2010/05/30

alternative reality

I suppose that many of use inhabit alternative universes from time to time. A century ago, they existed mainly in literature, in theatre, and in children's games.  Today, adults play role-playing games in alternative worlds, too, and computers exist to provide immersive experiences where you can be an Orc or an Elf; can defy gravity, or can explore the stars, or, Grand Theft Auto-style, can visit mayhem on a city without serious consequences.

But many people inhabit seemingly alternative realities without using such tools.  The fanatical campaigner sees every event through the lens of their particular concern. You don't have to be clinically paranoid to worry about unwelcome stalkers or over-zealous government security agencies: many people's perception of the extent of monitoring is surely wide of the mark.  One person's crazy obsession is another's real and present reality.  The way the western education system has developed means that users of technology often have less than no understanding of how it works - that is, their ideas are actually wrong.

And as a member of the Christian community, this bothers me, because we seem to inhabit a reality far removed from that of our neighbours.  It is not simply that we talk in jargon - every shared interest group does that.  It is that when you strip this away, you still have a group of people whose view of the world is truly other, compared to that of those outside - those to whom we aspire to explain the reason for the hope we have ...   This is a community which is profoundly odd compared to those with whom we rub shoulders with every day.

Was it always thus?  Is this an inherent feature of being called out and different?

I'm not sure.  It seems as if many of today's Christians are far more at odds with today's secular society than they have been for a mighty long time.  Sure, when Europe was largely co-extensive with Christendom, there was a very widely shared view of a whole heap of topics - both among those we'd today identify as 'believers' and among those with a more tenuous or nominal connection with the Church.  Today, Chrisitans generally embrace a kind of metaphysics which is pretty much incomprehensible to outsiders: to many, it must be considerably more weird than, say, The Force of Star Wars' Jedi Knights. 

Does this matter?  I'm inclined to say yes:  we can construct all sorts of realities in our heads;  we can reinforce them by rehearsing them together; we can embrace the most exotic metaphysics; we can build castles in the air.  But that fervour doesn't make things true; it doesn't automatically make us closer to God; it sometimes seems to get in the way of our participating in his mission; it can distract us from truly following Christ; it really runs the risk of alienating the very people who need to see - and experience - the most excellent way.

2010/05/23

review: A New Kind of Christianity

A New Kind of Christianity: ten questions that are transforming the faith
Brian McLaren

This is an important book. Since I attended the UK launch a mere three months ago, and have already (!) finished it, I guess you'd have to say it got my attention. McLaren has written enough that he must by now be regarded as "prolific". This book strikes me as one of his most important, though he seems to set more store by Everything must change. I think the new book is much better-edited than that one.

I do have the same criticism, though, as I wrote in my review of that book (and various commenters helped to explore): for all of wanting a new, more inclusive, less certain, more dynamic kind of faith, he does seem to dwell rather heavily on a dichotomous presentation: people used to think X, but a new way of looking at it is to think Y. For nearly all of his points, I'd much rather say that there tended to be an emphasis on X (but Y was present), but if we expand the emphasis on Y, we get a more rounded view, and that leads us to de-emphasise X.

Examples? Well, when you're talking about a question of emphasis, it's hard to pin them down. But let's try: he discusses various approaches to eschatology (that's the study of end times, not escapology :) ). And observes that these things shape our behaviour and priorities in the here and now. I don't doubt that - but the idea that we are all in thrall to whacky dispensationalism of one kind or another doesn't really seem to play out in the evangelical churches I'm familiar with. There is generally a very open-handed 'we can't really know for sure' kind of perspective preached: which also has an impact on how we live right now.

But for all his over-stated rhetoric, the perspective he brings is fresh, and his emphasis distinctive - even if I don't think it's all truly as novel as he (or his detractors) would suggest. And I know that he has many detractors. His writing has been criticised as theologically naive or historically amiss: there are certainly bits that I'd take with a pinch of salt, but this is a popular book, not a dry theological essay. I find proper theology very hard to cope with, but can read McLaren quite comfortably.

And for all my complaining, I certainly wouldn't claim we've "seen it all before". The first of his ten questions asks "What is the overarching storyline of the bible?" and the answer certainly isn't the one you learned in (evangelical) sunday school. He talks about this 'six-line diagram':

(h/t: thoughtsinpencil whose reproduction I have borrowed to save me drawing it for myself)


and he goes on to argue that, far from being the biblical story, this is the Greco-Roman Platonic story. I understand this is far from being a new observation. But he goes on to suggest other ways to frame the biblical story. This, in a sense, is fairly radical for an evangelical - as is the suggestion that the bible be read not as 'constitution' but as 'library'.

For his methodology remains evangelical, it seems to me: over and over, the chapters contain substantial exposition of particular passages of scripture. From his way of understanding the bible text, I guess we'd have to say that he does this because they are useful passages from which to draw lessons, rather than because they can be plucked from obscurity to prove a particular point. But his exegesis is generally convincing and helpful.

The methodology seems a little wanting in the chapter on "How should followers of Jesus relate to people of other religions?" I can't help thinking that drawing on the experiences of those contemporary with Jesus - in a very pluralistic society - would give us some insight. But his approach takes another line - based upon the Golden Rule.

I began by saying that this is an important book. I hope that many close to me will read it - I shall encourage them to do so, so that we can discuss it. A consistent theme across McLaren's writing is that we are in the midst of a shift in Christian thinking as profound as that which took place at the Reformation. I find it hard to imagine in 500 years that his name and work will carry the weight of Luther's or Calvin's today - but at least a part of me hopes that he will carry large numbers of people with him. I don't suppose he cares whether it's his name that gets attached to a new kind of Christianity, but he does look forward to something renewed. I'd have to agree with him that such thinking - and, as he stresses, acting too is needed and timely.

not loving Oxford

Today - Pentecost - was the occasion of the fifth Love Oxford event: a combined churches jamboree celebration/praise-up/open-air-preach/whatever. This year was the first time I deliberately stayed away. I've blogged before (and before) about the event. Indeed, re-reading what I wrote last year kind-of explains why I'm not there this year, to my surprise (the blog has value even if no one else reads it!). Our church supports the event (and cancels normal activities to allow people to attend) so missing it seems a little naughty.

To be glad of staying away is surely a symptom of a changed understanding in me: a few years ago, I'd have been exceedingly in favour of such a visible, open demonstration of Christian unity around the gospel. But today, not so much. Part of me wants to say 'why invest all that effort?': couldn't the time and money better be spent in serving this community and its needy? But that would perhaps to be to miss the point: extravagent acts of worship are not condemned by Jesus - when they come from the heart, that is. And it would be unfair to suggest that those leading the event are not also very active - much more than me - in practical aid locally and further afield. But the whole thing still leaves me uneasy: it's just a little too ebullient, a little too suffused with evangelical certainty, a little, well, to be honest, creepy.

So instead, I did my own ecumenical thing, and went to St Matthews, the church near where I live (they too are notional supporters of Love Oxford, but not to the extent of, well, giving up their normal activity to attend). I was struck by the fact that I was probably above the median age of the congregation (perhaps considerably so ... there were a lot of children, and many of their parents could be younger than me) - a novel experience. I was struck by the inclusivity of it all (though I've no idea really whether an 'uncurched' person would find it so). I was very struck to see young children participating in communion: it's something I've tended not to like the idea of, but it seemed to happen with much care and reverence from even the youngest, and so was rather lovely. I was struck by a certain timeless quality to the music . I was struck - as I always have been at St Matthews - by the sense of it being the community coming together to worship, rather than it being a 'service' provided by a 'clergy'. So, despite not loving Oxford, it was a morning of refreshment and renewal, and altogether a good way to celebrate Pentecost.

2010/05/14

ascension

Yesterday was Ascension day. However did it pass out of reformed spirituality and get forgotten?

2010/05/10

parallel lines (part 2)

Yesterday's post was quite abstract. Let's make it more concrete.

I'm embedded in the Christian community. And I see much that is excellent and praiseworthy there. Christian charities achieve a huge amount - historically they have been leaders in whhat they do, and remain massively influential. Indeed, the evidence seems to say that they are better, and more cost-effective than other means of achieving desirable social outcomes. And the average Christian gives far more to charitable causes than the average non-Christian. And so on.

The warm, open, accepting, unconditionally-loving community which so often flows from a shared faith is a remarkable thing to behold, and really gives the lie to a purely biologial or economic or political analysis of human existence. British society seems to know that it has forgotten how to live relationally - but truly there are little pockets of faith where this works. I want to celebrate that and share it.

But on the other hand, I have a huge amount of sympathy for the naysayers. The warm fuzzy stuff is nice, but the crazy metaphysics that goes with it is, well, bokners. The 'unprovable' stuff - likened by some [originally Russell] to an assertion of the existence of a teapot the sun between mars and the earth - seems at best a curious intellectual distraction; at worst a diversion from the real message, the real good news. Christians can be awful hypocrites; some of those warm loving communities can be cold and savage if you have the wrong outlook on life. That the Catholic church faces damages claims for years of alleged complicity in child abuse seems entirely just (where cases are proven) - even if amidst the real anguish there will surely be some opportunist litigants as well. The notion that religious faith should be privileged in society, and permit exceptions to dress codes or working duties, seems backward.

Or, it would seem backward, were it not for the preceding paragraph. Maybe faith deserves privilege because it demonstrably has an effect: but this tension of private faith and community impact is one I've rambled about before.

So, again, I find this tension at work. I often love the Christian community and much of what it stands for - but often I also find the deconstruction from the secular humanists quite convincing as well. Far too much Christian dialogue is routed in the epistemology of a previous (long-dead!) era.

In Douglas Adams's book, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, the eponymous eating house advertised itself thusly: "If you've done six impossible things this morning, why not round it off with breakfast at Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe" [homage along the way to Lewis Carroll]. Sometimes it feels as if being a Christian requires you to belive impossible things - not to accept things through faith, but simply to take leave of your senses. It really won't do: perhaps I need to re-learn which impossible things are true, and which cannot be (ironic and self-consciously nonsense as that sentence is).

2010/05/09

parallel lines

I've been wanting to blog for some time about where my thinking has reached, as I have surveyed all this emerging stuff. But it is hard to reach conclusions, because the process still seems to be ongoing. And I'm aware of the danger of stumbling into some ham philosophy which will not bear scrutiny.

But I have reached an emerging point of accommodation. Or perhaps you could say that I'm holding some parallel narratives in my mind, and am for the time being unconcerned that they don't seem to join up.

So, on one hand, there is the story of God. The story of the bible; the story of the church. I have a 40-year-old mind-set filled with lifelong Evangelical thinking. I can talk the talk - by grace I sometimes manage to walk the walk. I read the bible in public; I expound it; I lead people in prayer. The bible holds a privileged place here: I've never held an exceedingly conservative evangelical view - plenary verbal inspiration of scripture, and all that follows from that, is something I'd want to hold lightly. An inspiration of sense, not each word, has always seemed much more attractive. Nevertheless, it follows that the bible is and should be normative for the Christian community. Whatever that means.

Of course, that asks more questions than it answers: how are we to read and understand the bible? This is a big theme of MacLaren's A New Kind of Christianity, which I'm reading at the moment - so we'd better return to that later. But we could certainly say that we need to understand the gospel as being about reconciliation, about unconditional love, and a few other things which are often missing from our society.

But on the other hand, I am emphatically a scientist. It really does seem that the Universe is ordered according to a number of simple laws: it seems that cause and effect is universal, and immense power flows from the ability of the accompanying method to allow us to make predictions about the future behaviour of our world. The last two centuries have opened so many doors for us in understanding how things came to be as they are: astrophysics and evolutionary theory open our eyes at once to immense beauty and to simple ideas giving rise to staggeringly complex systems.

Of course, that's a classic dichotomy: but I'm not so bothered by that. There's no a priori reason why I cannot hold onto both at once: but I'll agree with Dawkins that the idea of 'separate realms' is too simplistic. Prayer just doesn't makes sense in the second model. But for all its advances in psychology, it is far from clear that science is competent to address our social and emotional questions - still less to give us real foundational understanding. 20th century advances in maths and physics put paid to any idea that scientific method can give us a firm foundation on which to build.

Strong adherents of the scientific approach try to invoke Occam's razor to suggest that we don't need God to exist. But that notion of existence seems to miss the point: it isn't really very helpful. Do quarks exist? Do Platonic solids exist? The God of the bible isn't an abstraction; he isn't a theoretical omnipotent agent; he is a character who interacts with creation. Whether he 'exists' seems much less interesting than what he does, and what he calls us to do.

I'm not an agnostic: I want to have my cake and eat it. I don't see why these parallel lines cannot exist (oops!) together. They do challenge each other: there is certainly an unresovled (unresolvable?) tension. Am I allowed to use different narratives in different contexts, or is that cheating?

2010/05/03

review: The New Christians

The New Christians: Dispatches from the Emergent Frontier, by Tony Jones

This review has been a long time coming. Indeed, you might say it's overdue. Since various bloggers have heralded the death of emergent, you might even say it's past its best. But hey, I'm the late emerger, so I can be late. The book is only a couple of years old, after all: I've probably been reading it for a year or so, in parallel with lots of other books.

If you want to know what emergent - or, maybe even, emerging - is (or was) all about, then this is a pretty definitive text. I wish it had been available when I first started wondering about all this stuff. Of course, Jones, having been the national coordinator of emergent (or is that Emergent ?) is rather well-placed to discuss the subject.

He observes how spirituality in America (in particular; the main subject of his discussion, anyhow) is in a state of flux, that many of the old expectations, particularly about denominations but also more broadly than that, are disintigrating. The text is interspersed with little one-paragraph 'disptaches', and dispatch one addresses this:
Emergents find little importance in the discrete differences between the various flavors of Christianity. Instead they practice a generous orthodoxy that appreciates the contributions of all Christian movements.

These little dispatches seem rather well-written and good pithy summaries of what he is trying to communicate. Not that Jones needs to resort to little summaries to make his points: his writing is clear and engaging, and 'just right' in its weight and depth. He also includes some inline glossary entries - so the text should be approachable even if you're not well-versed in the ecclesiology of late 20th century/early 21st century evangelicalism. Finally, besides the main text, there are some biographical or personalized asides: a few pages each, to keep the discussion grounded in practice (again, not that there's a real danger of it drifting off into theological abstractions).

I identify with Tony Jones. I think he's about my age. He talks of recoiling when an undergraduate from the concept of 'questionnaire evangelism' (door-knocking in student accommodation, on the pretext of wanting to collect questionnaire responses, but actually seeking an opportunity to hit the victim with a 'gospel presentation'): at about the same time, on the other side of the atlantic, I was having the same reaction. In the book, he explores how good and gentle people find themselves wrapped up in a broken theology which begets a wrong-headed, narrow, constraining Christianity - and a narrow, constrained understanding of God. Dispatch 9 says:
The emergent movement is robustly theological; the conviction is that theology and practice are inextricably linked, and each invariably informs the other.


And so it goes. Here is an account of faith that is always provisional, relational, postmodern (maybe), generously orthodox, and so on. Here is a movement built out of grassroots practice informed by academic theology. Here is a movement populated by people like me (whatever that means) - which is quite reminiscent of the good bits of the Christian Brethren heritage I grew up with.

A chapter seems to have closed on emergent since then. But I doubt that that matters. There's a richness here, a life and vision which is transforming some part of the christian church. The extent of that transformation is hard to judge, but my judgement is that it will remain significant, whatever it's called. This book is a good way-point on the journey.