in northern England.
In both places, incarnational missions were planted in difficult surroundings. It took remarkable leadership, with Aidan described as ‘abstemious, ascetic, industrious, fervent, . . . constantly on the move,’ and it took remarkable teamwork as well (Moorman, 1980, pp. 18–9). As his monks ventured south into Anglo-Saxon territory, they encountered a culture marked by violent tribal clashes, but also intense loyalty within the tribes and warrior bands. The nomadic people had a reputation for being ferocious, but they also valued hospitality and friendship. As the Celts began to make themselves at home, they learned how relationships were made in these new surroundings, and in the midst of this adjustment the ‘Celtic Way of Evangelism’ was born (Hunter III, 2000).5
We must be careful not to overstate the uniqueness of the Celtic mission. It drew from a spirituality deeply rooted in the Scriptures, in the Desert Fathers and in the forms of organized community life – monasticism – popping-up all over Europe. Still, some distinctive features emerged in the Celtic church that reflected its situation. One important novelty was the highly mobile apostolic team that could pack up and move out, much as the nomadic people it sought to reach with the gospel. Eventually the Celtic Christians settled down like their sponsoring communities at Lindesfarne or Iona, but missionary monks continued to venture forth on long journeys into uncharted territory – travelling light with flexible itineraries.
When they crossed tribal boundaries or moved from one clan to the next, they set up camp close to the local centre of community life, where the chieftains and their inner circles were gathered. The proximity allowed these missionary monks to establish relationships with local leaders, offer them hospitality and render services like health care. They were great fraternizers! This could be a dangerous operation at times, but the monks were effective at winning over their neighbours. Their intentions were clear; the alternative way of life they offered – free of aggression, suspicion, self-interest – was already communicating the love and generosity of their Lord.
One of the most tangible legacies of Celtic adaptability was the vast network of great stone crosses that marked the places where the old was made new, where a people was restored and made whole by the powerful symbol of Christ’s victory over death. No aspect of life or creation was beyond the reach of Christ’s redemptive rule. Jesus was the Lord of life, and the Celts let everyone know this in the shape and story of the cross (De Waal, 1997; Sheldrake, 1996).
Too much has been made of the differences between Celtic and later Roman models of evangelization. Certainly after the arrival of Augustine of Canterbury in 597 a new era of Christian activity began in the southern regions of England, and it bore the stamp of Pope Gregory the Great, not Lindisfarne and Iona. The ecclesial intentions were clear.
Still, Augustine had permission to adapt Latin tradition to the English people – even in the liturgy – so long as what was most ‘devout, religious, and right’ remained intact (Bede, 1.27, 1990, p. 79). This meant that Augustine’s mission had to learn many of the same lessons about contextual ministry that had been previously learned by the Celts. Like their apostolic teams, his band of co-workers settled next to the king of Kent, Ethelbert, and quickly established a lasting friendship and a remarkable capacity for listening, loving and serving.
Living in proximity put the Christian way of life on display. Here is what the medieval historian Bede said about this life:
[T]hey began to emulate the life of the apostles and the primitive Church. They were constantly at prayer; they fasted and kept vigils; they preached the word of life to whomsoever they could. They regarded worldly things as of little importance, and accepted only the necessities of life from those they taught. They practised what they preached, and were willing to endure any hardship, and even to die for the truth which they proclaimed. Before long a number of heathen, admiring the simplicity of their holy lives and the comfort of their heavenly message, believed and were baptized (Bede, 1.26, 1990, p. 76).
It was here that the new Christian community provided an alternative to the violence endemic to Anglo-Saxon society. It also cared for the sick and showed the more powerful ‘magic’ of a God who not only heals, feeds and clothes his children, but redeems them as well.
We’re told that the first public introduction of the new faith came at the king’s request, in an open-air gathering where Augustine’s little community of missionaries sang, carried a beautiful silver cross and a picture of Christ in stately procession. But they carried no weapons! Instead, the monks paraded and Augustine preached. They were armed with the word of God only. This multimedia presentation may have been a startling introduction to the Christian faith, but it seems to have worked.
Pageantry and pomp, boldness and beauty impressed the king and his inner court. Not surprisingly, under his influence, thousands would eventually be baptized into the new faith, including the king himself . . . but only because Augustine, like the Celts before him, learned how to live among the lost, bringing light and life, even beauty, into the strange new culture he was only beginning to understand. Out of this classic mission venture came new churches and, indeed, a new ecclesial outpost – Canterbury – for reaching southern England.
The Celtic and Roman missionaries
moved out from existing centres to engage people beyond the existing rim of the church;
combined mission as ‘go’ with an attractive way of life that beckoned, ‘come and join us’;
practised incarnational mission – mission from within the cultures of the people they sought to reach;
were rooted in the story of God and invited people to join it.
Benedict’s guidance of souls
The missionary identity we see in Augustine’s mission, with its centrifugal and incarnational impulses, continued in the Benedictines – the most resilient form of Christian community for the next 1,000 years of the church. When the adventurous young Benedict began his communal experiment around the year 525 he had nearly 200 years of monastic wisdom to turn to. He knew the Desert Fathers particularly well, and had also learned of some of the organized communities that had sprung up across southern Europe. But on a rocky hill (Monte Cassino) about 130 km south-east of Rome, he put together a new plan for monastic life that fitted the needs of his own place and time – what became known as the Rule of St Benedict.
It was a grim period for the church, with Rome under the control of one barbarian kingdom after another, and many leaders compromised by false teachings about the dual nature of Christ – his divinity and humanity. Italy and much of Europe was, in effect, the scene of constant power struggles in both church and society. For this reason and, more personally, to work out his own salvation, Benedict founded what would become the most important expression of Christian community for centuries to come. In a complex and troubled world, he happened on a very simple idea: ‘we are about to open a school for God’s service,’ he declared in the prologue to the Rule. He added, ‘As our lives progress, the heart expands and with the sweetness of love we move down the paths of God’s commandments’ (Meisel and Mastro, 1975, p. 45).
So, right at the start, we see how his incarnation of the gospel was a communal endeavour, focused on spiritual growth and serving God out of love. Benedict referred to it as a ‘guidance
