History and Spirit

Christian Advent

2009-12-05T22:35:00.002Z

Does 'Advent' have to be this big 'Christian' phenomenon which 'the church' has an obligation to pontificate about - rather than to listen carefully to the voices outside it, to discern the potentially truer understanding which lies within them?

An alternate take on the meaning of advent for Christians might place more - much more - emphasis on the story of the three Magi. If you read the Gospel of Matthew, it's the FOREIGNERS, the OUTSIDERS, the NON-JEWS who come from afar to see and celebrate the coming of the newborn king. NOT the covenantal people: they do not recognise him in this way. Christians have the same problem. The Christmas story is important and powerful precisely BECAUSE it speaks in a special way to outsiders. Let the outsiders come. Let them celebrate. But don't let's start telling them that their gold, frankincense and myrrh aren't 'Christian'. Because the Matthaean narrative defies us to speculate that the TRUE understanding of Advent lies definitively *within* the community. It doesn't. There are many more magi among us today, living outside the community - wishing to bring their gold, frankincense and myrrh. Let's not try to tell them they've been following the wrong star.

Hmmph. I think that's what's wrong with the Christmas sermon that tries to make Christianity counter-cultural, a protest movement against the decadent moral sludge of 'modernity'. Christianity is about the fulfilment of culture, the enrichment and embracing of it. That's what Christians need to be taught. They do not and should not be taught to feel embattled, to need to counter 'modernity' - to treat it as an 'enemy'. To feel like 'the world' just doesn't understand. That's Johannine theology, and I think it's bad. You don't find it on the lips of the Synoptic Jesus. He's not leading a protest movement against 'the world'. To love the world, to love our enemies, may be to feel critical of them. But we must first reach the stage where we are truly happy to concede that this world - these enemies - may in fact have rather a lot to teach us in ways we're not quite prepared to expect. That should always be the first - and is perhaps even the only worthwhile - point of emphasis. It's that preparedness for the unexpected - the preparedness for being completely undercut in our assumptions - that Advent (the birth of the child-God in the lowly manger) is at heart all about.

Experimental Philosophy

2009-06-15T13:25:00.004+01:00

The true consists in what is valuable.

In what is valuable lies truth.

The 'skill' of determining what is more and what is less valuable (and what is more and what is less true) is not reducible solely to acquired human characteristics, nor to the motion of particles.

Discernment of truth and of value is never full and complete.

Voltaire and the Philosophy of History

2009-05-24T03:21:00.004+01:00

'History is but a pack of tricks we play on the dead'. The words are Voltaire's - and characteristic of him they are too: gently provocative and not without some ring of truth to them either. I read somewhere (I forget where) that Voltaire coined the phrase 'philosophy of history' and remarks of this sort fit naturally within the oeuvre of a writer who was much preoccupied with the course of history, the passing of time and the meaning of progress. One of the chief targets of Voltaire's sarcastic arrows was the Christian church, a church which to his mind had been ravaged and made to look absurd by the new uncertainties and cultural shifts which had accompanied the movement towards a more modern age. 'Movement', it should be stressed, rather than progress. For whereas some more optimistic thinkers perceived in the new age of mechanisation and mass production, in the burgeoning of new and purportedly less constricted cultural forms, an inexorable forward 'push' in the course of human affairs, Voltaire resisted the temptation to see things this way.

It would be a mistake to hail him as a visionary in this respect, as an inaugurator of a new discourse concerned with the nature and problems of history. Questions concerning the nature and trajectory (or lack thereof) of history had puzzled thinkers for many previous centuries and had received a wide variety of answers. Voltaire's suspicion of progress (was it really happening?) fits within a broader trend here. But he undoubtedly played an important part in the move toward formally recognising the importance of a sub-category of philosophical questions concerning the character of history. These questions would play a leading role in shaping some of the key landmarks of 19th century philosophy - particularly, the works of Hegel and Marx.

I don't know if he was onto anything but he certainly heightened awareness of these questions - questions which are a matter of continuing interest to me.

My Top 20 Philosophy/Theology Books

2009-04-03T08:04:00.007+01:00

My selection focuses in the main on works which exclude from their purview a particular focus on the exegesis of Biblical texts. The theory of interpretation is discussed in a number of them, however. I would rank them as doing the most to shape my thinking about philosophy and theology out of all the books I've read in the fields. I will compile a similar list of books dealing with the New Testament and early church in due course.

20. Denys Turner, Faith Seeking.
19. Richard Swinburne, Faith and Reason.
18. John Cottingham, The Spiritual Dimension.
17. W.D. Davies, Christian Engagements with Judaism.
16. Owen Chadwick, Hensley Henson: A Study in the Conflict between Church and State.
15. Herbert McCabe, Faith within Reason.
14. Olivier Clement, The Roots of Christian Mysticism.
13. Robert Morgan, The Nature of New Testament Theology.
12. John Macquarrie, A History of Twentieth Century Religious Thought.
11. John Barton and Robert Morgan, The Oxford Companion to Biblical Interpretation.
10. George Pattison, A short course in the Philosophy of Religion.
9. John M. Rist, Augustine: Ancient Thought Baptized.
8. Rowan Williams, On Christian Theology.
7. Keith Ward, God, Chance and Necessity.
6. Herbert McCabe, God Still Matters.
5. R.G. Collingwood, The Idea of History.
4. Ian Ker, Newman and the Fullness of Christianity.
3. Andrew Louth, Discerning the Mystery.
2. Blaise Pascal, Pensees.
1. Henri de Lubac, Paradoxes of Faith.

John Gray and the secular fundamentalists

2009-03-30T23:14:00.003+01:00

A nice article by John Gray on secularism.

How to be an atheist: A lesson in Muscularity

2009-03-11T04:16:00.003Z

I begin this post with an excerpt from an essay in Denys Turner's excellent book 'Faith Seeking', which occurs at the conclusion of the Yale philosopher-theologian's challenge to contemporary atheists. Turner writes as follows right at the conclusion of his discussion:

'So, 'How to be an atheist?' It is not easy; you need to work at it. Be intellectually adult, get an education, get yourself a discipline; resist all temptation to ask such questions as you do not know in principle can be answered, being careful to suppress any which might seem to push thought off civilized limits; be reasonable, lest you find yourself being committed to an excessive rationality; and have the good manners to scratch no itches which occur in intellectually embarassing places - at least in public...if you want to be an atheist, then, it is necessary only to find that the world is to be a platitudinously dull fact. But, I warn you, to be as resolute as it takes in the conviction of such cosmic dullness requires much hard work, not a little training, and a powerful mental asceticism. Anything less resolute, and you run the risk of affliction by theological itches...' [Faith Seeking, p.22]

Perhaps the thing I like most about this description is its stern focus on the drab conformity of much atheism, which consists in its sweeping under the proverbial carpet of life's big questions. The image which comes most readily to my mind in this context is the desire of Adam and Eve to 'hide' from God in the garden of Eden, post fruit taking, a desire which - Paul assures us (1 Cor. 15:22) - leads only to death. In Christ, meanwhile, hiding is unnecessary. Being made alive involves coming out into the open; it involves countering and reacting against the drab conformity which life in hiding demands.

However, when light comes into the world, to evoke an image from John's Gospel, some people prefer to stay in the darkness. The darkness is comfort in numbers, the realm of uncontroversy and macho back slapping; the darkness is a world in which deaths are plotted, and where the demise of the wilfully unrecognised light is hoped for. The darkness refuses to stretch out its arms to its deliverer and instead reaches to its own deliverance, which it finds confirmed in others doing the same thing. Johannine imagery, for all its worth here, only takes us so far.

What Turner's comment invites us to understand is that 'atheism' - conceived in its opposition to Christian faith - thrives in its contemporary forms on being 'civilized', staying 'rational', and refusing to move into 'uncivilized' or 'irrational' circles or trains of thoughts. The complaint owes its urgency, I think, not only to the author's Marxist sympathies. It also comes out of a genuine understanding of how the Pharisaic legalism which the Gospels can so strongly protest against can work. Not, you will understand, that I think Jesus was 'out to get' the Pharisees or to rebel against 'Pharisaism' per se: it is more likely, certainly, that he saw in Pharisaism much that was worthy of admiration, much to be commended - but also the potential for abuse, serious abuse - and this was something, I think, which certain Pharisees were themselves not particularly given to seeing. In a way, Pharisaism in its negative guises (the guises which Jesus protested against) and Atheism (that is, Muscular, Legalistic, Atheism with a capital A) are natural bedfellows.

They both start from principles of order and rationality, on the need for being civilized. And they take strong exception to acts of dissidence or words of complaint against them. And if we return to Denys Turner's words, they both require a stringent intellectual regime to support them, in which asking certain questions is ruled out de rigueur - on the basis of some unstated, hidden, a priori reasoning. Christian faith, and Christian lives, are best realised very often as acts of dissidence, as sustained attempts to break through barriers of order and rationality which are constructed in the name of reason, order and being civilized. Love, and loving behaviour cannot be relied upon to conform to these expectations; the holy spirit, the spirit of love, is too unbridled for the harness of pure reason, pure order, pure civilization, as they are conceived by Muscular Atheists. For their constructions - made apart from a political stance which finds its origin in the desire for love of God and neighbour (does love consist above all in its rationality??) - miss the mark very profoundly. And this is so even while the most collegiate support for the atheist worldview is available among friendly peers who would also sweep a certain kind of question under the carpet as part of the intellectual training in rationality and being civilized which Good Atheist Thought relies upon.

As for Christianity, meanwhile, the only wisdom, the only reason, consists in the love of God and of neighbour (which is like it). And here, a point which many Christians themselves miss needs to be made: to love as Christ demands is not to sit cosily in intellectual communion, with regimes of reason and order comfortably in place. For that is what the Pharisees and the Atheists do. To love is to believe, to be Christlike, and to pick up our crosses and follow: to love is to do what is right and to feel and think it throught doing it. And doing means challenging, overturning, reinventing, creating. This means, very often, doing what the legalists would have you not do: it involves overthrowing their tables, cracking the intellectual whip and breaking down the barriers of order and reason which they construct to maintain their communities of cosy control and peer support. God's love seeks people out: it won't let them hide. It's a lesson many Christians - myself included - need constantly to remind ourselves of.

Aelred of Rievaulx on Friendship

2009-02-23T23:09:00.005Z

Spiritual Friendship by Aelred of Rievaulx, the 12th century Christian mystic who lived as a Cistercian monk in Yorkshire, is a beautiful and well known tract which is well worth a read. It certainly qualifies, I think, as a 'classic' of Christian spirituality. I'm about half way through it (the book takes a dialogue form - in style it is in this respect not dissimilar to Plato - and the Aelred character is the centrepiece and a compelling discussant). I reproduce here one of my favourite lines from the text, where Aelred asks his discussant Ivo the following:

'Have you forgotten that Scripture says: 'He that is a friend loves at all times' (Prov. 17:17). Our [St.] Jerome also, as you recall, says: 'Friendship which can end was never true friendship' (Jerome, Letter 3.6 in Patrologia Latina 22:335). That friendship cannot endure without charity having been more than adequately established. Since then in friendship eternity blossoms, truth shines forth, and charity grows sweet, consider whether you ought to separate the name of wisdom from these three'.

The striking thing about the text is the essential link it insists upon between eternity and friendship, and with truth and charity, and finally with wisdom. All this links beautifully with at least two crucial biblical motifs: God as love/charity (1 Jn. 4:16) and Christ as truth (Jn. 14:6). And the link between wisdom and the presence of Christ (so e.g. Col. 3:16) is also clearly in view. It's a clarion call to remember that true love inextricably reflects and exists in the truth and love of God in Jesus Christ. Aelred, to repeat, is well worth a read.

A Review of Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion

2009-02-19T14:03:00.003Z

The book aims to put the 'scientific' boot into 'religion'. In this respect, its author knows he is doing nothing new. Since the 1800s, popular works have been written which have described how 'science' should render 'religious' beliefs and practices obsolete. Dawkins is in some ways a sophisticated contributor to this discourse - though this can be explained for the most part in terms of the competence of his rhetorical sleights of hand, whether intentional or not - and in a number of ways disappointing.

For a start, his thesis is not that science 'disproves' religion. That would be - according to his own criteria of judgement - something he could only show by publishing in a peer-reviewed scientific journal evidence to that effect. And Dawkins does not claim to possess such evidence. So, the author is careful throughout to avoid using scientific jargon to describe the project he's engaged in. Herein lies the book's rhetorical sophistication. It presents itself as the argument of a scientistic rationalist. But it does not attempt to root its assertions concerning the non-existence of God (it is 99.99% that he does not exist, we are told) in scientific proofs.

That leads to an interesting fact about the book. You're not reading science; you're reading philosophy (and, dare I say it, theology). Dawkins knows these aren't his fields. He's curiously damning about one of them ('theology') and doesn't really mention the other ('philosophy'). This is an important fact I've discussed elsewhere. Interestingly, all of the God Delusion's 'philosophers' are atheists or agnostics, whereas all of its 'theologians' are theists. This rhetorical tactic of separating people into 'philosophers' and 'non-philosophers' on the basis of their belief in God is hardly charitable. Especially when you consider how many of the greatest 'philosophers' the world's ever seen have been theists: Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus, Augustine, Descartes, Leibniz, Berkeley, Kant, Hegel and, amongst modern day philosophers, e.g. Plantinga. The failure to explore the relationship between philosophy and theism in the book is baffling.

Now it's true that there are lots of atheistic philosophers too. Everyone knows about Bertrand Russell and David Hume. But the God question didn't just disappear when their arguments appeared - at least, not in the minds of very many of the world's best philosophers. Is this important fact considered by Dawkins?

No, not really...he's more interested in pursuing the unsophisticated arguments of unsophisticated theists (his highly questionable claim to have refuted the cosmological and ontological arguments for the existence of God apart). And that, for most people (including perhaps himself) will be satisfactory. Fundamentalist believers make easy targets for many people, and it hardly takes an Oxford professor to take a swipe at them for most people to believe they're pretty nuts. What you might expect from an Oxford professor, though, is a little more respect for and awareness of the nature and history of philosophical argumentation, especially if that's what he's engaging in.

Many very eminent scientists are theists - contrary to what Dawkins implies in his book - and he doesn't confront in the God Delusion the kinds of ideas they might seek to offer in opposition to his. Check out John Barrow, John Polkinghorne, Freeman Dyson or Arthur Peacocke. And as for the philosophers, you'll hardly hear a peep from Dawkins about Plato, Hume, Aquinas or Kant. And that seems rather a shame, because these are the guys many of the philosophical academy would turn to if they want to get serious about the history of theism and philosophical arguments for or against it.

Philosophy, however, can't and doesn't work like science. Atheism and 'Reason' won't be true bedfellows until it can. And it's worth emphasising that very many philosophers - including very many atheists - see no reason to believe the harmonisation of 'science' and 'philosophy' will ever happen. But why?!

Philosophical ideas constitute 'evidence' (one of Dawkins' favourite words) of a very peculiar kind. It's not easy to twist them into irrefutable proofs about the external world, as centuries of logicians have found out (often to their dismay). Words and ideas are very tricky customers. It's very difficult to know for sure what they can and can't tell us about what's true, what's real. How good a job can they do? To take a simple example: if there were a God (and how would we know for sure that he was there?), how much could words and arguments do to describe 'him' and how much would it be beyond their power to describe? Any answer to such a question relies on the individual insights of the person who answers. If a person makes the decision beforehand that 'God' cannot possibly be describable in language, then it's no surprise if the person doesn't end up believing in a God knowable only through words and arguments. If, on the other hand, one begins with the premise that a certain combination of words and arguments could 'prove' God's existence or character, then investigation into the presence of such a God could proceed. But the ground rules have to be established. That's what Dawkins (writing in his new role as a philosopher) fails to understand and it's one reason why his academic reviewers have been so unimpressed by his book.

Consider the following: someone decides that 'God' must be the character described with complete accuracy in the pages of the Bible OR just a big fantasy. You choose either one or the other, if those are the only options, don't you...But should these be the only two options? For centuries, Christians (and Jews) have opposed simple minded interpretations of the Bible and have fully admitted that it's riddled with problematic statements and self contradictory claims. It doesn't stop them believing in God. God is more than the Bible. The Bible is first and foremost an important historical record. Only once it is interpreted as history can it be used for the purposes of philosophy or theology. But these sensible, considered positions aren't addressed by modern anti-religion polemicists such as Dawkins. And the failure to address them makes the God Delusion inadequate as a work of philosophy. And since it is not 'science' either, what is it?

Well, it's certainly a crowd pleaser. Witness the statements of applause in the dustjacket of the book. But is 'truth' being conveyed to the crowd in a 'reasonable' way which handles the 'evidence' fairly? Hardly. If it were, the book would be in a top scientific journal. Whole areas of philosophy would have become no-go areas. The great religious institutions (all of which pay attention to the findings of science, at least in their modern incarnations, despite Dawkins' suspicions) would have closed down. And yet none of this has happened.

The best conclusion to draw is that the God Delusion fails in its most basic ambitions - to show that all ideas of 'God' should be considered as species of 'delusion' - but nevertheless succeeds as an entertaining but extended rant, whose chief value is in undermining naive kinds of theism (the kinds, the author insists, which persist amongst almost all 'religious' people). For those who continue to seek God, however, the 'God Delusion' will not offer an insurmountable barrier. Dawkins himself sees the attractions of Jesus. 'Atheists for Jesus', he advocates. Well, if Jesus was God or the son of God (whatever we take these words to mean), he's clearly not far away from 'getting God' after all. His real truck is with unthinking, dishonest fundamentalism. This is something he has in common with many of the world's most religious people. The real 'delusion' is that of the insufficiently thoughtful.

Prayer in the Daily Mail

2009-02-02T15:13:00.006Z

Today's Daily Mail ran with a story about how a hospital nurse who asked an elderly hospital patient if she wanted her to pray for her has been suspended from work and faces the sack. Read more here.

There's a lesson to be learned from this story, although it's certainly not the lesson which the Daily Mail journalists were trying to sell. What they have to say we've heard a thousand times before. Woe is Britain; cherished traditions are falling away; Christianity is persecuted; political correctness runs wild. No, these perennial Daily Mail subjects are not the ones I want to talk about here. What's more interesting is to look at what they're actually trying to defend - whether they know it or not - in this specific instance.

To judge from the information contained in the article, the nurse in question had "asked" her patient if she wanted her to pray for her. Now that's important. I very much doubt any of the health officials the article mentions would have had a problem if the nurse had tottered into a quiet corner to say a few words of prayer on her behalf without asking. Then there's the underlying implication which attaches to the fact that she asked if she would like to be prayed for. Was permission needed? If not, what was the point in asking? The answer to this question takes in a number of issues and relates above all to the form of Christianity which the nurse was giving expression to.

Of course, the whole exchange has all the hallmarks of Biblicist evangelicalism (the article stiplulates that the nurse is a worshipper in just such a tradition, a 'Baptist' one). In this tradition, people can and should be put on the spot and asked difficult questions; not only that, but people are asked if there's anything they should or might like to have prayed for on their behalf. In itself, this way of doing things no doubt irritates some people (though not the woman concerned in this instance) but is not really particularly harmful.

But what if someone is lying on their deathbed and you are from a tradition which believes that people who don't 'follow Christ' (in the way you see fit) will be damned. Then the 'prayer' question can represent a whole different agenda. The underlying implication is 'I'll let you know that I'd like to pray for you right now, because if you don't submit to Christ pretty soon, you'll be stewing with Satan before too long: prayer, therefore, is the least I can do'. If that was anything like the impression left by the nurse on the woman she was dealing with, or with anyone else for that matter, it would be no surprise whatsoever if complaints were made.

A final point is worth mentioning here and it relates to the ethics, not to mention the eticet, of prayer. Prayer can and should happen whateverthe people being prayed for think about it. They don't have to know about it. To pray for someone, I don't, and should never, need a permission slip. In this respect, prayer is like forgiveness. It should be done whether my adversary forgives ME or not. Or like love. I must love my enemies whether they love me or not.

The person who asks someone permission to pray for them is not listening hard enough either to God or to their neighbour. 'Would you like me to pray for you?' is not a question any Christian should ever have to ask. They should be praying for the person concerned anyway. Underlying their prayers should be the belief that deep down, in the heart of hearts of the person they are praying for - however far from God they might seem, that person WANTS to be prayed for. Now that's far more non-PC. Questions of this sort, of course, are - alas - not the Daily Mail's strong suit.

Medieval Philosophy

2009-01-30T07:42:00.002Z

Here's part 2 of a great discussion of Medieval Philosophy between Bryan Magee and Anthony Kenny.

Obama's Inaugural Preachers

2009-01-25T08:38:00.005Z

So, Barack Obama's presidential election was accompanied by rituals of prayer by two leading figures in America's diverse Christian community, Bishop Gene Robinson (the only gay bishop of the Episcopalian church, the US wing of the Anglican church) and Pastor Rick Warren (a self identified Biblical Christian who 'planted' his own church, has earned millions of pounds in the process, and looks very unfavourably upon such 'liberal' causes as e.g. the practice of homosexuality).

In a nutshell, we have here the polar extremes not just of American Christianity but of the American psyche itself. Robinson, who defied church policy to accept his nomination as bishop represents the progressive wing of the Anglican communion whose ideals wait for no (wo)man - especially if s/he is an African....and Warren, the entrepreneurial demagogue preacher, replete with cosy conservative values and political contacts: the businessman Christian who speaks for 'everyman'.

I don't condemn either because they don't wash enough feet (though how many feet *do* they wash?) nor does it sadden me to see the unquestioned stranglehold of Christianity on American public ceremony...since good Christianity is good for everyone, this blog says. The problem is getting it on stage!

What *is* worrying, however, is what the whole affair brings to light: that the (milder) voice in the middle so rarely gets an outing in American culture - in politics or anywhere else. It's always the mavericks who get the attention. Perhaps I'm deluded if I think it's any different here.in the UK. Ahem, Boris Johnson and Stephen Fry. And of course our mavericks come as dripping with prejudice as does any American maverick. But really: couldn't a (single?) more unifying voice have been found for an historic occasion such as Obama's moment of accession? And would it have been so lamentable if that voice had happened not to be a maverick champion of some divisive cause? Maybe another time. Or maybe it's the case that voices of this kind are really rather hard to find. Can this really be so? O tempora, o mores.

Economics and Moral Progress

2009-01-14T03:16:00.011Z

The economist must be a good utilitarian. He must want to see the greatest good provided for the greatest number. His job, amongst other things, is to play a role in enabling this to happen. Yes, he might admit, 'good' has its problems of definition. These, however, are seldom too great a cause for concern. It can be taken for granted for the most part that what is good can be distinguished with confidence from what is less good. And insofar as distinctions cannot be made, an increase in what an economist would call 'information' would hopefully - though (I hope he'd say) not necessarily - help remedy the problem.

The economist must, I think, be a believer in moral progress - and at the very least, in the possibility of moral progress - for society as a whole. He need not, however, be a committed political or social theorist. If push came to shove, he could conceive of himself as a (kind of) 'rule' utilitarian, or 'act' utilitarian, or 'preference' utilitarian. He could even, one supposes, disavow the underlying philosophical validity of any form of utilitarianism altogether - so long, that is, as 'private' judgements of this kind did not come to affect his 'economic' output. The analytical output of the economist, one might say, should orient itself solely to explorations of how far an increase in 'good' or welfare might be achieved, however much the economist in question doubts how far the hypothetical 'good' or welfare in his models will (ever) find itself transferred into the world at large.

How secure, though, is the economist's underlying assumption that moral progress can, has and will occur? The problems of definition here are immense. How do we measure morality? And what might moral progress consist in? Better health care? Better education? More equality? (How, moreover, should 'good' in each of these spheres be conceived?) The economist could and arguably should suggest all of them, at any rate, as necessary criteria. What, though, if 'progress' in each of the spheres in question were to bring about some cataclysmic event or events? The moral progress (if that is what it was) which human cultures made from the time of classical antiquity to the twentieth century was, after all, a 'progress' which included much increased potential for mass-suffering, murder and genocide. The mechanisms of control which civilisation had built up - through its own 'economic' institutions of education, health and civil service - led to these abuses. Economic institutions, of course, were also necessary for the combatting of sinister social influences in these spheres - albeit that they were often populated by negligent people of poor judgement. Even if this is so, it is some task to find some coherent doctrine of moral progress when we come to look at the total picture of our - not exactly very blameless - postcolonial, postimperial world. Such, of course, is the dilemma of postmodern man - whose confidence in the forward proceeding, upward trajectory of the historical process has been justly diminished by the horrors of the twentieth century. Must he, on their basis, abandon all hope of moral progress - in this or any other culture? And must he for this reason make a bad, or perhaps simply a compromised, economist?

What is certain is that he must take due account of the full extent of the warning of the twentieth century experience. That century - which in the popular consciousness is regarded as an 'age of progress' no less than the two centuries which preceded it - may well in future generations be viewed as nothing less than an age of (sinister) 'progress' towards the mass extinction of human beings in an overpopulated, overheated world. Historians of all stripes will be for the present inclined to take the view that the progress humanity made during and leading up to the twentieth century resulted in the most catastrophic humanitarian disasters ever witnessed. The utilitarian philosopher must conclude that if moral progress is being made, or has been made, across the human world as a whole, it came in the last century at some considerable price. The moralist must observe also that a persistent problem of the twentieth century experience was the behaviour of groups who felt able to justify bizarre and horrendous actions on the basis of some or other moral or scientific prerogative. Both morality (including utlilitarian moralities) and science can be and are abused by their practitioners. This abuse - and one might even go so far as to call it a systemic abuse which is endemic in our social structures where imperfect agents go about constantly making decisions in the absence of full information - should be held up forever as a constant barrier and limitation to any confidently expressed doctrine of moral progress.

As far as I'm concerned, insofar as twenty first century man can even dare to think in terms of moral progress (and, in his societal institutions, he must surely remain in some degree committed - as the economist is, at least in his professional life - to precisely such thoughts), an overwhelming sense of human limitedness and the appropriateness of feelings of humility concerning the insurmountable moral problems which bare upon human processes of decision making should surely characterise his outlook. This much need barely be said: it should be obvious enough that it is so. It is alarming that confident proclamations of the 'progress' made by human rationality in and through the natural sciences should sometimes so obviously lack this utterly necessary dimension. The deep problem, perhaps, is that humans have failed to doubt in appropriate degree the validity and authority of their own moral judgements. This is by no means a new problem. And however much 'progress' is made, what prospect is there that this perennial issue will melt away as we 'proceed' to new heights? There is much here, we should remember, that should trouble even the most confident economist whose work bears the hallmark of his utilitarian assumptions. The human world, we must always remember, is positioned delicately but unalterably in the palm of a totally unmeasurable, untameable, 'hand'.

Peace and Proportionality

2009-01-06T16:51:00.008Z

The horrendous events of the past weeks in Israel and the Gaza strip have given rise to some tentative discussions of the ethics of war. An important word on all sides in these discussions has been 'proportionate'. Is the Israeli response to the Hamas rockets 'proportionate'? Some Israeli commentators have distanced themselves from the idea of proportionality altogether. War, they say, is not about proportionality. It's about subduing the enemy.

Ideally, one supposes, we can all agree that subduing the enemy need not amount to killing them all off and razing their territories. And if it's possible to presume this much - that killing all one's enemies is not a necessary or preferable course of action - then an implicit argument for proportionate responses would seem to be in place.

Of course, many conquering peoples have found down the centuries that peace can be easier to achieve through mass murder than through accommodation and discussion. By simply wiping out one's enemies, one can (perhaps) achieve peace without weighing up niceties in military engagement. Peace, of course, for the conquerors. No peace, apart from in death, for the conquered.

Surely, this attitude is to be deplored. What hope, though, does the idea of 'proportionality' offer in its place? How can we think of 'proportionality' in such contexts? Can it be calculated, for example, by the number of dead soldiers or children, or by the number of deaths or bombs launched? Was Hiroshima proportionate? Was Iraq? Can we ever look at military campaigns and assess how 'proportionate' was their armed response? No doubt most of us are devoted to thinking in such terms - however we might go about configuring and calibrating the variables.

Rather than merely wondering whether the Israelis are being proportionate, however, perhaps we should also be asking ourselves whether the kind of peace they are trying to achieve - and which we as a world community are encouraging them and the Palestinians to pursue - is the right kind of peace. The most basic assumption we need to make and to insist upon in this context is that all military acts of killing are evil acts which should not occur. It needs to be made clear that peace of a good sort - of the kind we should like to see - cannot and will not be achieved by killings. For the biggest problem in the Middle East is that both sides are of the view that killing is a good way of making peace. It is a vote winner. It raises cheers. It offers the chance for 'vengeance' or 'revenge'.

The biggest battle we face in the middle east, we ought surely to say, is a battle where victory must be over hearts rather than territories. It is for this reason that talk of proportionality will never do or be enough. Peace, rather than 'proportionality', is what needs to be talked about and to be insisted upon. The greatest tragedy of the present situation is that talk of this kind is playing such a minimal role.

Owen Chadwick interviewed

2008-12-30T17:52:00.005Z

Amongst the great delights which the Cambridge anthropologist Alan Macfarlane has provided to viewers of youtube and of his website is this interview with the great historian Owen Chadwick. I'm currently myself listening to the interview - a particular highlight so far is Chadwick's identification of Hitler as the key reason behind his turn to Christianity.

The Date of Christmas

2008-12-23T09:49:00.008Z

It is widely known that the tradition which ascribes the birth of Jesus to the 25th December is far from historically secure. If an origin is to be found for the tradition of celebrating Christmas on the 25th December, it is securely available in the late 4th century writing of John Chrysostom (or John of the golden tongue), the influential Greek speaking preacher of the Antiochene church in Asia Minor.

John is one of those fourth century preachers who has left a huge volume of written material to posterity (the same can be said of only very few figures of the pre-4th century church). He was a supremely impressive public speaker (hence his nickname), but he was also a devoted scholar of Biblical texts. Included among his surviving works is a number of commentaries on the (canonical) Gospels and other important writings. It is an accident of fortune that John's view of the right day for the celebration of the birth of Jesus has happened to be the one which has survived to the present - at least in the west. Certainly, at least one Christian writer before John seems to have been unequivocally opposed to the notion of celebrating the occasion of Christ's birth. Origen, writing in the 3rd century, regarded the celebration of divine 'birthdays' as essentially a pagan mode of religious observance. Though Origen is the only influential thinker on record explicitly denouncing the idea of celebrating the occasion of Christ's birth, the celebration is at no stage mentioned in the catalogues of festivals compiled by the 2nd century writers Irenaeus of Lyons and Tertullian of Carthage. It should be conceded, however, that people were nevertheless interested in knowing the date of Jesus' first earthly appearance, even if they didn't celebrate the occasion. The second century writer Clement of Alexandria and a number of Gnostic traditions, for example, contain some evidence of curiosity about the issue.

By the time of the late 4th century, Christianity in the Roman empire was no longer an endangered sect, but a publicly funded religious body in a period of rapid socio-economic expansion. The need to harmonise the religious activities and habits of observance of the disparate co-religionists of various cities became more pressing. When John Chrysostom addressed his congregation on the subject of the correct date of Christmas in c.388 (this date, he argued, was 25th December), he had to convince one faction within his audience that they were celebrating the festival on the wrong date. What were his arguments in favour of the 25th? It turns out that he only stressed one important piece of evidence: the existence of the 'census papers' of Jesus and his family in the Roman archives (in the city of Rome; cf. also Tertullian, Adv. Marcionem 4.7). These census papers, he suggested, should settle the issue. The mention of the census is a direct reference to Luke-Acts, whose author places a large emphasis on the inter-relatedness of the circumstances of Jesus' birth and the requirement of the Roman authorities that inhabitants of Judaea (or, according to Luke, 'the whole world') at that time had to register their details with a Roman censor. Arguing that these old documents still existed, John claimed that the Roman church possessed an authoritative position to declare the right day for the celebration of Christmas on account of its certain fidelity to the documents' testimony. And since the Roman church celebrated on the 25th December, this had to be regarded as authoritative. (But 'Did authorities within the Roman church *really* scrutinize these documents in order to confirm the 25th as the right date?', we might justifiably ask).

Throughout the West, in Rome and beyond, Christmas had been celebrated on the 25th December for a good few years by the time John wrote: helpfully, he succeeded in encouraging the recalcitrant among his eastern co-religionists to reconcile this part of their sacred calendar with that of their western counterparts. Elsewhere in the east, as is confirmed by John's contemporary, Gregory of Nyssa, the 25th December had indeed become a standard date, and Christ's birth had become a celebrated occasion, though variant traditions did still exist and some Christians celebrated Christmas on other dates, while others, like Origen, refused to celebrate the occasion whatsoever. Such disagreements recur even now.

Problems exist, of course, in John's argument. It suffices to note that if Luke is right and Jesus really was born in Bethlehem because his parents needed to go there to register with the Roman censor, it is a little implausible to suppose that the 25th December stands any chance of being the right date. Would a Roman censor really have called for census details to be provided in the middle of December, the most onerous time of year to travel? More importantly, the census is not mentioned in either Matthew or John (and not either in Mark, whose Gospel contains absolutely no details about the circumstances of Jesus' early years). The story that Jesus and family travelled to Bethlehem to register with the censor must rest on the authority of Luke alone. (The census itself, however, certainly happened: it is attested in Josephus).

The birthplace of Jesus is disputed. Like Luke, Matthew also insists Jesus was born in Bethlehem: arguably, however, both writers felt this needed to be his birthplace because the Jewish prophet Micah (Mic. 5:2) had specified that Bethlehem would be the birthplace of the Messiah. Aligning him with such a tradition was in the interests of both authors - and perfectly possible, given that Mark's Gospel, upon which both seem to have relied as a source, contained no specification of the location of Jesus' birth to the contrary. The reality is that Jesus could easily have been born in Nazareth, a town in the area around which much of his ministry took place, but also his 'home town' where, strikingly, 'his own people' did not recognise him as Lord (Mk. 6:1-13). For me, it makes little difference any which way. The fact that he was born is what matters. The date? The 25th December will do nicely.

To every reader of this blog, I wish you a very merry Christmas.

Praying with Tony Blair and George W. Bush

2008-12-22T08:56:00.004Z

One of the things that media critics of the Blair/Bush foray into Iraq like to bring up as evidence of the hopelessly blundering nature of its conception is the fact that the two leaders - reputedly - sat down to pray together at Camp David in 2003 before finalising the decision to go ahead with the invasion. The main concern of the critics seems to be that the two of them might have begun to believe that they were under a divine mandate to invade Iraq. But this isn't what prayer is and it isn't what asking God for guidance is about. In a way, you could say, it might even represent a small comfort that praying is what the two of them saw fit to do when making a momentous and difficult decision. For all of his awkwardnesses in conversation, George Bush in a recent interview made this clear. All things considered, he comes out of it rather well, I think.

Evangelical Theology: Some Quibbles

2008-12-19T11:11:00.008Z

I record here some issues I recently covered in discussion with an evangelical Christian regarding three important areas of theological interest: a) the question of self love and human sinfulness, b) thinking about the devil/evil, and c) death and atonement.

a) (An) 'evangelical' position: "Sin is any behavior that is done out of self-importance and self-love. We were created to love and glorify God and we owe the same love to his creations, our fellow men, but we sin in making ourselves the object of our love and glorification and in justifying our actions by those terms."

Response:
I think this profoundly misses the point. Look again at Lev. 19:18. 'Love your neighbour AS YOURSELF'. The implication being, of course, that we are naturally self loving. This is not condemned by Jesus - although it's a matter of some controversy in Augustine who (interestingly) you go on to mention in your next sentence (cf. O. O'Donovan, The problem of Self Love in St. Augustine). Anyway, the point is that we ARE the object of our love (like it or not), although not necessarily of our 'glorification' (an entirely different matter altogether). Self love isn't sinful. The wrong kind(s) of self love are sinful,as are the wrong kinds of God-love and neighbour-love.

b) (An) 'evangelical' position: "We must be wary of saying anything about Satan that isn't in the bible. Satan is not explicitly described as a fallen angel and ruler of a demonic realm called Hell, this comes mostly from Milton and worldly church traditions."

Response:
The Bible is of course the vital source for our Christian thinking. As far as I'm concerned, I have to be wary about how I think/talk about the devil with respect to more authorities than the Bible, however. I'm wary of what the Bible says, what tradition has maintained in different ecclesial contexts, what my faculties of reason tell me, and what my experience of worship and prayer reveals to me. This, by the way, is known as the Wesleyan Quadrilateral. If church traditions/reason/experience illumine the Bible in ways that shed true light on the text (even if this means the original biblical author wouldn't have thought/been able to think in precisely the terms in question), then I feel under the obligation of the holy spirit to make sense of the text/God's revelation with respect to them. Moreover, upon what criterion are we to know a 'worldly' church tradition from an 'unworldly' one? Aaaargh, let's not open the hermeneutical can of worms: so much is written about that and I think all parties concerned would be better off reading more elsewhere. Suffice to say it's a gloriously provocative idea that one can in any way determine what is 'worldly' and what isn't. It was upon precisely this issue that we confront the most basic challenge of Jesus to those he offended! They presumed to know what 'unworldly' (i.e. Godly) holiness was - and he (the Messiah!) didn't fit the bill. We should be extra careful, then, if we want to go down anything like the same road without an overriding sense of our human proclivities to get things profoundly wrong (as they did). To answer the question more directly, it shouldn't matter a jot that Milton imagined hell and Satan in different and more developed ways than did the biblical authors. He also thought in English. The point, in each case, is that we must judge what he has to say for its theological penetration and truthfulness: for this, we need not require his worldview to correspond exactly with that of the biblical authors. The holy spirit didn't just stop work after the biblical canon was compiled. The spirit of truth and understanding still serves to build up knowledge in the community of believers, whether in Milton or whoever else. We can't rule him out of court on principle.

c) (An) 'evangelical' position: "All throughout the bible, God makes abundantly clear that death is necessary for atonement of the inequities of sin".

Response: Look again at John 8 (Jesus' intervention to prevent the 'just' stoning of the adulteress). It's death to sin that God wants, not physical death (!). Jesus' death is necessary only because of his and the father's love (Jn. 15), not because of 'inequities', and this love extends to the lost, the outcast, and to those we consider 'enemies'. By conquering the devil in his death and resurrection, he made us 'dead to sin' so that we might 'live unto righteousness' (1. Pet. 2:24). This is true of ALL of us, Christians or not: God's love - and Christ's love - knows no limits. We can know this only if we accept the love which has been made manifest and open our hearts and 'doors' to the gift of the spirit (Rev. 3).

I accept that the sacrificial imagery of Hebrews presents a different picture. But the Bible has never spoken with just one voice and there has never been total agreement amongst Christians about exactly what Jesus' life and death 'meant'. The witness of Hebrews merely reflects this fact and I see no reason to be worried about allying oneself with other schools of interpretation if their witness appears, under the guidance of the spirit, to be more true. Jesus himself, after all, carved his own particular path through the midrashic quagmire of Torah interpretation by rejecting or suppressing some ideas and accepting or prioritising others. We must do the same.

Experience, Nature, Morality, Evil

2008-12-17T08:05:00.006Z

Life is often *experienced* as a difficult battle to pursue certain choices, to suppress certain urges, to make good on certain goals or ideals. In each case, forms of opposition are felt. When we try and do what we deeply feel to be good, competing urges and temptations toward bad things naturally arise. We have to fight them if we are successfully to pursue good. The so-called seven 'deadly' sins used to give many people a natural reference point here. When trying to be industrious, people had to fight sloth. When trying to be frugal and healthy, people had to fight avarice and gluttony. When trying to be sexually upstanding, they had to eschew lust and, I suppose, envy. Very little about our experience today has changed, except, that is, our tendency *not* to associate these oppositions with a deeper spiritual struggle - going on both within us and in the world at large.

Experience in the universe, with its (once abundant) cosmic forces 'unperceived,', 'unrecognised'' or 'disbelieved' by many is typically (and fittingly) now talked about in a suitably more banal way. We hesitate to say 'evil' - unless, that is, we write for the tabloid press and we're talking about a paedophile or a serial killer. We prefer 'bad', or 'not nice' or some overly used swear word which loses all serious force and content when applied both to the actions of rapists and killers - for the simple reason that we use the same words more lightly or humorously in conversation with our friends. Our language, I suggest, distortively suppresses the reality of the presence of 'evil' by not daring to speak its name. 'Criminal' or 'scum' might be the best we can do to describe certain perpetrators of seriously evil deeds. But when we resort to labelling a person in this way - as the tabloid press inevitably do - we fail to make the (very necessary) distinction which Christian thinkers have tended to try so hard to make between the 'sinner' and the 'sin'. The former is not essentially 'evil'. The latter is. (We should never believe, no matter how convinced we may be, that a person is completely or irretrievably evil. This may at times prove incredibly difficult. Evil may have infected their thoughts and motivations to such a great degree that we cannot discern the presence of anything we might think 'good' or any cause for optimism regarding the person's spiritual health. The point, though, is that we must believe God can cure even the most sick - those most spiritually barren and caught up in the mesh of evil - and must pray for him to release goodness once again in the person concerned. If the spirit can breathe life into the physically dead, he can breathe life into the spiritually dead. In time, we must pray, this will happen).

I acknowledge that all I have offered here is an argument for re-introducing a certain way of thinking, speaking and interpreting into our moral and experiential discourse. Why might it have any bearing on what it actually 'out there', what is true, what is real? Is there really an 'evil' agency in the universe - or at least our lives within it - which is attempting to have its say in our lives and which sometimes has its say and wins the day? Or is this simply a bizarre way of thinking about our lives which bears no relation to what's actually going on. There's no 'evil', we might think, in cancer or flooding waters. Only 'nature' taking its course and coming into conflict with our environment (and our lives) as it does so.

The physicalist-materialist-naturalist aspect of the enlightenment legacy our culture so deeply espouses - or believes it does in many of its more 'enlightened' circles - certainly thinks as much. This (often unspoken) paradigm, I think, fails a number of important litmus tests and I want briefly to mention one problem here as an example. (This, I expect, will feed into a further series of posts on this subject).

The first problem is simply this: I think the materialists are doing something bizarre when they refuse to attribute a moral dimension to what they'd call 'natural processes'. Why should I not refer to the tidal wave that killed thousands of people (or the 'natural processes' that gave rise to it) as an instance of evil. To me it's evil. The physical world 'acted' in an undeniably evil way. Does the physical world 'act'? Yes. All the time. But does it act in a 'moral' way - or, that is, with respect to moral agency? There's reason, I think, to suspect (at the very least) that it might.

My faculties of moral reasoning are, as far as the materialists would have it, themselves part of the 'natural' order - as, of course, are theirs. Why, though, should we delimit the presence of 'moral' agency to the context of human (and possibly 'animal') minds - 'natural' as they are - and deny this quality to other 'physical' phenomena? Why couldn't the universe itself (a universe, after all, which gives rise to these 'physical' human minds) actually have a 'moral' aspect to it as well as - or even, perhaps, instead of - what we customarily label its 'natural' aspect? If human existence is 'moral' existence, and moral existence is undeniably 'natural' too, why is it safe to assume that non-human 'natural' things do not havea moral aspect to them? They, like us, are present in the 'natural' world. As are the 'forces' which shape them - which, as we know, are underneath it all (from the perspective of particle physics) very much like the forces which shape our human lives. The moral versus natural dichotomy has to be on some level false and unsustainable - at least, that is, when we consider the case of humans as simultaneously 'moral' and 'natural' (where does the one 'start' and the other 'end'?). I think the materialist would have to concede this. Having done so, why should it be possible to suggest that 'nature' dictates, governs and/or circumscribes morality? Couldn't the reverse be true? Couldn't it be, that is to say, that 'moral' forces dictate, govern and determine 'nature'? That, certainly, is what most of us feel, I think, at the level of our human experience of reality - insofar as we insist, that is, on using the terms 'moral' and 'natural' to describe it. It's our moral natures that matter most to us, surely, not our 'natural' ones. In our lives we're bothered primarily with questions of what we should do, and only secondarily - and in relation to this - with questions concerning what the 'natural' features of ourselves and our world are like.

If this seems a fair description, and if it rings true in respect of one part of 'nature', (our lives) who's to say there's no merit in the proposition when we come to consider the phenomenal existence of other worldly things?

Christian ideas in Coldplay

2008-12-10T00:33:00.004Z

The lyrics of much modern popular music give little cause for reflection. I remember pondering for quite some time as a teenager in the 90s who loved some songs by Oasis what their lyrics meant. Part of the delight of listening to the songs, I think, was the task of trying to work out what those catchy but elusive lyrics might best be taken to mean. 'So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late...' And so on. Who was Sally? In what sense might the addressee of 'Don't look back in anger', one of their most famous songs, put her 'life in the hands of a rock and roll band and throw it all away'? And why would anyone 'stand up beside the fireplace'? I was evidently not alone in having such thoughts. Noel Gallagher, the song's composer and lyricist was asked by another curious party about what he had meant when he wrote the words. His answer? Quite a disappointment: he'd been high on cocaine and simply wrote down words that sounded good next to each other. The 'revolution from bed', to which the song refers, was a simple casual reference to one of those iconic moments in the career of John Lennon, whom Oasis were intent on eulogising - but it bore no reference to any wider pattern of thinking in Don't Look back in Anger. How could listening to the song, then, stir such enjoyment in a listener like myself - including, I might add, a genuine enjoyment of its lyrics - when, at root, those lyrics represent little more than a casually thrown together pattern of banal vagaries? One for the philosophers, perhaps.

I'm not a massive fan of Coldplay. But since I have lived life for a while now as someone who decries the absence of deep and systematic thinking in the world of popular culture - and whose patience with banal lyrics is in most cases beyond exhaustion (unless the song really is exceptional - I would make a case for Pork and Beans by Weezer) - I have been interested recently to listen to Viva la Vida, a song they released earlier this year. The song, certainly, has a catchy tune. But it's the lyrics that I really liked. And I liked them, I must be clear, because I heard genuinely thoughtful and interesting content in amongst them - and, an added bonus, some pretty clear allusions to some paradigmatic Christian ideas. References to 'missionaries in foreign fields', St. Peter at heaven's gate, the troubled predicament of a king and his feelings of abandonment and dispossession, and even to the topography of Rome and Jerusalem. This is not the first time I've detected Christian sentiment in Coldplay songs. Their song 'The Message' contains a number of very obvious borrowings from the Christian hymn Love Unknown, (a hymn known to me in the form it was set to music by John Ireland), whose lyrics were written in the 17th century by Samuel Crossman. Having googled this, I came across an excellent post on another blog which teases out some of the similiarities and differences between the use of the same lyrics between Coldplay and Crossman.

I want to end this post on a negative note, however; for while it's uplifting to find a mainstream band such as Coldplay exploring and utilising Christian themes and ideas in their music, it saddened me to think that if their band members were to make any public display or profession of Christianity (and I should say here that I have no idea whether Chris Martin, the lead singer, or any other band members think of themselves as Christians), I strongly suspect it would be a total PR disaster. There are ways, of course, to present Christian ideas - and their presentation need not be a disaster. But the declaration of one's own allegiance to them would no doubt alienate many young people who 'know better'. Or maybe I'm wrong about this? If Coldplay were to declare themselves Christians in an interview, perhaps no one would really be surprised. The harm, surely, would be greater for a band like Oasis: their image, no doubt wouldn't take such a revelation well at all! But even with a band like Oasis, their (more thoughtful) lyrics might be taken to bear in an interesting way on Christian thinking. The lyrics of Champagne Supernova and Little by Little and even, if I'm really pushing it, Live Forever, could perhaps be taken as starting points here. For me, at any rate, to think through why these lyrics 'work' in their own often peculiar ways (when they do) inevitably involves thinking through what they have to tell me about Christianity. Coldplay certainly make the connection explicit at certain places; as an interpreter of an Oasis song, you have to be more imaginative. But the connection can still be made, I think.

Not taking Catholic Communion

2008-12-03T02:07:00.004Z

There was a Catholic mass held today in the college chapel in place of the usual weekly Anglican eucharist. It was a fun service; some good singing, a nice sermon by the university's Catholic chaplain, and it was good to be re-familiarised with some of the niceties of Catholic worship which you don't get in the Anglican church. I couldn't help but try to end the Lord's Prayer with 'For thine is the kingdom...' but had to stop myself going any further because the Catholic version breaks after 'deliver us from evil'. For the record, it's worth stating as a quick word of explanation that I'm a baptised Catholic who received his first holy communion in the church before defecting in the direction of the Anglican communion while still young. And I've remained, when I've worshipped, primarily a worshipper in Anglican settings ever since.

What surprised and to some extent disappointed me today was the refusal of the bread and wine on the part of a good many members of the (Anglican) congregation at the Catholic mass. The priest could easily have stated that he was only happy to administer to Catholics. But he didn't do this, although he did state that anyone who preferred to have a blessing than receive communion was welcome to. I tried for a large part of the rest of the service to think about why the actions of the people who'd refused communion might be defensible. But I couldn't - at the end of it all - come up with anything. The same Jesus, the same Lord, the same creeds: granted that history separates Catholics and Anglicans in various ways. But history likewise separated tax collectors and sinners from the priestly castes in a number of ways, just as it has always separated those who wantonly refuse to be reconciled on the basis of past or present misgivings. The point of the eucharist is to emphasise that sitting down to eat and drink is what comes first, before we allow the awkward wrinkles of our human history to have their say in attempting to thwart our attempts to be together in unity. Jews have always known this and it's not a little sad that the central institution of the Christian religion - deriving, as it does, from Jewish origins - can fail so manifestly fully to unify God's people around God's gifts.

It's surely right to remember the past and to regret what has transpired. But the past is dead and gone and the present is the home of the living spirit in us. God's work of unity and reconciliation should not be blocked by pious attempts on our part to place awkward boundaries - grounded in our ideological takes on our often bloody and tragic human histories - in its way. The spirit - and God's love in it - are more unbridled than that.

Loshon Hora

2008-11-25T01:36:00.005Z

Idle gossip, which may be true enough, but which has no concern for the wider good of the party being discussed, is rightly warned against by Torah-observant Jews. They call it Loshon Hora. That the ancient rabbis derived the prohibition from Lev. 19:16, a passage which directly precedes the love command - 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself' - of Lev. 19:18 makes it doubly interesting. I have little doubt that the love command was taken by ancient Jews - and early Christians - to lie in a significant way in the avoidance of Loshon Hora. St. Paul's excursus on love in 1 Cor. 13 is surely informed by his own awareness of this link: indeed, the following verses seem a pointed recognition of it...

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (1. Cor. 13:4-7).

The good Christian knows that Loshon Hora is unacceptable. He may learn from his Jewish friends to give it its name, to espy opposition to it being worked out in his scriptures - written as they were by Jews - and to acknowledge the point of overlap between the two traditions, both of which seek to uphold the command to love which both regard as the highpoint of the law. Avoidance of unnecessarily speaking evil about others is essential to the keeping of the commandment to love. Jews and Christians agree on this point.

Irenaeus on the Fall

2008-11-24T00:07:00.014Z

I was interested to read a passage in book III (23,6) of Irenaeus' Against All Heresies this evening. Irenaeus in this passage ties in a very attractive reading of the story of Adam and Eve with an interpretation of the meaning of human life and death through history. Death, I understand him to be saying, is God's way of mercifully intervening to save us from ourselves in our naturally transgressive lives: it shows us that he sets a fixed limit to our sufferings and views the bringing of death as a 'good' act on God's part. Evil is shown to have an end; not that life itself is inherently evil, but that human behaviour seems within the context of life inescapably to tend in an 'evil' direction. This, for Irenaeus, is what the Garden of Eden shows us. Deliverance from evil, of course, is the last petition in the Lord's prayer. The final conquest of evil is what we all await. This happens throughout our lives and is God's ongoing project. It will one day be complete, but for now the fact that all human lives have a finite span - so that suffering cannot ever truly win the day - attests in some degree to the reality of God's saving and nourishing activity.

Here's the passage:

'God acted out of compassion [when driving Adam and Eve out of paradise] so that human beings might not remain transgressors forever, that the sin with which they found themselves burdened might not be immortal, that the evil should not be without end and therefore without remedy. God therefore halted them in their transgression by interposing death...by setting them a term through the dissolution of flesh which would take place in the earth, in order that human beings, by 'dying to sin' (Rom. 6:2), should begin one day to 'live to God''.

Biblical Hermeneutics: A brief comment

2008-11-22T16:40:00.010Z

This brief post is written in response to a request from a friend for an outline of the basics of my position on biblical hermeneutics - which is to say, the interpretative strategy/ies I adopt when I engage with the Bible. My sole intention here is to sketch out a few fundamentals which I regard to be pretty basic to my view of Biblical interpretation. It's not an attempt to be 'systematic' or 'scientific', nor is it an attempt to be uncontroversial. But it addresses what, for many people in the contemporary church, has seemed a particularly important set of issues - and, I suppose, here, if I am honest I am no exception.

The most basic thing I can say is that I do not adopt any kind of position which insists upon the use of the words 'inerrant', 'infallible', and 'without error' in relation to the Biblical text. To me, the use of these words in respect of the Bible is both naive and unhelpful. The Biblical text is not God and it is not appropriate to use these words in respect of it. (The same, by the way, goes for the church and the pope...more on that, perhaps, in another post). But if the text is not these things, it is still held (at least by me) in high regard, for a number of reasons.

a. As historical evidence/testimony, both of physical events and of theological outlooks.

b. As evidence of multivalence and variety in Jewish and Christian tradition, when it comes to talking about, thinking about and experiencing God...a variety which demands humility from modern day interpreters.

c. As evidence of unity in a number of essentials, such as the focus on the Mosaic covenant, the foundation stories of Israel and the important position of the Temple.

d. As a vital source of inspiration for the devotional lives of subsequent people, both in private and public contexts.

e. As an adaptable vessel through which life in God can be communicated, in conjunction with the activity of the spirit through the church.

The Biblical text admits of different interpretations by different believers. That this is so is well demonstrated by the differences which have characterised outlooks on passages and themes within it down the centuries. Certainly, there is a need to recognise that certain outlooks and passages in the Bible stand in marked opposition to ways of thinking we hold dear today. But does the Bible demand that we align ourselves more directly with all its ideological outlooks, rather than those it seems to us to have right at the heart of its tradition - a tradition which continues in the form of the church today? No one, surely, would argue this. We are all pickers and choosers when we come to the Bible and its interpretation, whether we are fundamentalists or not. And this is the odd thing about the Richard Dawkins criticism that 'fundamentalists' are being 'truer' to the Bible than non-fundamentalists.

The 'rules' of interpretation, insofar as these can be formulated, are in actual fact indecipherable from 'rules' about the integrity of a Christian life, lived as a whole - in dialogue with the Bible, certainly, but also in dialogue with subsequent written tradition and church life, and with fellow believers and non-believers and in prayer. All of these serve to shape the religious life - and Biblical interpretation has to take on a valid form in reference to each. This may mean that we interpret differently in different contexts. But why not aim for a more catholicising style of interpretation, which attempts to draw all people into the question of the textual interpretation of the Bible, and the question of living with integrity. This, as I see it, is the function of the truly lived and truly loving human life - rather than the narrowly sectarian one which refuses to shift beyond the realms of its own self encoded comfort zone.

Biblical interpretation is not a 'science', at least not in any popularly understood sense of the word which has been left untouched by the recent assaults of the philosophers of science of the late twentieth century: the biblical interpreter has no recourse to a reliable empirical vacuum in which he can conduct his research. His is rather a contextual task, which admits of different appropriations of the same truth in different circumstances: as the community, in totum, moves forward through time, it is certainly to be hoped that agreement will be more fully felt about how to read the Bible and about what the Bible is, both within and without the church. But the attempt to present the Biblical texts as self evidently revelatory of higher truths, in particular and already established ways to people, is to miss profoundly the point that the text only attests to the life of God insofar as it possesses the power to illuminate and lead in NEW ways we had not previously thought to be possible precisely through those people. And it is through service to people that the text can become alive to us in new ways too.

A Sermon I gave [4]

2008-11-21T19:25:00.007Z

If we accept that to be human is, whether we like it or not, to have ‘gods’ – whether they are microscopes or electrons or chromosomes, as in the case of the scientistic fundamentalists I have been describing – or football players, popstars or film actors, as in the case of many of the rest of us, it’s worth entering seriously into the business of thinking about the kind of God or gods we in our heart of hearts really want to have. And here, I think, the Christian Gospel offers us some vital insights. Crucially, it insists that the thing about most so-called gods is that they are dead. Not dead in some bare physical sense: David Beckham is very much alive and well, of course, as are many of the other gods of stage and screen whose lives we are tempted to mould ours around, both in terms of the money we apportion to them and in terms of our efforts to look and be more like them. But they are certainly dead nonetheless, and it is important to appreciate how this is so. They are dead, I think, because what they offer to their devotees is so often offered only in exchange for some reward: it is a form of pay packet, in other words, or some other form of gratification for an ailing sense of self esteem.

The radical thing about the Christian God is that he is not motivated by these things – he doesn’t need a paypacket and his self-esteem does not need to be bolstered. And gods who need paypackets or bolstered self esteem aren’t, I would suggest, in spite of appearances, particularly powerful or even interesting gods. It’s not that such gods are wholly bad or evil or conceited: that’s not it. It’s just that what they really are is human, all too human, just like us: which, to be clear, is not to say wholly bad or evil or conceited but just enough of each to make worshipping them a morally dubious activity, curiously similar in character, I would wager, to worshipping oneself or one’s own sense of ‘Reasoning’. And even if these ‘human’ gods can be very good at singing a song or bending a football over a wall, they’re still not – in the big scheme of things – worth climbing trees to see.

For they would let you look at them for a while but sooner or later would demand a pay packet or some words of eulogy to enhance their deficient senses of self esteem. They might, it is true, tell you that you’re worth a million dollars and that you ought to think more of yourself – even deserve to do so – just like they think they do; I’m thinking here of the Gok Wans and Trinny and Susannahs of this world – people who despite the best assurances and their brash and confident public exteriors nonetheless exude – at least in the eyes of the more perceptive media commentators – a real and nagging lack of self esteem. If some of us find ourselves being taken on board by the message of self fulfilment and self realisation of a Gok or a Trinny, do we really find the gospel they offer, upon reflection, a satisfactory one?

Would Trinny advise us to hold off on the expensive hand bags and necklaces and embrace us in a new light for having sold half our goods to the poor, as Jesus does in the story of Zacchaeus? Would Gok advise us to seek out the needy – as opposed to the local John Lewis – in our search for a renewed sense of life’s meaning?

Even if Gok and Trinny profess to care about the decisions we might make in the absence of their involvement (and here, I think, we can reasonably doubt their sincerity), there is no reason to suppose that the decision to do things such as these – which play no discernible part in their self improving teachings – would be regarded as anything other than at best strange, at worst stupid. For Trinny and Gok, giving your money and attention to them and to designer shoemakers and store managers, rather than to the poor, the outcast, the sick and the spiritually weak and vulnerable is how best to reach a satisfactory sense of self love.

The gospel these celebrity gods most usually preach is the Gospel of the cultivation of self, without reference to or emphasis on the importance of the cultivation of others. That this gospel stands in ideological contradistinction to the Christian gospel is so obvious as to be hardly worth saying. But it can nonetheless never be said enough that the Christian gospel’s leading idea is that the most pressing concern of humans is the love of God and the love of neighbour. And the love of self, insofar as it is important, is important only insofar as these other loves are in view. The kind of self love, then, which separates itself off from the business of loving God and of loving one’s neighbour on this view radically misses the mark. As, for that matter, does the kind of neighbour love which separates itself off from the business of loving God. For it is only through attempting to love our neighbours and attempting to love God at the same time in our innermost being that we can experience the love of God for us.

The God of Jesus Christ exemplifies this divine love, which takes the form of the gift of salvation to those who don’t have it. This gift is not an empty one: it is above all a gift of freedom from dead gods and an introduction to life with a living one through his forgiveness and our repentance, and the interchange of these in the life of the church. God’s gift is an invitation to experience and participate in a creative energy which works remorselessly and creatively in and through people – not for its own gain, but gratuitously, for their sake. It can be a guide as we proceed in the difficult, challenging and uncomfortable directions it leads us in, directions which defy even our most earnest attempts to impose regimes of ‘order’ on what is going on. And in the context of the gratuitous relationships which it opens up, we begin to discover that we are known and loved in ways we previously had not thought to know and love ourselves. For God comes to our houses while we are tax collectors and sinners, before we have begun to understand what his love is really like and before we have begun our attempts to exemplify it in our lives.

And as the third chapter of the book of Revelation, my other text this evening, asserts in the plainest possible terms, when he comes to our houses, God says: ‘Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me’. As for dead gods, they don’t knock. They are themselves, like us, the unwilling subjects of this true God’s saving action: for like us, they are unwilling to open the door to let in true love, as opposed to the merely self gratifying and misguided love which they can find already inside their houses. The tragic pedicament of these gods is that they and their followers have not yet found outside the love and life which Zacchaeus, the tax collector who wanted to see and know the truth and who climbed his tree and opened his door, found there.
Amen.

A Sermon I gave [3]

2008-11-21T19:21:00.004Z

Continued again...
Above all, I would suggest, we see Zacchaeus going through a number of the motions which characterise much of the devotional activity which goes on across the whole spectrum of cultural activity in human societies, both in the world of Luke’s Gospel and in our own. In the story, one person – Jesus – becomes an object of interest to another, Zacchaeus, whose eagerness to see Jesus has him make special provisions to do so. At the risk of offering a mundane comparison, an obvious parallel in the contemporary world are those who show up early and queue at celebrity book signing events. Forward planning is essential: the competition to meet the interesting and famous person concerned is always strong. Another aspect of the Zacchaeus story which is worth emphasising is that he wants above all to see Jesus – to have a good view of him – and it is in order to achieve this aim that he makes his special provisions. Again, one understands his inclinations. Seeing interesting and famous people is one of the best ways of enhancing one’s experience of their interest or fame. And fame fascinates; it captures the imagination. Live appearances are invariably more exciting than ones which are experienced second hand through the medium of another person’s account. Seeing for oneself is more satisfying. And when it comes to seeing interesting people, box office seats are often preferable, whether at football games, comedy shows, the theatre, the opera, or even the visit of a prophet, as in the case of Zacchaeus: they give you a better view, even if, perhaps, you have to sacrifice something in terms of atmosphere when you sit in them.

Finally in my list of generic characteristics of Zacchaeus’ behaviour, there’s his actual encounter with Jesus: in the encounter, Zacchaeus ends up doing what he knows will be pleasing to Jesus. He acts in a radically morally upstanding way, which not only justifies Jesus’ singling him out for visitation in spite of his past misdeeds and in spite of the criticism Jesus receives for doing so. Zacchaeus also ends up exemplifying something of Jesus’ own character by exhibiting a special concern for the plight of the poor. In the latter case, what we clearly have is, at least on one level, classic fanlike adoration. Emulation of one’s heroes is just a standard feature of our behaviour as humans. As creatures of habit and imitation, the desire to emulate comes naturally to us – and the people we find to be the most impressive, attractive and interesting, or, from a more sinister perspective, the most powerful, are the ones we often do our best to emulate. This desire – whether it is consciously felt or expressed or not – motivates us as we go about our daily lives; it serves to shape how we think and behave in a wide variety of ways, from how we have our hair cut to how we pronounce our words and how we think about our personal relationships, and the ideological stances we adopt in the context of those relationships and in the context of the world at large.

Even if it seems uncomfortable for some people to admit it, we all have our heroes, whether we acknowledge them as such or not. Even for the person who adamantly maintains that they have no heroes, certain ideas and people nonetheless end up playing privileged and pivotal roles in shaping their lives. The fact is unavoidable. The determined individualist may be absolutely his own authority in his own mind but he is still implicitly paying homage to the philosophical and cultural currents which made his very individual viewpoint intellectually conceivable and/or respectable. Whether he acknowledges them or not, then, he has his heroes, in the sense of the creative forces which have served to shape his being. And the point can be extended in the context of discussions with atheists and agnostics: one can say simply ‘you have your gods, whether you acknowledge them or not. We all do’. And for most of us, having our gods means taking an interest in certain other people, such that we wish to see and hear about them in order to shape ourselves around who they are and what they are like. It’s an inescapable fact of our human situation.

Now the dyed in the wool atheist may recognise all this. And it is true that none of it may faze him. Yes, he will say, I have my gods – although I in my detached rationalism know better than to think of them in reference to this strange and defunct word, ‘god’ which you mistakenly use – and I prefer them to yours. Well, one might answer, this may be so for you and for others with such an anodyne sense of effortless wisdom. But isn’t it rather disturbing, I would continue, that many who would invoke the respectability of your view seem to have such a hard time abandoning this language of divinity, and the habits of worship which usually accompany it – whether in the context of how they think about beautiful or impressive people, or of those that do a particularly good job at beating others in sporting competitions. Is it obvious, after all, that a regime of thinking which has given rise to forms of worship which are markedly similar to the long abandoned Graeco-Roman and celtic polytheisms of our ancestors – with their exotic and unpredictable gods, and their locally oriented mythologies and folktales – represents a step forward into a new and rational post-Christian age? I can envisage the kinds of protest which such a question might engender. But I would counter them by maintaining that the sort of inane and naive mysticism of the scientistic rationalist who expects everyone to appreciate the beauty of the universe through the lens of a microscope or telescope and who eschews the idea of corporate worship stands too far removed from the visceral world of social reality to be itself worthy of serious consideration. The debate is between the different forms of corporate worship which society allows to exist – not, at least so far as I can see, with the possibility that we might one day be rid of this awkward beast, ‘religion’, altogether. For corporate worship will continue to happen in churches or in stadiums, in shops or in nightclubs.

A Sermon I gave [2]

2008-11-21T19:20:00.003Z

Continued...
Growing up in Southampton, it was standard practice where I lived for the hero of the local football team at the time, Matt Le Tissier – a one club man who stayed at Southampton throughout his entire career – to be referred to as ‘Le God’. Not only was Le Tissier a brilliant football player who enabled the local team to flourish in matches against rival teams from across the country; he was also loyal to the people who had paid his wages from the time of his first arrival at the club in his early teens; he visited schools and hospitals; he opened bars and restaurants and promoted local businesses; and he repeatedly refused to leave Southampton for more lucrative deals in, dare I say it, more fashionable parts of the country; he really seemed to have a genuine affection for the people of Southampton and I have no reason to doubt his sincerity: as far as I know, he still lives there today.

In view of his perceived virtues, the name ‘Le God’ has seemed an entirely appropriate and uncontroversial one for the people of Southampton when they refer to Matt Le Tiss. And this was the case even when he took a walk on the proverbial wild side and left his wife and young family to begin an extra-marital relationship with an actress from that dreadful Aussie soap Neighbours who was passing through town with the pantomime. No doubt his personal situation had its complexities. And I do not want to give the impression of speaking glibly here about the broken home of a man who had two young children at the time. What I do want to dwell upon, however, is the fact that as far as Matt the hero, Matt ‘Le God’, was concerned – not much had changed at all, even in spite of his domestic difficulties. Just as they had always done, Southampton supporters continued to make bowing gestures to him when he went across to take his trademark corners. The stadium announcers still used messianic language to describe his achievement in ‘saving’ Southampton FC from relegation from the Premier League, year after year. Matt Le Tissier never once stopped enjoying what cliché obsessed football commentators call a ‘cult’ following among Southampton supporters: and he was and still is referred to as the ‘Messiah’ of the south coast. And while the metaphors begin to mix when he is referred to as Saint Matt, that too is no less appropriate a name for him at a football club whose nickname is ‘the saints’ and whose club crest features, amongst other things, a halo.

If what I have said so far seems as though it’s merely setting the scene for a wide-ranging polemical critique of what I, seeing things from a blithely Christian perspective, see to be some of the unfortunately ‘paganistic’ tendencies of the essentially misguided devotional lives of many living in the developed world of the present day, I want to state unequivocally now that this is not the simple message I have it in mind to preach to you in this sermon. For simple it is not. The dissection, and still less the dismissal, of major currents of talking and thinking in the contemporary world around us is, if conducted with due attention, inevitably a complex business. But the chief thought I have had over the past week, as I have been preparing to speak about the story of Zacchaeus in chapter 19 of Luke’s Gospel, has been of the difference between misguided devotion in this world of ours and the kind of devotion a Christian would think of as being guided by God. For what Luke’s account of Zacchaeus purports to offer its readers is a clear case of divinely guided and divinely oriented devotion. And it is a challenge to the reader of Luke’s account to enter into the risky and precarious task of defining what seems misguided about other kinds of devotion, both in Luke’s world and our own, if he or she is to make sense of the special qualities of Zacchaeus’.

The Gospel accounts, after all, are elsewhere more explicit about the distinction between guided and misguided devotion: indeed, a positive and apparently absolute distinction is offered. ‘You cannot’, we are told, ‘serve both God and Mammon’ – Mammon being the name of the false god of riches and wealth. And perhaps the most salient feature of the story of Zacchaeus is that we have the case of a man who had previously served Mammon coming full circle to serve God. Or, at least, that’s the subtext. But it is possible to draw out more from the story, I think, than just the idea of the absolute incompatibility of serving both God and Mammon.

A Sermon I gave [1]

2008-11-21T19:15:00.007Z

I post here, in case anyone wants to read it, the text of a sermon I recently gave in my college chapel. It's rather long, but I hope not too rambling, and was a joy but also a challenge to write. I have split it up into 4 posts.

Revelation 3:1-6, 14-end; Luke 19:1-10
May I speak to you tonight in the name of the Father, the son and of the holy spirit. Please have a seat.

A fact which often escapes the notice of those who bemoan the celebrity obsessed culture which we 21st century westerners live in today is that people have always had their icons, their heroes, their gods; fellow human beings whom we can look upon, compare ourselves to, admire and venerate. A recently published book argues not altogether unconvincingly that what we now call celebrity culture was a very familiar theme a very long time ago in the ancient Graeco-Roman world – one of the few significant differences between the mental landscape of their world and ours being that we today are perhaps a little more particular about the dividing line between human and divine than they were back then. David and Victoria Beckham may look or seem divine to some of us today, just as Alexander the Great and the emperor Augustus seemed to many back then, but in our wisdom we know better to think of David and Victoria as gods in any serious sense of the word. That seems about right. They aren’t immortal or omniscient or anything else we customarily ascribe to divinity. But even if we’re hesitant to invoke the language of divinity too readily when we refer to the likes of the Beckhams, it is nonetheless certainly true that for many of us they play the role of objects of intrigue: beautiful (perhaps), fascinating (to some), removed (on occasion); glamorous (in the eyes of many), stylish (to a degree), even mysterious (when they aren’t talking). Something about them, at any rate, captivates rather a lot of us. And yet we know better – or so we think – than seriously to think of David and Victoria as ‘gods’. If pushed, we might remark that they’re far too fraught, human, unintelligent and even boring truly to deserve the label. And that we know this is evidence, I think, of at least some idea on our part of what we think – and perhaps implicitly understand – God is really like: not so fraught, not so human, not so unintelligent, and not so boring.

And yet. In other ways, it seems to me that the ways in which we talk about the Beckhams and other celebrity figures whom our culture produces, celebrates and critiques is less obviously suggestive of sophisticated theological awareness. For it’s not uncommon, after all, to hear people bandying about phrases like ‘he or she is a god’, or ‘he’s my god’ or ‘he’s God’s gift’ or – more popularly still – ‘he’s a legend’ when talking of such people or even in respect of lesser lights still in these blasphemous days of ours. Certainly one accepts that when people use these phrases, they are not meaning to subscribe to their full and complete sense: when we talk of ‘playing God’, for example, a pejorative meaning is still possible. But our intellectual alarm bells might nonetheless ring when we hear this language: since it’s certainly the case that the boundary between the words we use to express ourselves and the thoughts we think and the feelings we feel is not in every context an obvious and altogether secure one. By speaking in a certain way, that is to say, we may open up a space for ourselves to think and feel in precisely that way. And in the concrete example I have mentioned, that may mean that if I say to myself and others every Saturday afternoon that David Beckham or some other human is a God or a legend, it may be that I am opening a space in which such propositions become in a sense true both for myself and for others around me. And this would be at the very least ironic, and at the most tragic, if at heart I know better than to subscribe to such a crude idea of divinity.

The Story of Zacchaeus (Luke 19)

2008-11-21T18:25:00.003Z

For anyone interested in reading my sermon, which follows in the next post, it will be useful to read in conjunction with it the following text, drawn from Luke's Gospel, which tells the story of Jesus' involvement with Zacchaeus, a tax collector, in Jericho.

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way. When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today." So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly. All the people saw this and began to mutter, "He has gone to be the guest of a 'sinner.' "But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, "Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount". Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost."

Prayer: Some Collected Thoughts [2]

2008-11-10T17:37:00.003Z

‘In praying, do not heap up empty phrases’ – Gospel of Matthew 6:7.

‘Prayer of the kind I have been trying to describe is precisely what resists the urge of religious language to claim a total perspective: by articulating its own incompleteness before God, it turns away from any claim to human completeness. By ‘conversing’ with God, it preserves conversation between human speakers’ – Rowan Williams, On Christian Theology 13.

‘Prayer of petition is a form of self-exploration and at the same time self-realization. If we are honest enough to admit to our shabby infantile desires, then the grace of God will grow in us; it will slowly be revealed to us, precisely in the course of our prayer, that there are more important things that we truly do want. But this will not be some abstract recognition that we ought to want these things; we will really discover a desire for them in ourselves. But we must start where we are’ – Hebert McCabe, God Still Matters 74.

‘God’s directing creativity is the answer to the question of the meaning of prayer, especially prayers of supplication and prayers of intercession. Neither type of prayer can mean that God is expected to acquiesce in interfering with existential conditions. Both mean that God is asked to direct the given situation toward fulfilment. The prayers are an element in this situation, a most powerful factor if they are true prayers.’ – Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology I: 267.

‘Prayer only makes sense within a certain type of universe. The mechanical world of Laplace’s calculator, where both past and future are inexorably contained within the dynamical circumstances of the present, would be too rigid a world to have prayer (or humanity, for that matter) within it...it is also not the world of modern science. Prayer also only makes sense with a certain kind of God. A God totally above the temporal process, with the future as clearly present to him as the past, would be a suspect collaborator in the encounter of prayer...The cross provides the only framework in which we shall begin to make sense of the Christian experience of prayer’ – John Polkinghorne, Science and Providence 72, 76.

Prayer: Some Collected Thoughts [1]

2008-11-10T17:18:00.008Z

The pun of the title is intentional. This is the second post in succession which merely rehearses the views of others. But I feel there's value in linking together the thoughts of fellow believers in this way. They certainly inform and shape my own views. And precisely this method was favoured by the great De Lubac himself as well as in the excellent recent work by Olivier Clement on the Roots of Christian Mysticism. To draw together the wisdom of the past and to forge it into a glorious harmonious symphony of praise is all the theologian can do. And if the moral ambition of the historian of Christianity is to make the living faith speak in places and times where it cannot at present do so, then the method is acceptable to him too. For the effort to regain meaning and context in particular past circumstances cannot be justified if it is made at the expense of a much greater loss. If the following passages represent merely a synthesis of my own reading and thinking on the question of prayer, I trust they are no worse for it. Their intention, however, is to capture the essence of prayer in others' lives - in the present and past - and to represent something of what the Gospel has had to say on the matter.

‘The fear of prayer: is it fear of illusion, or fear of truth? Fear of psychological complications or fear of God? And is it not at the same time fear of finding one’s self and fear of losing one’s self?’ – Henri de Lubac, Paradoxes of Faith, 191.

‘One who strives after pure prayer will hear noises and uproar, voices and insults. But he will not be dismayed nor lose his composure if he says to God, ‘Thou art with me, I fear no evil’ – Evagrius of Pontus, On Prayer, 97.

‘They asked Abba Macarius, ‘How should one pray?’ The old man replied, ‘There is no need to lose oneself in words. It is enough to spread out the hands and to say, “Lord, as you will and as you know best, have mercy”. If the battle is fierce, say “Help!” He knows what is suitable for you and he will take pity on you’ – Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Macarius 19.

‘Prayer is continuous when the spirit clings to God with deep emotion and great longing, and remains forever attached to him by faith and hope in all the actions and events of destiny’ – Maximus Confessor, Asceticism 25.

‘When the spirit dwells in a person, from the moment in which that person has become prayer, he never leaves him. For the Spirit himself never ceases to pray in him. Whether the person is asleep or awake, prayer never from then on departs from his soul’ – Isaac of Nineveh, Ascetic Treatises 85.

Beautiful words from Henri De Lubac

2008-11-08T04:45:00.004Z

‘Among philosophers there are some who do not want to see the problems of existence: witness a whole genealogical tree of rationalists. There are some who simply declare such problems to be already solved; such is the whole spiritual family that has a so-called ‘mystical’ tendency. Then there are some who do not want to have any solutions for them; such are many agnostics and also numerous existentialists who make this decision as a matter of principle. There are some who want to solve these problems only with the tools of reason. And there are some who, out of sheer despair of reason, blithely impute to it what they take to be faith. Finally, there are some who see and admit that what is involved here is more than just great problems. With them reason can do its proper work; but from the bottom of their hearts the cry always explodes: ‘I stretch out my arms to my deliverer’.

I don't think he wrote anything which strikes home as truly as this passage from his Paradoxes of Faith. The sense of stretching one's arms out to one's deliverer from the bottom of one's heart is the sense which, for me above all, captures the essence of the Christian yearning for God which needs to be seen at the root of - and in spite of - all attempts at philosophical or anti-theological 'systematizing'.

Praying like an Evangelical

2008-11-06T14:12:00.004Z

I realised last night that I really can't pray like an evangelical. Not that I often attempt to - but when in the company of evangelical Christians, it's nice to show you're willing to fit in in ways that seem ok. But small group prayers in which different subjects are picked out and God is asked this way or that? It's not a team sport and God is not a lord of the manner who needs to be persuaded this way or that. Thus, the exercise has its limitations.

My stumbling and mumbling prayers which I offer in silence, and which are complemented by the bold liturgical prayers of church services and by the Lord's Prayer, offer what is for me the most comfortable point of reference. Persuasion doesn't come into it: humility and the chance to profit from centuries of wisdom and tradition does. Which is not to say that other kinds of praying are necessarily bad or wrong. Just that when it comes to praying like an evangelical, something feels wrong, skindeep, out of order - merely touching the surface - or, at worst, profoundly missing the depth of the possibilities of prayer. This is not to disavow the wonderful possibilities of charismatic worship or experience. But it is to warn against its potential to misconstrue a relationship with God.

Change, Barack Obama and Sam Cooke

2008-11-05T15:23:00.006Z

Since this is a blog about 'History and Spirit', and since I have not written anything here for a while now, it makes sense on the day of Barack Obama's victory in the US presidential election to break my silence. Throughout the election, Obama made full use of the slogan of 'change' - deliberately, I think, evoking the language of one of the most searing songs of the prematurely deceased soul singer Sam Cooke: A Change is Gonna Come. Now that he's won the 'change', perhaps, has come. A 75% electoral turn-out ensured that the US elected its first black president. Mention, of course, should be made of John McCain - an honourable man and war-hero who would have made a far superior president to George W. Bush. But Obama was always going to win if the electorate showed up at the polls in force, and that is precisely what they did. Change, and the chance to elect an inspiring young leader with anti-war and left wing social policy inclinations, was always going to prove an attraction.

For now, the substance of the 'change' Obama has promised remains unseen. But his has been a message many have felt themselves capable of believing and it is to be hoped that he will not leave them feeling underwhelmed by what he manages to deliver. More, in short, needs to be done - both in the US and elsewhere - to spread the benefits of civilisation, medicine and technology to those who currently have no access to them. If Obama can take steps to achieve this - perhaps, for example, by confronting the barons who hold the US pharmaceutical companies in their grip - then the change he has promised will indeed correspond to the change which Sam Cooke predicted decades ago.

Schopenhaurian Pessimism

2008-09-30T18:28:00.005+01:00

I sometimes wonder how other people cope with bouts of depressing Schopenhaurian pessimism. It’s not easy to bring this sort of stuff up in casual conversation. It’s even less easy to experience. But for my own therapeutic purposes, I’m going to point here to a few fundamentals of the condition I’m referring to. In the first place, I identified it with Schopenhauer because he was both a cosmic pessimist and a man who had high regard for the ‘will’, which I would narrow here to simply ‘my human will’. Like many Christian theologians and mystics – including, I’d venture, both Jesus himself and St. Paul – Schopenhauer came to the verdict that individual wills need to realise their true position within a wider totality of (cosmic) Will. Not an easy thing to do, we can safely say, if even Jesus found himself struggling to do it – recall his diligent praying and conversation with God before his renewed assurance to carry out his purpose (‘not my will, but thine’) was attained. Whereas the Will of Jesus’ father had as its end goodness/good – we must surely think so?! – the Will of Schopenhauer’s universe is a malevolent beast which runs ‘the show’ without recourse to any higher principle than the perpetration of evil, pure and cynical. Or at least that’s the rather scary conclusion I understand the old fellow to have come to. An interesting thing about this picture is that it links a – or even the – central analytical category of academic psychology, the Will, with a theological disposition. Of course, many philosophers have done precisely this, and in other ways, but it’s worth noting all the same that Schopenhauer makes this connection because he makes it more directly than most (as, of course, did Nietzsche).

The sense that it is appropriate to join Schopenhauer arises, I think, from the sense that Christianity’s own ways of coping with the questions at stake are found wanting by comparison. The sense, for example, that St. Paul’s realisation of his wretchedness, of the sorry and profound limitedness of his own will-power, does something apart from testify to us of our persistent and unending failure to live up to (or even fully to recognise) what we know to be true and good. What this wretchedness can instead speak of, perhaps, is a worldview which would find even unChristian Manichaeism optimistic: a dark, dark, evil place in which souls are interred, and in which they are blind even to the extent that they cannot so much as recognise what is truly good in order to feel deficient in relation to it. Whereas Paul can feel himself at least to ‘know’ good, albeit somewhat inexactly, any such knowledge in the Schopenhaurian universe would be mere delusion: true ‘goodness’ is not just unattainable, as Paul felt it to be: it is non-existent. In the darkness which instead predominates, all that is is evil, or, at least, we cannot be sure that it is not. In this world, it is St. Paul’s mistaken sense of truth, and not just his anguish, which testifies to his fraught, failed humanness which exists only in the context of gloom, gloom, gloom.

What might speak to us in this darkness to communicate the presence of truth, of good or goodness, of beauty and love, in such a way that we can feel confident to identify them? Schopenhauer answers ‘nothing’, as does the depressing pessimism I have named after him. Christianity answers ‘the body of Christ’ in its relation to his people, the people of ‘Israel’. And in reality, this answer ought to be recognised, I think, as something of a ‘shot in the dark’ – and I mean here the important double sense of this phrase, in its denoting a ‘shot of light’ as well as its more usual meaning of ‘a high stakes gamble’. This ‘shot’ is, perhaps, something – and, it might be admitted – something precious indeed in an often dismal, cruel, arbitrary world.

The best therapy I can think of for the Schopenhaurian affliction is of the simplest sort. It is to take an ever higher view of all in the universe which we can feel passionately to be beautiful, true, good, just and right. The key thing here is that the degree of our passion must depend upon the extent to which these characteristics can be thought truly to lie together in any given belief or practice. Which, I suppose, means I am saying that something will be all the more ‘just’ only if it is all the more true, all the more good, all the more right, all the more beautiful. And I am saying the same by extension of all of the concepts just mentioned in their relations to one another. The concepts are best regarded as working together, rather than in isolation, I think. The idea here is that they might serve mutually to strengthen one another and to move towards a harmony of relations, so that we have no justice which is not right and true and good. What ‘justice’ would it be if it were not these, after all?

It is, in any case, to the extent that these phenomena can be thought to strengthen one another in an ever progressing unity that they can (perhaps) more effectively combat the threat of Schopenhaurian affliction, when it comes around – and it will continue to come around, I suspect, until their unification is full and complete. If, moreover, true love is characterised by the total and complete and full unity of these phenomena, then it is right for the Christian to speak of his longing for the eventual, complete realisation of true love. And he must be emboldened to hope for the truth of his gospel – namely, that this true love has already been made known to him as a ‘shot in the dark’, during the course of its being made complete. And this, finally, brings me back to something I said right at the beginning: that it is not easy talking with other people about one’s bouts of Schopenhaurian pessimism. I think, though, that when it seems appropriate, it is necessary to try. For pessimism struggles to remain pessimistic, perhaps, if it can open itself in communication. For if communication in its very nature implies the presumption that the apprehension of greater truths is possible through its agency, then one can perhaps hope that along with the greater truths it might yield may come also greater justice, greater beauty and greater good. One can only but hope. I wonder what Schopenhauer would say.

Anne Frankishness

2008-09-16T01:36:00.005+01:00

A confession: before going to sleep for the past few nights, I have been enjoying my newly purchased copy of Anne Frank's diary. I've been really enjoying it. The blurb on the dustjacket says it all when it champions Anne as a humanist of the first order, and it accurately describes her as fully displaying both an innocence and an uncanny perspicuity in her descriptions of human relationships. I haven't got to the end of the diary yet, but I know what's coming. A picture of the grave of Anne and her sister on the back of the book says it all. In spite of this the book has been an uplifting read: I am amazed that Anne was happy to expose some of her most intimate thoughts and feelings to a wide audience of readers. (She planned to submit the diary to a publishing company who had advertised an interest in disseminating memoirs of the war). In our age of 'reality' entertainment and 'confessional' TV and radio broadcasting, I've yet to encounter anything approaching the sensitivity, honesty and genuineness of Anne in her diary. People of her time period may have been 'repressed' in ways we now aren't (for better or worse), but I feel certain that our culture promotes new and different kinds of 'repression', which come with their own drawbacks and frustrations. Which means there's all the more reason to read Anne's diary.

The Church of Violence

2008-09-05T02:36:00.011+01:00

As I was sitting today in the local church in London, talking with a friend, I heard a shout and a bang from outside the church door, where a man and a woman had been sitting, arguing. Clearly, someone had been hit. The woman - she was about 40 - rushed in to the church, crying. No one followed. My friend and I wondered what to do. We walked over and she said she had been hit and that she was afraid. I asked if she wanted help: did she want me to check if he had gone, or if he was still outside. Did he have a weapon? No, apparently. I went out to look, and as I did, the man came in. The couple began arguing with one another. It was a desperate, pitiful scene. She accused him of hitting her and of being prone to violence. He was accusing her of abusing his children. She was saying she didnt want to be with him any more. He was saying that she had to stay with him. The conversation was heated.

With the threat of more violence in mind, my friend called the police. It seemed the right thing to do. I went over to the couple and offered them two chairs at the back of the church to sit down in. This was partly a strategy to stop him from getting her against the wall, and talking right into her face. It half-worked. Soon enough, the police arrived. They asked us what had happened and we told them. If we hadn't seen the violence, nothing could be done, we were told. We hadn't seen it, but we'd heard it. But that wasn't enough.

From what I could tell, the police did an admirable job of calming things down. They parted the man and the woman from one another, and sent each went away from the church in separate directions after about 10 minutes of discussion. What more could the police do? The officer who talked to us impressed me. He was courteous and understanding and somewhere in conversation he slipped in the sage remark that 'we all have our domestic issues'. True enough. But it's still sad that physical violence so easily appeals to us as a useful means of communication: it helps us get our stubborn point across, when all else fails. And I can't think that it really does the job we want it to. Not really.

Of course, 'violence' - loosely conceived - is a fact of all human relationships. We do violence to each other's wills and inclinations when we come into contact with one another and attempt to do anything other than gratify. We strive to bend and shape others around our own agendas and presuppositions. Forms of 'violence' are enacted on humans around us in the world, all of the time, with our complicity. Some are pernicious; some are not. Most of us don't stick out our own necks out to stop what is pernicious. We are inclined not to. Such neglect of the needs of others is perhaps the grossest, and most tragic, example of what might be called 'indirect' violence. Everyone is complicit in it - some more than others.

Reflecting on some of these things a little later, I reminded myself that the Christian church was an appropriate setting for the events I witnessed: acts of human violence are never out of place in churches. Violence in the church has a strange and perhaps awkward double aspect. On the one hand, it has tended to be condemned - although perhaps not to the extent and frequency that we would like. Christians campaign for peace, mercy, love and forgiveness. Can these things truly be pursued through the use of violence, in any sense of the word? (Contextual factors have tended to decide the matter). On the other hand, it is well remembered that acts of violence give life - they are truly vital - both to the church and its congregations. The taking of the apple; the crucifixion, spearing and abandonment of Jesus; the acts of the martyrs. And, according to some theologies, the destruction of the Temple of Solomon. We can look out more broadly too: what kind of beauty, what kind of joy, what kind of pleasure would there be without violence? Theologies of the Cross, however morbid and offensive some of them are, also make this point clear.

The most fundamental truth about Christian conceptions of violence, of course, is its recognition of the bare necessity of taking violence onto oneself for the sake of others. Only then can we respond adequately to violence: in the most difficult way. Maximilian Kolbe understood this. Jesus knew it too. As did Mahatma Gandhi. be the proponents of penal substitutionary models of the atonement seem to know it: but the challenge to them is to make good on their insights, rather than simply to (try to) enshrine them in crypto-Pauline dogmas about divine wrath and - bizarrely - in foundationalist epistemic principles.

What needs to be recognised above all is that for Jesus, the overriding concern was to plug a hole in the system of violence we all inhabit. He stood in the eye of the storm and took the consequences of worldly violence onto himself. He refused to shy away from it, and refused to respond to it in kind. He refused to avenge it. He tried instead to overcome it - by serving as a revolutionary exponent of a different kind of 'violence'. This violence would be restorative and constructive. It would be concerned with building up and seeking out, not breaking down and hiding away.

The tragedy is that only Jesus and a few other humans have ever shown themselves capable of such acts of constructive, restorative violence. The decision truly to suffer in place of others, for their sake and out of the desire to address the destructive violence the world wreaks on them, is a rare decision indeed. But it is the hallmark of true, full love to engage in constructive violence. Constructive violence in self sacrifice for others is the Christian calling. And its perpetrator is the holy spirit, whose divine fruit is forgiveness and the power truly to forgive. For those of us who have only a tiny taste of the fruit of this spirit - for those of us, that is, who can't think to give of ourselves enough to taste more - we can be comforted in our measure by the saving knowledge that our Lord knows and pities our weakness and has worked and is working - both in himself and in us - to address it.

Dawkinsian Philosophy

2008-09-03T23:46:00.012+01:00

Richard Dawkins is a scientist, a scientist who is better qualified than any 'theologian' - so he says - to unlock 'the truth' about the universe. When it comes to 'philosophers', as opposed to 'theologians', he's not quite so dismissive. The views of 'philosophers' are deferred to in Dawkins' recent book, The God Delusion - for example, the (atheistic) philosophers A.C. Grayling and Daniel Dennett. These are authorities whose arguments Dawkins feels he can rely upon. Richard Swinburne, for example, is classed as a 'theologian' and criticised as a representative of 'theology', as is Keith Ward, and, from the more distant past, Thomas Aquinas, St. Anselm and others.

Dawkinsian 'philosophers' have to be atheists, and his 'theologians' have to be theists. There have certainly been many theistic philosophers, however, and it's pretty clear (at least to me) that many of the 'theologians' Dawkins scorns are in fact as 'philosophical' as the atheists he calls 'philosophers'. Meanwhile, there have been many atheistic theologians. What, after all, is 'theology'? A minimal definition would be that it is 'God-talk' or 'reasoning about God' and is done by theists and atheists alike. So, according to this definition, Dawkins is a theologian too, although, perhaps, he is a theologian who disagrees with the views of other theologians who hold different opinions. What's certain is that most theologians try to be 'philosophical' - and claim to be thinking 'philosophically' in their theology to greater or lesser extents.

The rhetorical tactic of dressing wolves in sheep's clothing - deferring to people whose arguments are deemed attractive as 'philosophers' and dismissing those whose arguments are deemed unattractive as 'theologians' - is not obviously a charitable one. And I do believe it is a consciously adopted rhetorical tactic. It shows Dawkins neglecting the 'principle of charity' in argument - and this isn't the only example of his doing so. How, though, does flouting this principle, which might be thought to constitute an important building block in any 'Reasoned Discourse' (a nice idea and his own darling), contribute to the advancement of his own case in rational terms? It surely doesn't (unless the sophists had it right), but it certainly makes for a decent put-down - and, hence, for a decent claim to power over those who can't detect the spin in his rhetoric. I have to say, in fairness to Dawkins, that I'd rather inhabit a world in which his argumentative assumptions - rather than those of young earth creationists - call the rhetorical shots. Still, it'd be nice if neither were being deployed: a hollow dream, I know.

This Blog

2008-09-02T21:51:00.005+01:00

The title of this blog is borrowed from a wonderful book on the scriptural exegesis of the 3rd century Christian thinker, Origen of Alexandria, by Henri de Lubac. It is intended in its present context to refer to attempts to speak about spiritual meaning in the context of human history. These attempts can take on a variety of guises, as de Lubac himself knew well. They can be strictly historicizing in character, which is to say that they can seek merely to explain the ways in which past people understood the meaning of past happenings in light of their spiritual ideas. Or they can take on a more presentist philosophico-theological tenor and begin to speak of how people in our own world might understand the past - either as a whole, or in respect of single events or experiences. Each of these areas of thought will be mentioned in entries to this page, which will touch upon the ideas of a range of thinkers, past and present. Both areas of thought matter. They might even relate to each other in an important way.

Even if one is not a historian or a philosopher of history or a theologian, everybody adopts ways of thinking about matters pertaining to history and spirit, whether as a result of reflection or not. Although there is no reason to suppose that reflection alone is conducive to the accurate portrayal of the past or to the accessing of correct modes of thinking about it, I don't think it can hurt in either case. My own feeling is that without reflection, historical thinking rapidly becomes unfaithful to its past objects and presentist in character. Some people don't think the potential for such infidelity and (naive?) presentism to be a problem. But I am inclined to suppose that it must be. Why should I remain unopposed to the loss of information and perspective on our ancestors and on the world which shaped ours? I can foresee that good answers to this question could be conceived. What, for example, if moving away from more strictly historicizing modes of thinking about the past could lead in our present-day society to greater levels of equality, welfare and value in people's lives? It's a good question, and if we could be sure that a positive answer to it were possible, a genuine case could be made of its strength. In the absence of relevant or sufficient information, however, there is no reason to let it win the matter. I trust that there remains, then, a moral case - or, at least, moral potential - for historical thinking, at least, that is, of a certain kind. I am not at all arguing for the validity of Hegelian historicism or any other such philosophy of history, although I certainly don't dissent from the view that (forms of) such philosophies of history are possible (and perhaps even worthwhile).

As for spiritual thinking, this is a kind of thinking which tends to speak positively of reflection. Certainly, most 'spiritual' thought has wanted to privilege certain kinds of reflection and to abandon others. Against this, my own view is that 'spiritual' thinking - and it is a good question what exactly might be said to characterise 'spiritual' thinking - must be open to honest reflection on all things. Maybe the posts of this blog will bear that view out and go some way to support it. For I certainly cannot speak from my own experience of the kind of prayer, the kind of worship and the kind of 'spiritual' life which in principle refuses to meditate on certain issues, no matter how difficult or arcane they might seem to some (or even to myself). Everything in my experience has to be left open to reflection and this is almost itself an article of faith, I suppose. No corner of the universe can be ciphered off and dismissed as irrelevant. Radical openness, and the potential for continuing questioning about truth and meaning on all fronts. Answers are important too, of course. I will end this first post by confessing my own dedication to the idea that a lowly crucified rabbi offers more of those than an educated Platonism. Cause, then, for further reflection - at least for me.