faith « Wondering Fair

The Texture of Reality

9 04 2012

A touch. A fingertip feeling pulsing muscles and skin – the same fingertip that had felt the temperature of a glass of milk, that had flowed through curtains and childrens’ hair – is the fingertip Caravaggio uses for the climax of the Christian epic: Thomas finally settles his doubts and touches Jesus’ crucifixion marks. When the women and the other ten apostles told Thomas Jesus had appeared to them after his death, he could not believe it. But this touch…

The apostles did not believe it either when they first heard from the women – but then they saw him, and the unexpected became true. Still, Thomas could not believe it. And who can judge him? Even if his closest companions attested that they had seen Jesus alive after his death, Thomas could still hear the nails being driven into his hands, smell the blood flowing from his wounds, see the dust floating across the light beams as they placed Jesus’ body in a tomb. He had seen a dead body, lifeless, cold, still. And only undeniable proof could change Thomas’ mind: “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” [1]

For Thomas, the days between the news of the resurrection and his own encounter with Jesus must have been anguished. He wanted to believe, of course; he wanted to see his old friend back to life, to see death defeated before his eyes. But the texture of reality around him breathed a different spirit: cold, earthly, indifferent, often cruel. Thomas saw the world turning gray on that Friday afternoon, his friend crucified on a cross and his hope crucified within. The touch of Jesus’ cold body must have lingered on his fingers, the touch of incarnated goodness now reduced to a static corpse, violated and beaten.

But then Jesus appears to him, seemingly beyond logic, and Thomas’ finger is warmed by life and blood. Hard bone, pulsing flesh, the sound of heartbeat; a live breathing body, not the lifeless corpse he had touched before. Caravaggio amplifies the drama of this encounter with a technique called chiaroscuro, which he had learned from Leonardo da Vinci: the background is dark, and light is poured on Jesus’ body. To Thomas this scene is more concrete and physical than anything around them. In fact, this moment will illuminate his life from now on: it will be the clarity which makes sense of this dark world, the understanding that will reshape his fears and hopes and loves and desires.

Thomas’ reality is changed. The light of this moment, the warmth of this touch will stay on with him. His finger will carry this warmth as he touches faces or mud or spears, as he grabs a hard stone or as he touches his brides’ arm. He won’t even be able to eat the essential elements of the Mediterranean cuisine – bread, wine, water, oil – without remembering the resurrected Christ. Thomas’ senses are impregnated; his sight and smell and touch and taste and ears carry the ring of the resurrection. The texture of reality now breathes and pulses with life, even as he ventures later into the dark cold background.

René Breuel

[1] John 24:25

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Tags: art, Caravaggio, doubt, Doubting Thomas, Easter, faith, hope, Jesus, resurrection, senses
Categories : Spirituality for the Rest of Us, The Heart of Faith

Taking Offense

2 04 2012

A major stumbling block for those who reject Christianity is those parts of the Bible which seem to justify actions that we consider to be culturally backward, confusing, and irrelevant or, even worse, immoral. And I think that most Christians, if they’re honest, will agree that there are parts of the Bible that they find baffling, frustrating, or, possibly, just plain offensive.

Interestingly, characters within the Bible exhibit similar sentiments with respect to the self-disclosure of God. Moses, for example, boldly interceded to God on behalf of his people when God was on the verge of wiping them out for their idolatry. Moses repeatedly calls on God to remember what he promised, to consider what the other nations would think, to turn away from his anger and show mercy to his people (Ex. 32:9-14; 33:12-17). Surprisingly, God relents. Moses’ courage and boldness appear to earn him God’s favour. We see similar themes in the book of Job, where Job protests bluntly and bitterly to God about his suffering. Although God has some harsh words for Job at the end of the book, he also declares that Job and not his friends with their neat and tidy religious formulas explaining human suffering, had spoken rightly of him (Job 42:7-10).

In both cases, confusion, ambiguity, and outrage were presented to God honestly and unapologetically. In both cases, it seems that God was less interested in human beings pretending that God’s actions and intentions were perfectly obvious, transparent, and morally praiseworthy than he was in an honest acknowledgment of the confusion and even offense that walking with him can and does cause.

In The Reason for God, Timothy Keller has this to say about what to think when we come across a passage in Scripture that we find outrageous:

To stay away from Christianity because part of the Bible’s teaching is offensive to you assumes that if there is a God he wouldn’t have any views that upset you…. Now, what happens if you eliminate anything from the Bible that offends your sensibility and crosses your will? If you pick and choose what you want to believe and reject the rest, how will you ever have a God who can contradict you? … Only if your God can say things that outrage you and make you struggle (as in a real friendship or marriage!) will you know that you have gotten hold of a real God and not a figment of your imagination.

In other words, one skeptical assumption worth challenging is that if God exists and chooses to reveal himself to human beings, he is obliged to do so in a way that will simply confirm and validate our (profoundly historically and culturally conditioned) conceptions of what is good, admirable, and admissible. If we take seriously the fact that human beings are finite and fallen creatures, whose only access to reality is profoundly shaped (in positive and negative ways) by a whole host of historical, cultural, and psychological factors, then it makes sense to say that our moral conceptions might not represent the last or best word on the question of what God is like.

In one of my university philosophy classes, a professor told the story of a friend of his who was a committed Christian and a celibate homosexual. When my professor asked his friend if he agreed with the Bible’s teaching on homosexuality, his friend said he did not. This, my professor found truly baffling. How could his friend possibly choose to commit to a religious tradition when he was in such obvious disagreement with it on a matter as important as his sexual identity?

His friend said that Christianity made sense of enough important elements of his experience, and that God had proven faithful enough over the years that he had learned to trust and yield to him when it came to matters that he disagreed with. His confusion and disagreement with God were preserved within the context of faith, and with the understanding that it is at least possible that human conceptions of what is right and wrong, permissible and impermissible might require modification or correction.

My professor obviously found this pretty difficult to stomach. What, after all, could be more important than being true to one’s own beliefs? If anything is sacred in our post-Christian Western culture it is the individual’s freedom to decide what is true and meaningful for themselves.

But perhaps facing the implications of the inherent limitation of the human condition—even when it comes to our moral intuitions—can be seen as liberating in a strange sort of way. We don’t have to pretend that we love everything in the Bible, nor do we have to pretend that God’s way of acting in the world always makes obvious sense and demands nothing but our reflexive and unthinking praise. Whatever else may be going on in the stories of how Moses and Job related to God, it seems that one important lesson is that God is not put off by human doubt, anger—even offense—in response to their understanding of his work in the world.

Ryan Dueck

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Tags: Bible, culture, doubt, faith, offense, skepticism
Categories : Tough Questions

An Evening of Questions

30 03 2012

Questions were coming from the right and left, thoughtful, poignant questions. What about suffering? The infinitude of religions? The dates established by Josephus? I and the atheist next to me were getting grilled, now by the audience. We had just debated about the existence of God, at a mix of café and literary meeting hub here in Rome, next to the university. I could see in people’s faces that they wanted to engage, that they welcomed a friendly forum where they could express their honest doubts, and honest they were.

I tried my best to answer their questions. One gal wanted to hear how can we believe in the Jesus story when we see similar stories of the sacrifice and resurrection of different gods in so many of the world’s myths, and I was glad that I had just written a Wondering Fair article just on that (thank you Lord!), and could share my thoughts with her. A guy wanted to me to name one example of a powerful person of faith which did not abuse his power for his own selfish gain. I tried going for the easy answer, Jesus, and he laughed with me, but then tried telling him a bit of William Wilbeforce, who used his wealth and influence as a member of the British Parliament to help abolish the slave trade. A student asked why would the Vatican have a subterraneous hidden library if it had nothing to hide – and this one I was glad I could by-pass, and said it would be best left for a Vatican official to respond. (Though he got me thinking, what lurks down there?)

But my favorite question came after the debate, while I was packing my things. A guy approached me with his girlfriend, both in their twenties. He was articulate but seemed afraid to voice his doubts, a bit ashamed even.

“I have a question, kind of. I know it is dumb, but still…”

“No please, go ahead,” I said, looking him in the eye, and his girlfriend nudged him too.

“I’m not into all this philosophy, I like being practical, and just wanted to know: why did Jesus turn water into wine?” I could not help but smile, and his girlfriend went on. “You know, people would get drunk with all that wine, and isn’t Jesus supposed to discourage that?” I kept on smiling, and he concluded. “Not just that, I just thought that, you know, he should be supposed to do important miracles, and this wine think is just, I don’t know, unimportant.”

I told them, “what a great question!”, and I could the see their faces relax, as if thinking, “Oh I’m glad, I thought it was going to sound stupid…” But I really meant it. It is a great question. I liked it not just because I could see the emotions bubbling in their eyes – a bit of fear, shame for asking a stupid-sounding question, courage to come forward and go talk with a stranger – but mostly because the issue behind their question is the most crucial existential question we have, more pressing that “is there life after death?” or “what is the meaning of life?”, and the question is: Who is Jesus? Who is this man who still haunts us, thousands of years later, who still attracts us like he did back then, who still gets us thinking about wine and water and the large and small stuff of life?

Many people see Jesus as the answer, but I like it even more when they see him as the question. And what a question he is. Scholar John Meier writes, “What is beyond dispute … is that Jesus of Nazareth is one of those perennial question marks in history with which mankind is never quite done. With a ministry of two or three years he attracted and infuriated his contemporaries, mesmerized and alienated the ancient world, unleashed a movement that has done the same ever since, and thus changed the course of history forever.” Answering who that man was is not small challenge.

I loved when people came to ask about hope and suffering and ethics and the origins of the universe. But those two were on to something. Who is this Jesus? The way we answer this question will change the way we answer every other existential question. Until we come to grips with it, a large piece of the puzzle of life and history will be unresolved, and of our lives too.

Ah, and if you want to know why did Jesus turn water into wine, Madi Simpson just wrote a fabulous article just about that…

René Breuel

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Tags: atheism, faith, Jesus, questions, religion
Categories : Tough Questions

Sleeping with Vampires

23 03 2012

As the millionth bus drove past me with an advertisement for the latest installation of the Twilight saga (though this term seems generous as “saga” might usually imply a sustained plot line with a broad scope), my thoughts this morning turned to our recent obsession with vampires. Perhaps in contrast to some, I’m not all that opposed to the so-called Goth movement. I think that there is a great deal of honesty in people’s, often teens, dissatisfaction with this generation’s superficial notions of beauty and substance. What I’m not quite so sure about is the new flood of gothic romance novels (and now movies) which seem to have exploded on the shelves of my local bookstore.

This 21st century focus on ‘gothic’ fashion and sensibilities parallels some aspects of the earlier movement in 18-19th century modern literature which brought us such classics as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Following the new ‘Romantic ‘ focus on emotion, feeling, and the potential that we might find some glimpse of the sublime in the extremes of feeling, these authors sought to explore the contours of terror. Strangely enough, John Muir’s appreciation of the experience of standing before the extreme majesty of a mountain range arose out of the same basic interest which compelled the writers of gothic fiction to imagine the horrors of ghosts, phantasms, and monsters.

Yet there is a contrast to be found, at least with respect to Frankenstein, in the posture towards monstrosity. Monsters in the earlier gothic sense were hazy and impressionistic. Frankenstein was the name of the inventor who made the horrible creature which bore no name. Our monsters now seem rather less monstrous and much more human. In a strange way, the two categories (human and monster) which the gothic writers mobilised with such success have begun to converge in the contemporary imagination. While those 19th century writers sought to produce an extreme state of fear, (which was thought to have a positive result in the long run) these contemporary monsters seem so much more pathetic and lonely. This sort of monstrosity offers a mirror by which we can look at ourselves, though the extremes of violence and capacity which they represent are not in the end extremes at all.

This is where I wonder whether the contemporary gothic movement might do with a bit more careful construal of its purposes. To be sure, false impressions of beauty are horribly deceptive, and deserve unmasking. Similarly, monstrosity can be a useful trope by which to examine our own capabilities and proclivities. But have our societies just grown comfortable with the fact that we’re monstrous on some level, and given up acting in protest against the violence, brutality, and ugliness which lies at the heart of monstrosity? This seems to me to be some of the more sinister message behind the characters’ persistent quest to sleep with a Vampire. Isn’t the purpose, at least as those older gothic writers saw it, to unmask monstrosity? To identify its otherness?

Jeremy Kidwell

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Tags: cinema, faith, Frankenstein, Goth, horror movies, movies, Stephanie Meier, Twilight saga
Categories : Bar Conversations and Cheap Advice

“What if you’re wrong?”

19 03 2012

A girl asked atheist Richard Dawkins one day, “What if you’re wrong?” In typical deprecating fashion, Dawkins turned the question back to the girl, “But what if you are wrong?” [i]

The argument in Dawkins’ response, if you think about it, is essentially relativism. The reason we believe what we believe – in flying spaghettis, Zeus, or the Christian God – is because we were brought in a particular culture and nurtured in those beliefs. Had we been brought up somewhere else, our religious outlook would be different. As Dawkins has expressed in writing, “No doubt soaring cathedrals, stirring music, moving stories and parables, help a bit. But by far the most important variable determining your religion is the accident of birth.”[ii]

The assumption behind this assertion is significant: geographical determination. None of us can pretend to Truth, because our belief is socially determined. If we would believe in Thor had we been born a Viking, how can we pretend that our belief in God could be true? Atheists like Dawkins conclude that the diversity of human belief across history is the definite proof against God. If we see humans inventing objects of worship so creatively and so pervasively – sacred cows, the sun, Mother Earth, or God – surely the monotheistic God is just another invention, maybe more complex and civilized than the others, but a human creation nonetheless.

But let’s turn the table again: “Yes, sure, but what if you are wrong?” By the same logic, the only reason someone like Dawkins believes in relativism is because he was brought up in contemporary Britain. His belief is also socially determined, so how can he assert that his view is right and every other religious view is wrong? How come every other view is relativized but his relativism remains absolute? Relativism is not only arrogant toward others, but thoroughly inconsistent with itself.

Still, the argument of religious diversity is an eloquent one. Humans are intrinsically religious, and will find something to worship no matter how strange the god or goddess may be. On what basis can we assert that one specific belief is true while so many others are wrong? Doesn’t religious diversity lead us to conclude that religion is essentially a human creation?

For me the evidence points precisely in the opposite direction. Humans are intrinsically religious because there is a real God who created us, and who we are searching for. We have this innate hunger because there is true satisfaction for our divine longing out there, just like our physical hunger demonstrates that there is real food that meets our needs. The fact that people eat the most bizarre objects – serpents, leafs, eggs of fish – is not proof that our physical hunger is a projection, but a precise proof of our need for food. Similarly, the diversity of belief across history is not proof that our soul hunger is a projection, but a precise proof that we have a craving for the divine, and will search for God even in the most unlikely of places.

But the skeptic may still rightly ask, “Ok, but on what basis do you claim that people search for God while adoring nature, and not, let’s say, search for the true goddess Aphrodite while worshipping the monotheistic God?” This is a great question, and could be dealt adequately only with another article. Yet atheism gives us a telling hint: if there were no God there would be no God to deny. “If there were no God, there would be no Atheists,” quipped G. K. Chesterton. Has there ever been an articulated, sustained movement like atheism against sacred cows or Aphrodite? Our very denial – of an eternal, omnipotent Father – assumes the form of what exists objectively. Our doubt mirrors our faith: we would not have to deny the existence of God if there was really no God to deny.

Belief in God could still be wrong, of course. But the diversity of human belief does not discredit faith, but rather, shows how forcefully we crave to worship something. If people are ready to adore even built statues at times, this shows us how urgent and true our spiritual hunger is. Religious diversity does not discourage robust faith, but is actually a compelling motivation to lead us to search, and discern, and surrender to, what is it that pulls our spirits so strongly toward worship.

René Breuel

[i] This video clip is actually the most seen Dawkins video on Youtube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mmskXXetcg

[ii] Richard Dawkins, as quoted in his own website, http://richarddawkins.net/quotes/10.

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Tags: atheism, belief, chesterton, Christianity, Dawkins, doubt, faith, religion
Categories : Tough Questions

If God Does Not Exist

16 03 2012

I live in Spain, where one in every three people between 18 and 29 years old don’t believe in the existence of God. Many other countries share a similar statistic. You might be an atheist yourself or, if not, surely know someone who is. Possibly we all would agree that some questions serve as arguments against the existence of God for many, if not most, atheists. Some of these questions are: if God exists, why is there so much suffering in the world? If God exists, why doesn’t he speak to humanity more clearly or tangibly? If God exists, why hasn’t anyone been able to prove his existence? And so on.

These are undoubtedly questions that need to be addressed, but that is not my intention in this article. Actually what I want to do is ask more questions, but from another perspective. Let me invite you to briefly look at the other side of the coin and consider four questions in relation to the existence of God.

First, if God does not exist, how can we have any sense of justice in the world? I believe we all agree that trafficking human beings is wrong and providing food for those who are hungry, for instance, is right. But on which basis do we classify something as right or wrong? Who established these moral standards that we all know exist apart from our own opinions? As C. S. Lewis expressed: “My argument against God was that the universe seemed so cruel and unjust. But how had I got this idea of just and unjust? A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line. What was I comparing this universe with when I called it unjust?”[1]

Secondly, if God does not exist then how was everything created from nothing? Why is there something rather than nothing? We might have different opinions on the origins of the universe and its age, but we all agree it’s not eternal and therefore there was a moment it came into existence. But how could it have come into existence if there was absolutely nothing before? Matter and energy do not originate from nothing; everything in the universe has a cause outside of itself. Have you ever taken your imagination back to that moment and honestly pondered on the Cause behind every cause? Francis Collins, renowned scientist and leader of the Human Genome Project, has written: “And the very fact that the universe had a beginning implies that someone was able to begin it. And it seems to me that that had to be outside of nature.”[2]

Thirdly, if God does not exist, how come human beings exist? The chances of a universe such as ours to be created randomly are virtually non-existent. Dr Collins writes: “When you look from the perspective of a scientist at the universe, it looks as if it knew we were coming. There are 15 constants: the gravitational constant, (…) nuclear force, etc. that have precise values. If any one of those constants was off by even one part in a million, or in some cases, by one part in a billion, the universe could not have actually come to the point where we see it. (…) There would have been no galaxy, stars, planets or people.”[3] Stephen Hawking interestingly expresses: “it would be very difficult to explain why the universe would have begun in just this way except as the act of a God who intended to create beings like us.” [4]

And in fourth place, if God does not exist, how come millions upon millions of people have attested to a personal relationship with him throughout human history? People all over the world, from all sorts of social, intellectual and cultural background believe and live by their faith in a real and personal God. They affirm to be reached by his love, touched by his grace, convicted by his holiness and directed by his words. Their lives have been visibly changed and their relationship to others clearly improved after what they describe to be an encounter with Jesus. Have you considered the possibility that these millions and millions of people might be speaking the truth? Have you ever taken some time to sincerely listen to one of these people’s experiences?

As stated before, I have no pretension to convince anyone of God’s existence through the four questions above. My intention is to invite you to a frank and honest reflection as you try to look at your view about God from another perspective. May I invite you to sincerely reflect on your perception of the most important subject any of us could ever consider? May I invite you to search for more? May I invite you to be honestly open?

Hélder Favarin

[1] C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity. Let me open a parenthesis and suggest two books that present the Christian case respectfully, logically and solidly: “The Reason for God” by Timothy Keller and “Mere Christianity”, by C.S. Lewis.

[2] Ref. – Interview of Francis Collians at http://www.salon.com/books/int/2006/08/07/collins/index2.html …Ref. in “The Reason for God,” T. Keller, Dutton, 2008

[3] Ibid.

[4] Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time, p. 127

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Tags: atheism, debate, devotion, evolution, faith, God, intelligent design, Jesus, morality, prayer, religion, resurrection, universe
Categories : Tough Questions

Do scientists believe in God?

14 03 2012

One of the common arguments against belief in God is that the majority of scientists in the world do not believe in a higher power. If they don’t believe in a deity then why do we? If scientists are smart, and they don’t believe in God, why do we?

A few years ago, though, a significant major Pew Study revealed that most American scientists (51%) believe in some form of higher power deity. While this percentage is far lower than most average Americans, the study does note some very interesting data points. For instance, this exact study was done with the same questions back in a 1914 survey as well as in 1996. While American culture has become less influenced by Judeo-Christian values, surprisingly American scientists answered almost the same way as their 1914 counterparts. In other words, in the academic scientific world, there has not been an increasing secular drive among America’s scientific community. This is important to highlight because all that has increased in recent years then is the rhetoric of those who would like to create a wedge among the scientific and theistic communities.

However, the Pew Research Poll shows a trend that younger scientists are actually more likely to believe in God than their older brethren. This shows that increasingly the younger generation is able to fuse a belief in the scientific physical world with a transcendent metaphysical worldview. In general, we are watching this movement worldwide where a new emphasis on the “spiritual” is not necessarily at odds with “physical” world.

So instead of increasing secularization within the American scientific community, we are seeing, at the very least a remarkable stabilization of opinion towards God, and perhaps even an increase in compatibility between theistic and scientific communities.

How can this be? Simply put, the scientific world studies and tests the physical world and therefore does a great job of telling us “what is.” What science cannot do is tell us “what ought to be.” The reason for this is that the moment you move from “what is” to “what ought to be” you have moved from “fact” to “value.” This is not a slight on science, just the limitation of observation. The famous philosopher legal scholar Stanley Fish has a great article about this. He says, “While secular discourse, in the form of statistical analyses, controlled experiments and rational decision-trees, can yield banks of data that can then be subdivided and refined in more ways than we can count, it cannot tell us what that data means or what to do with it.” The reason for this is that the world of “ought” is filled with values, assumptions, presuppositions, and, frankly, opinion.

The spiritual world can be defined a lot of different ways, but at the very least it is the realm where we find values and the reasons for what ought things to look like. It strives to give meaning and purpose, all out of assumptions and presuppositions. It is because of this divide that perhaps we are seeing a new coexisting synergy between science and faith that will likely increase in the coming years

Michael Keller

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Tags: belief, faith, God, Naturalism, religion, science, theism, universe
Categories : Tough Questions

Risks worthy of taking?

9 03 2012

Would I hold on to the tree branch or to my sliding shorts?

Well, before we arrive at the dilemma: only a week ago eight men and I stood with excited anticipation to enter our 23km jungle hike. The forecast of heat and rain proved correct, I pulled off my shirt to soak in every moment! Passing snakes, kangaroos, and iguanas, we pressed through cobwebs and swollen creeks of rushing water towards our final destination.

However, our steady advance came to a halt mid-stream a particularly deep creek. The rushing knee deep water caused a friend in front of me to lose balance, slip, and begin a slide into deeper, swifter, flowing currents. At this point I took a risk. Lunging forward, I took hold of him and pushed him into the hands of friends standing securely on higher ground. Unfortunately, as I grabbed him my waist went below the water line. Consequently, the rapidly flowing water pulled my shorts down to my thighs making it impossible to stand up! Clinging to my shorts, inclusive of all undergarments, I myself now had been dragged into the rapids! Fearing to lose total control I reached out to grasp a low lying tree branch overhanging the water. So there I was… stuck in rapids with one arm clinging to the branch, another to my shorts… and sadly, something would have to give. I cried out as I felt the remaining hope of pulling my shorts up to a socially appropriate position was tugged off the end of my shoes. Eight friends, now safely watching from shore, failed to see why I refused to leave the murky waters. Reluctantly pulling myself from the water to the sound of hysterical laughter and whistle blows, I really wondered if the risk I took to help my friend was really worthy of taking.

We all take risks, but what compels us to take them? Risks can be mundane, like riding in a car or going for a walk, or extreme. A soldier may jump on a grenade or a parent may enter a burning house. My conclusion is that we take risks mostly because we believe them to be worth taking, even though it may cost us our “shorts”.

When I read about the disciples of Jesus I am struck by the contrast of their disposition of fear to risk-taking courage. After Jesus is arrested and crucified the disciples were scared stiff, even going so far as to lock themselves into a room.[1] Yet, only a short time later the disciples are taking all sorts of risks to publically and enthusiastically to announce Jesus as the risen Lord.[2] Peter, who previously wouldn’t even admit to knowing Jesus, is suddenly risking his life taking physical and verbal beatings to tell others about Jesus![3] Acts records, “Day after day, in the temple courts and from house to house, they [the disciples] never stopped teaching and proclaiming the good news that Jesus is the Christ.[4] What compelled the disciples to move from fear to risk-taking courage? The witnessed resurrection of Jesus! The resurrection brought new life into the disciple’s vision and sent them forward with a message they believed was true, good and worth sharing— a risk worthy of taking.

Ryan Vallee

[1] John 20:19-23.

[2] Acts 5:42.

[3] John 18:15.

[4] Acts 5:42.

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Tags: adventure, Christianity, courage, faith, Jesus
Categories : Bar Conversations and Cheap Advice

Intellectual Adoration

7 03 2012

Victorian Britain—especially from 1859-1901—it is often described in terms of a “crisis of doubt.” Today we assume that this crisis in Christian thinking developed because of Darwin but, as Owen Chadwick argues in his very long and frequently cited history of the Victorian church, Darwin and the natural sciences had little to do with this Victorian intellectual crisis. Although geological discoveries early in the nineteenth century challenged a literal reading of the creation account in Genesis, this was long before Darwin and evolution came on the scene. And while Darwin’s 1859 publication of The Origins of the Species caused a stir, many British theologians were already convinced that science and theology were really involved in two different projects and, consequently, worked out something like theistic evolution. Thus, Chadwick argues that, by 1885, science as such was not what continued to shake Victorian theology.

No, the Victorian crisis of doubt that ultimately changed the theological landscape was caused by the discoveries in antiquarian fields that revealed that the biblical text was not, perhaps, exactly what the church had traditionally thought. Not only was the bible clearly not a science book but it became apparent that even discrete books within the bible were crafted over a period of time by multiple authors. More disturbingly, what had traditionally been understood as historical books like Jonah started to be understood in terms of different genres like parables…and if Jonah’s whale wasn’t a literal miracle, well then what basis was there for accepting other miracles like God becoming a human being in the person of Jesus or believing that this same Jesus was resurrected bodily from the dead on Easter Sunday?

During this crisis of doubt worship in the English church reached previously unseen heights of splendor. The Gothic revival in architecture and art spurred the production of ornate stained glass, glorious organ music and richly embroidered vestments that—when combined with the rich, poetic language of the Authorized version of the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer—produced an unsurpassed aesthetic experience of worship. The problem was, as superb as the Victorian Anglican church service could be, many educated Victorians had problems attending these services because of the creeds: those ancient affirmations of faith in things like the Incarnation and bodily resurrection.

Some eminent Victorians like Mrs. Humphry Ward and Henry Sidgwick called for the abandonment of the creeds so that worshipers could benefit from the beauty of the service and moral instruction the church offered without having to worry about difficult or questionable doctrines. During this great debate over the place and use of creeds in Anglican worship, the journalist Richard Holt Hutton wrote that reciting the creeds was “an act of intellectual adoration, in a day when the intellect is the source of some of our deeper troubles.”

While few people today are concerned with whether or not creeds are recited in a church service, the problem represented by the creeds remains very much alive: how can intelligent, well-read, critical thinkers believe in some of the key doctrines of the Christian faith? Isn’t it better to focus on Jesus as a great moral teacher, and example, and an inspiration than to demand individuals ascent to notions they do not think probable or submit to doctrines that they consider impossible?

While freedom of thought and conscience are essential to human dignity, there is a difference between seeking understanding within the context of faith and allowing the intellect to tyrannize over the individual, establishing each individual mind as the ultimate judge of all truth, alone weighing the nature and meaning of cosmic reality.

To recite the creeds—in nineteenth century Britain or today—is not to blindly agree, to stop asking questions or to cease from questioning and exploring. Rather, to submit to the doctrines of Christian faith is to say that I am not the sole adjudicator of all truth. It is an act of humility, a recognition of one’s limited understanding and an affirmation of the collective reasoning of the larger community of faith to which one belongs. And, as an act of humility, it is an act of adoration. It is an act of worship.

Jessica Hughes

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Tags: Charles Darwin, Church of England, faith, history, liturgy, prayer, science, Victorian Britain
Categories : On Anything and Everything

Grow Up?

2 03 2012

When our kids were in kindergarten, one of the moms from their class approached me on the playground one day for some “religious” advice about how to deal with what was for her son, the traumatic discovery that everybody dies (this discovery came via the film Charlotte’s Web). I fumbled and mumbled my way through some explanation of how we try to teach our kids that God is ultimately going to reclaim and redeem the world of our present experience, validating all that is good and true, and that the Christian conviction is that death is not the end.

My response may or may not have been adequate, but the playground conversation got me thinking about children’s need to make sense of the world and the problem of death. It reminded of some of the questions that arose when our kids encountered death for the first time. One of their preschool friends was tragically killed in a traffic accident a few years ago, and I remember being surprised by their bewilderment—even outrage—that such a thing as death should occur.

Since then, I’ve wondered about what (if anything) this intuitive child-like sense of the lack of fit between death and the world says about us as human beings. It seems to me that there are, broadly speaking, two approaches one can take to the problem of death and what, if anything, this might say about us and the world. For me, two books illustrate these approaches well.

The first is articulated by the famous evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins in his best-seller The God Delusion. For Dawkins, religious belief in general, and certainly any belief that there is a reality beyond death, is a “mind-virus” which involuntarily infects people through the cultural transmission of “memes.” Dawkins admits that children seem to be hard-wired to be, if not religious, then at least inclined toward a form of dualism which accepts the existence of non-physical entities and realities, however these beliefs do not point to anything real about the world; rather, they indicate that such beliefs must have provided some adaptive value in our distant evolutionary past. Dawkins is clear that the beliefs that seem to come naturally to children—tooth fairies, Santa Claus, flying spaghetti monsters, heaven, God—represent a stage in human development to be grown out of.

Another perspective on what the natural inclinations of children might point to is set forth in Susan Neiman’s Evil in Modern Thought. Neiman, a moral philosopher who directs the Einstein Forum in Postdam, Germany, takes a position quite different from Dawkins. For her, the questions that come naturally to children are more plausibly interpreted as pointing to real existential problems and needs. Neiman argues that the “childish” desire that every question—including the question of what comes after death—ought to have a sufficient answer is at the heart of reason itself:

Children display it more often than adults because they have been disappointed less often. They will continue to ask questions even after hearing the impatient answer—because that’s the way the world is. Most children remain adamant. But why is the world like that, exactly? The only answer that will truly satisfy is this one: Because it’s the best one. We stop asking when everything is as it should be… In the child’s refusal to accept a world that makes no sense lies all the hope that ever makes us start anew.

There is obviously a striking contrast between the views represented by Dawkins and Neiman regarding the significance of children’s intuitions. The former sees childish tendencies as something to be outgrown (although, interestingly, mainly those that tend towards belief in God or religion—Dawkins obviously wishes to encourage children to ask questions, just not to arrive at the “wrong” conclusions). The latter sees the “childish” demand that the world conform to intuitive senses of justice, meaning, and goodness as being at the very heart of reason itself, and providing the impetus that drives philosophy:

But the child may also be a figure of promise. She approaches the world in wonder as well as in fear. Her innocence can be a source of strength… The urge to greet every answer with another question is one we find in children not because it’s childish but because it’s natural.

When I think of a little boy’s virtual outrage that there should be such a thing as death (in Charlotte’s Web or anywhere else), and our own kids’ reaction to the death of their friend (Why? But we’ll see him again, right?), I think we ought to at least entertain the possibility that these questions and concerns might actually make contact with what is real and true about the world, and reflect some element of what they were created to be. Perhaps there are some questions and some possibilities that we are not meant to outgrow.