonsperspectives.com Email him at: [email protected]

21 Dec

TWO HILLS, TWO STONES

In

In the distance, we can see two hills. Each is inviting us to climb it. Each will present its challenges, each its dangers. Each will leave us wondering whether we would have been better advised to put our energies into climbing the other. It will only become clear later that they are both hills of punishment and suffering.

The first is the hill of Sisyphus. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus had offended the gods and was condemned to the most severe punishment they could contrive. And so, Sisyphus’s fate was to push a huge stone endlessly up a hill. It served no purpose. When he reached the top, the rock would immediately begin to fall back to the bottom of the hill. Sisyphus then had to return to the bottom and begin pushing again—ceaselessly, throughout all eternity. Sisyphus is not the master of his stone. This is a picture of the futility of all human effort. It is the classic expression of the meaninglessness of life.

The second is the hill of Golgotha. The place of the skull. It was littered with instruments of torture. Criminals would be taken there and pinned to a cross, there to suffer an excruciating death. The dying could take days leaving the victim twisted in agony. But at least Golgotha eventually provided the relief of death. It was such a death that Jesus died. Whether Golgotha is a picture of just another futile attempt to challenge the power of empire, or of meaninglessness eventually transformed into vibrant meaning, is ours to decide.

Which picture tells the truth about human life?

For some of us the lure of the hill of Sisyphus may have been strong. So many of our human plans end in dust and disappointment. So many humans experience intolerable pain and pointless suffering. The universe seems to consist of unimaginably vast swathes of space, of void. We are like rats on a wheel which takes us precisely nowhere. Stand in any city and watch the rush hour unfold and you will see Sisyphus’s story retold. There’s no meaning to it all. It is better to face up to this brute fact and live as courageously as we can before oblivion swallows us.

It was Christian belief as embodied in Adventism which helped me to resist the magnetic force of such meaninglessness. And the attraction was strong. It was in the Adventist church that I learned that the next step was not struggling back up the hill of Sisyphus but, against my instincts, down. Down to a garden tomb where Jesus had been trapped by another stone. But He was master of His stone. He pushed it back by the power of His glory, greater than any exhibited by the Greek gods.

And so, from here it all begins.

It was from the vantage point of Seventh-day Adventism that I rejected the pull of meaninglessness. But there needs to be substance to the meaning which takes its place. And the pull of meaninglessness needs to be met with continuing resistance.

It is the Sabbath which provides space to consider what that meaning might be. That time ringfenced by God to give us the regular opportunity to get off the rat wheel, and reflect on who we are, what life is, who God is. To cultivate our knowledge of the God of all meaning. That time is so easily eroded in our lives. It is not possible to create it for yourself. The Sabbath is our moment of opportunity to discern and review the meaning of our lives. During the Sabbath we will feel our way towards life’s parameters. If we inhabit it wisely, we will in time find our direction of travel. We will find what we are called to. We will find
what we were put on this earth to become.

That will only happen if we come to sense, “in the inward parts” as the Psalmist says, that we are indeed loved by God. It is a commonplace in the church to hear that God loves us, but that idea can so easily float on the surface of our consciousness. It may become just a pious cliche. We may—God help us—take it for granted.

But stop. Listen. Know. We are loved. Loved by God. And loved by God through others. When we come to this recognition—and it may be slow in dawning—then everything changes. The need to explain and justify yourself and your actions before the watching world is gone. And with it, the demand that other people justify themselves to you. It changes the very nature of a community. It creates trust, breeds authenticity, and generates value. The Adventist church has offered us an enormous gift in the shape of a trusting community if we will only form it and sustain it.

And towards the center of that community is the communion service, the table of welcome. Its significance can so easily get lost in the formalities, but the communion table is the very expression of generosity of spirit. Everything is given. All can gather round it without qualification other than that we trust that we are loved by God. It is not ours to exclude. And this has little to do with doctrines, mission statements and all the paraphernalia of a religious organization. This is about the desire for truth to take root in our inward being; it’s about wisdom in my secret heart (Psalm 51.6).

As we sit around the welcome table of God, we see faces we do not recognize. They are not our type. In truth, they may make us feel uncomfortable or they may irritate us. These are people we would not have befriended in other circumstances. Even people we think should not be there. But they sit around God’s welcome table. It is not ours to ignore them. The Adventist church has done us the enormous favor of placing us among people we would not especially wish to associate with. They help us to know ourselves by contrast. We come to the table as family.

As the hill of Sisyphus still looms, the promise of the advent makes it clear that it will not be “business as usual” forever. No endless, pointless striving. There is some sort of end point, a focus. Our traditional ways of describing it may sometimes be rather naive, but the basic teaching remains. We do not live in an unending cycle.

This scenario of the hill of Sisyphus and the hill of Calvary is, I suppose, another way of describing what Adventists call “the Great Controversy between Christ and Satan.” Order against chaos, fertility against wilderness, relationship against aloneness, love against indifference, hope against despair.

My attempt here is to be creative, to try to make familiar theological formula come alive again in some hearts which may have become dulled by over-familiarity. Adventist teaching absolutely demands that we be creative. God was the Creator. We are made in the image of God. What else but to be creative? But the church has always been nervous about this logic because creatives threaten to become subversives.

Yet who was more subversive, more creative than Jesus? Old things made new. Ancient customs turned on their head. The marginal and despised loved. The powerful challenged. Stories which burst with meaning. For me, it is those words which ring out in the gospels which give life. It is the self-giving of Jesus which fills me.

The church responds to our desire for security and order in this chill universe. And there is every reason to be grateful for structure and direction … until it begins to constrain and oppress, as all large organizations threaten to do.

The church has many flaws, organizational, doctrinal, missional. But what it has done above all has been to give us—me at least—the assurance that my life has meaning, come what may. If only I will seek it. Above all, the church has taught me that I am loved. Loved with a passion. From that everything flows.

The second Secretary General of the United Nations, Dag Hammarskjold, knew that and it gave direction to his difficult life. Strength to do his task, a task which was monumental, impossible. And he too died climbing upwards—in an air crash. Probably assassinated. Under the weight of his stone.

Amid yet another political crisis, he wrote:

“But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone—or Something—and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful and that, therefore my life, in self-surrender, had a goal.” (see Hammarskjold, Dag (1964). Markings. Alfred A. Knopf. p. XII)

The church long ago taught me that I need not be crushed by the oppressive rock of Sisyphus. I am raised by the dislodged stone in Gethsemane. I remain profoundly grateful to the church for developing in me the capacity to find meaning in a bewildering world. I remain determined not to allow the church itself to become another stone.

Michael Pearson is principal lecturer emeritus at Newbold College in the U.K. For many years he taught topics in ethics, philosophy, and spirituality. He and his wife, Helen, write a weekly blog pearsonsperspectives.com Email him at: [email protected]

24 Jul

A CATHEDRAL SPEAKS

In

Come with me into an English cathedral. There are over 40 of them in my country. Come with me into the one I know best: Salisbury Cathedral. And as we enter this great Anglican church, where worship has been offered by the faithful for many hundreds of years, allow it to speak to you a little about authentic Adventism. Listen to the cathedral.

As we enter, our voices drop to a whisper. We all immediately know that this is a different kind of space. A special space. Our whispers witness to a stillness. In his book The Sabbath, the Jewish philosopher and writer, Abraham Joshua Heschel, says that Jews do not build cathedrals in space; they build cathedrals in time. So too for Adventists. The Sabbath is our cathedral in time, a holy place. An intersection where God meets us. The Sabbath defines Adventist spiritual life (Fundamental belief #20). It takes us to the very heart of things … if we let it.

I read once that Sabbath people are rested people, and rested people are resourceful people. There’s truth in that. When we observe the true spirit of Sabbath, when do not rush around frantically simply to keep the religious show on the road, when we don’t allow the Sabbath to become a dull routine, when we don’t allow it to become just part of the weekend, we put ourselves in a place where we may be filled with the fullness of God (Eph. 3:19, NRSV)

Be still and know … (Psalm 46:10).

Even though this Anglican cathedral is a place of stillness, there is nevertheless a lot going on. Priests float noiselessly along the aisles. Volunteers work away at creating welcome. The notice boards tell of a multitude of activities which are part of the cathedral’s witness to the goodness of God (#22).

So too with the Sabbath. Rest does not necessarily mean passivity. It is stillness with a purpose.

Activities will stop briefly at midday when tourists are invited to pause for a short act of worship—probably “Our Father …” (#3), a word of welcome (#12), a brief reflection given by a vicar.

It is not only the stillness which first impresses. Your eyes will soon inevitably be drawn to the lofty vaulted ceilings. This space is immense. It speaks of God’s own immensity (#2). This English Gothic church is an important reminder to us that, all too often, we domesticate God. We create God in our own image. We make God serve our own agenda. Everything here reminds me that my God is too small.

How did they get those vaults up there centuries ago? It would be a great feat even with modern technology and engineering but in the mediaeval period …? It is a spectacular and costly act of creation (#6). It displays boundless imagination and vision. And dedication. And love. No doubt some of the masons, carpenters, and other labourers met their accidental deaths here—for this. My mind goes back to the opening chapters of Genesis: And God ventured to say: “Let us make man in our own image …” God’s audacious risk. Breath-taking vision.

We turn towards the nave and are confronted with a brilliant modern baptistery (2008). The water is continually flowing, and it is big enough to allow full adult immersion (#15). In baptism we are, for a moment, submerged, overwhelmed by the continuing generosity of God. Around the baptistery are inscribed the words from Isaiah 43: 1-2: Do not fear for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. And through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you. This is the heart of Adventism. Called by name. Water welling up to eternal life.

We proceed down the nave towards the East window. The Holy Scriptures always stand open on the lectern (#1). We arrive eventually in front of the altar, the area called the chancel or sanctuary. Until the 17th century, fugitives could flee to the sanctuary, and find a safe haven in front of the altar, holy ground, beyond the immediate reach of the law or their pursuers.

The sanctuary is the sacred place because of the belief that God is physically present in the Eucharist. We may differ over whether Holy Communion is about the actual or symbolic presence of Christ, but, at base, this broken-hearted celebration affirms that Christ has made our journey to God a safe one, which we can make in all confidence. With debates over prophetic times and symbolic meanings, the doctrine of the sanctuary (#24) has a controversial history in the Adventist church. Sadly, this has sometimes obscured the basic teaching—that we are safe with Jesus. This is my body given for you. This is my blood shed for you.

Look up and you will not see a contorted Christ figure on a cross. The cross is empty. He is risen, risen indeed! Alleluia! (#9) A cross bearing a crucified Christ reminds us that we are hopelessly sinful. The empty cross, Jesus liberated by the resurrection, calls us to life with an altogether new quality. It calls for engagement with others. It calls us to responsibility. The occupied cross can lead us to a kind of passivity. We sometimes emphasize Good Friday at the expense of resurrection Sunday. No! The cross is empty. The tomb is empty. He is risen!

While there may be many representations of Christ in church, it is more difficult to represent the Holy Spirit. But if you look up now you will see a flame flickering in the sanctuary lamp—a sign of the eternal presence of Christ with us in the Holy Spirit (#5) The wind blows where it wills … So it is with the Spirit. Sometimes we forget this and believe that the Spirit is only active where our church has a presence. Sometimes we speak as if the Holy Spirit is a kind of fuel which we use to do our work. Nothing could be further from the truth. The wind blows where it wills …

There’s more to see. On one of the aisles, there are a couple of chantries. They are like very small chapels within the cathedral. They were built as places where prayers could be said, masses sung for a very wealthy patron, a lord of the manor. They are based on the idea that you can intercede for the souls of the dead, at least the very rich dead. And that you can earn merit by sheer effort (#10). This is in stark contrast to the more biblical teaching held by Adventists that when you are dead, you are dead. Ashes only (#26). While the idea of an expectant sleep may give solace to the dying, it is not an immediately comforting teaching for those who survive.

For that, you need to go to the return of Jesus. You will have to look harder to find evidence of the doctrine of the second coming of Christ as cherished by Adventists (#25). The traditional teaching of the established church, based on fear of hell, gave it power and leverage. No church can prosper when fear is the underlying motivation. Adventism at its best is clear about this. Sadly, some expressions of Adventism trade in fear. Even so, come Lord Jesus.

Some of the stained glass is mediaeval, mostly representing scenes from the life of Christ. The windows were the ancient version of a multimedia show. The dazzling windows were a vital means of indoctrinating the illiterate majority. Adventists are undeniably good at multimedia communication of the gospel. We are less good at what you find in the Trinity Chapel behind the altar. Its modern stained glass and superb tapestry call us to think about Prisoners of Conscience around the world (1980). We are less good at fighting for justice. We fear political entanglement unlike some of our abolitionist pioneers.

There’s a rare copy of the Magna Carta over in the chapter house. The document is an affirmation of the rights of ordinary folk against hierarchies which so easily overreach themselves and oppress. There’s no time to visit the cloisters where scholars spent long hours on Bible study. They were highly valued. In our church, the scholars have sometimes been regarded as an irritating presence.

It’s time to leave. We exit by the huge West door which admits all who will come. Without condition. Do we sometimes impose conditions on who can come?

The cathedral has been a long time in the making. It inspires me to seek greater faithfulness to God within my own community. In this great church, you will hear whispers of God. This voice from beyond our familiar Adventist experience witnesses authentic discipleship … if we let it.

We take one long last look at the spire. I once heard a guide say that, in strong winds, the spire may move as much as 4 feet—it seems unbelievable. But the metal rods inside the masonry give the spire a flexibility which allows it to stand so nobly. Such agility brings strength. The spire points me away from myself, upwards, outwards. To God.

The test of authentic Adventism is that it will help you, just for a moment, to touch eternity.

Michael Pearson is Principal Lecturer Emeritus at Newbold College in the U.K. For many years he taught topics in ethics, philosophy, and spirituality. He and his wife, Helen, write a weekly blog pearsonsperspectives.com Email him at: [email protected]

24 Apr

BETWEEN NOT AT ALL AND VERY LITTLE: ADVENTISM’S IMPACT ON OUR CULTURE

In

So, the question is: how does Adventism impact the surrounding culture?

The answer I am tempted to offer, from where I sit, is: somewhere on a continuum between “not at all” and “very little.”

But that is not very helpful, nor is it quite fair. A better response would be that the impact is “patchy.”

I write from Europe, from England, where the situation is no doubt different from the place where many readers of this journal live. In the whole of Europe, there is only one Adventist hospital—in Berlin. There are a couple of institutions which bear the name “university,” but they are very small and do not really resemble what I understand by the term. Fine institutions that they are, and well-qualified though the faculties may be, they enroll relatively few students and offer a narrow range of courses rather than a “universe” of options.

There are a few residential homes for the elderly. There are some scattered elementary and secondary schools in European countries, and they no doubt make their mark on local communities. The biggest presence is in what might loosely be called “seminaries.” Many European countries have their own small Adventist colleges which focus largely on the education of intending pastors and biblical studies. As the students find their way into ministry, they do, of course, influence the communities in which they serve.

So, the answer to the original question may be towards the “very little” end of the spectrum. Publishing houses do exist, but the glory days of vegetarian food factories, and sanitoria, like the famous Skodsborg San in Denmark, are gone. Yet all this only deals with Adventist institutions, just one aspect of the picture.

I could tell you another side of the story.

I could tell you about the London Adventist Chorale which has sung at great state occasions—at Buckingham Palace for the golden jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II and at other premier venues like Toronto’s Sky Dome. They sing a wide repertoire from spirituals to the western choral tradition. One music critic said their music is distinguished by “discipline with fervor.” Their conductor, Ken Burton, is the BBC’s go-to person for Gospel music and more.

I could tell you about Herbert Blomstedt, a Swede, who has been one of the world’s leading orchestral conductors for a long time. Now in his mid-1990s, he is still conducting. It is well-known in classical music circles that he is a Christian and a Sabbath keeper who will perform on Sabbaths, but will not practice because performance is joy, but practice is work.

I could tell you about Marianne Thieme in the Netherlands who founded the Party for the Animals in 2002 and became an Adventist four years later. Though this is a secular party, Marianne draws inspiration from the Adventist commitment to vegetarianism and Ellen G. White’s writings more generally. The Party has had representatives at all political levels from the European Parliament to the Dutch Parliament to regional governments.

I could tell you about the Adventist bikers in Serbia, the “Three Angels,” rather than the Hell’s Angels. They combine their passion for Jesus with love for being on the road. They organize rides, do “ordinary stuff,” as they say, and allow the Spirit to work gently.

I could tell you about Alan Collins, an English Adventist sculptor. “The Good Samaritan” sculpture at Loma Linda is his work. He fashioned the “Gilded Angel” atop the tower of the Anglican cathedral in Guildford, southeast of London, as well as its nine statues of “The Gifts of the Spirit.” He also has other work in various public spaces.

I could tell you about the recent prime time TV program in the UK which focused on those places in the world where people live longest. Loma Linda is featured alongside a Greek Island and a Japanese mountain community. Exercise, diet, a sense of community, and finding meaningful work well into retirement were common themes and, in Loma Linda’s case, an undergirding faith in a generous God.

I could tell you about Jean-Claude Verrecchia, my friend and former colleague at Newbold College. He is a New Testament scholar of some distinction who has long helped to direct the French Bible Society.

I could tell you more stories such as these about individuals or small groups who exercise influence in various groups in different countries in Europe. The influence is significant, but largely local. For Seventh-day Adventists in Europe, name recognition remains poor and understanding of what the Church represents is, I suspect, no better.

In trying, with difficulty, to understand these different measures of the Church’s success or “impact,” I have wondered whether the ideas of H. Richard Niebuhr, the American scholar (1894-1962), might help. In his great classic Christ and Culture, he tried to trace the relationship between Christ’s church and the surrounding culture.

Niebuhr suggested five possible relationships—and here I must simplify greatly because of the restrictions of space.

Is Christ against culture? This view holds that the values of Christ are simply at odds with those of the wider secular society.

Should we speak of the Christ of culture? That history is the story of the Spirit of Christ infusing itself at every turn in our civilization?

Perhaps, rather, it is a matter of the Christ above culture. That is to say that all history is a preparation of the soul for communion with God.

Another option is Christ and culture in paradox. There is an ongoing struggle between faith and unbelief, and we are now in the time between the moment of promise and its fulfillment.

Lastly, there is Christ transforming culture. History is the story of humanity’s transforming responses to the presence of God in time.

In the case of the Adventist church in Europe, we might well see elements of all the above, but none is adequate in itself. Adventists do recognize the evils and excesses of the world in which we live. We are to be “in the world but not of it.” That means that we affirm that God’s good Spirit is constantly at work in human affairs. The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes says Jesus of the Holy Spirit to Nicodemus in John 3.8. We do seek to prepare ourselves and others to come into relationship with God. Many of us are inevitably children of our culture, and at some time struggle between faith and unbelief and know what it is to doubt the goodness of God. We do believe in God’s transforming power even if we do not expect it to revolutionize the structures of our societies.

Helpful as Niebuhr’s model may be, it does not offer a full account of our lives lived between the extremities of our flawed societies and the overwhelming love of the Lord of the Church, of the Lord of all.

Adventists in Europe live in among all these tensions. It is clear now that the answer does not lie principally in the establishment of thriving institutions. These reach the end of their usefulness at some stage. We have shown, by much of our organized activity, that we do not believe in an ongoing head-on crash with the wider world. Indeed, in Europe we increasingly seek varying but real involvement of our Church in wider community ventures, as the sterling efforts of all the European country Adventist Development and Relief Agency (ADRA) offices show.

Not only that, but local Adventist churches are increasingly much involved in community services of various kinds. The response to needs which arose during the Covid pandemic and to food poverty show that well enough. We do see the life and work of outstanding Adventist individuals and groups being highly regarded.

So, to come back to the original question about Adventism’s impact on culture, none of the responses I offered at the outset is adequate. No impact at all? Clearly not the case. Little? Yes, but at certain times and in certain places, it has been and is quite marked. Patchy then? But that is not very flattering, and it really does not do the Church justice.

The word “impact” is a strong one implying something forceful, dramatic, muscular, public.

Maybe we can more helpfully talk about “influence” rather than “impact.” Adventist influence where I live is, I think, best described as “local” and “gentle.” Maybe not unlike the impact of Jesus in his own lifetime, in his own culture. For the most part, that influence took a long time to show itself. A slow burn rather than an explosion.

I believe that the wind still blows. The Spirit still moves. That gentle Spirit still woos us with its fierce tenderness.

Michael Pearson is Principal Lecturer Emeritus at Newbold College in the UK. For many years he taught topics in ethics, philosophy, and spirituality. He and his wife, Helen, write a weekly blog pearsonsperspectives.com Email him at: [email protected]