even more significant. In a novel act, the mixed membership of this community re-enacted the story by drinking it in. Gathered at table, the fellowship of believers said the words: ‘We give thanks to you, our Father, for the holy vine of David, your servant, which you have made known to us’ (Didache 9.2). At this point, the common cup of blessing was passed, to be followed by the blessing of a broken loaf of bread, and then thanksgivings and petitions. Among the petitions was a prayer that the Lord would ‘remember . . . your church, deliver her from evil, make her complete in your love, and gather her from the four winds into your kingdom you have prepared for her’ (Didache 10.3).
In effect, a new kind of community had formed by grounding itself in an old story. Listening, loving and serving, and building new relationships were necessary ingredients as Antioch became a new centre of missionary endeavour – moving with the gospel of Jesus Christ in service to God and neighbour.
The word of life from the north to the south of England
Participating in God’s story in Jesus Christ continued to be a characteristic feature of Christian communities in the dark and troubled centuries that followed the collapse of Rome. The British Isles were severely impacted by the retreat of Roman authority, leaving Christians isolated and with few resources to endure the social and political instability that followed.
Saint Patrick worked wonders in Ireland, but it was not until the year 563 that a thriving Christian presence came about in what is now Scotland. An Irish missionary named Columba planted a church on the island of Iona, and for over 30 years it served as a mission outpost to the Pictish tribes. Another Irish monk named Aidan did much the same thing at another ‘holy’ island, Lindisfarne, in 635, this time serving the Northumbrian and, eventually, Anglo-Saxon populations 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