Confessions of an Armchair Christian

I have mentioned before how very difficult I find it to read the works of George MacDonald.  After a lengthy rest from them and in a careless moment, I found myself dipping back into the Unspoken Sermons.  It was a mistake.  George MacDonald, a man writing in the north of Scotland over a hundred years ago nonetheless has a terrible ability to reach down through time and punch me right in the theology.

The particular sermon that I have been struck down by is The Truth in Jesus in Volume 2.  In a few pages, he strikes straight at the things that have vaguely concerned me about my own faith, tearing them out and holding them up to the light so that I can see them properly.  Frankly, they are not a wholly comforting sight.

I have said before, although possibly not in this blog, that I occasionally worry that my faith is too intellectual.  I love the minutiae of theology, I love discussing and debating it.  Recently a friend on Facebook shared the interview with Stephen Fry that I attempted to answer in a previous post, and it sparked an extremely lengthy debate that wandered over all sorts of theological territory.  I manfully (as I supposed) stepped up to the plate and argued my side of it, explaining my own beliefs and attempting to defend Christianity from the criticisms and questions levelled at it.  To what extent I have succeeded in that, I don’t know, but I have been reasonably satisfied with my own performance.  I have spent a long time crafting an, in my opinion, rational, intellectually defensible, reasonable (in the truest sense of the word) theology, and then spent some time testing it by explaining and defending it in numerous debates.

Then that terrible mistake of reading George MacDonald.  Here is the passage that threw iced water over my self-satisfaction:

“Whatever be your opinions on the greatest of all subjects, is it well that the impression with regard to Christianity made upon your generation should be that of your opinions, and not of something beyond opinion?  Is Christianity capable of being represented by opinion, even the best?  If it were, how many of us are such as God would choose to present his thoughts and intents by our opinions concerning them?  Who is there of his friends whom any thoughtful man would depute to represent his thoughts to his fellows?

If you answer, ‘The opinions I hold and by which I represent Christianity are those of the Bible’, I reply that none can understand, still less represent the opinions of another, but such as are of the same mind with him- certainly none who mistake his whole scope and intent so far as in supposing opinion to be the object of any writer in the Bible.  Is Christianity a system of articles of belief, let them be as correct as language can give them? Never.”

He then goes on to say that he would far rather have a person who held any number of obnoxious untruths but lived in the faith of the Son of God than one whose beliefs he agreed with totally, but who didn’t live their faith.

“To hold a thing with the intellect is not to believe it.  A man’s real belief is that which he lives by and that which the man I mean lives by is the love of God and obedience to His law so far as he has recognised it. (…)  What I come to and insist upon is, that, supposing your theories right, and containing all that is to be believed, yet those theories are not what make you Christians, if Christians indeed you are.  On the contrary, they are, with not a few of you, just what keeps you from being Christians.  (…)  No opinion, I repeat, is Christianity, and no preaching of any plan of salvation is the preaching of the glorious gospel of the living God.  (…)  I do not say that this sad folly may not mingle a potent faith in the Lord himself; but I do say that the importance they place on theory is even more sadly obstructive to true faith than such theories themselves.”

As I’ve already said, I’ve occasionally wondered whether I don’t over-intellectualise my faith.  G.K. Chesterton said that one’s religion should be less of a theory and more of a love affair, but I’m afraid that mine is definitely more of a theory, and I spend a lot of time pondering theological questions and points of apologetics.  I hope that my specific beliefs are not too obnoxious, and I also hope that I live my faith at least occasionally (when I remember to), but nonetheless I am keenly aware that my Christianity is theoretical rather than visceral.

I am also aware that when I take up my Keyboard of Justice and attempt to defend Christianity from its detractors and critics, I am wholly failing to do so.  Straw man arguments of the most ludicrous sort are a very common tool of angry online atheists who portray Christianity as a grotesque caricature of itself, and then wonder why anyone would believe it.  I have realised that I myself have done something not entirely dissimilar.  I end up not defending Christianity, but theology, and as a result end up portraying the theology as Christianity.  “Is it well that the impression with regard to Christianity made upon your generation should be that of your opinions, and not of something beyond opinion?”  It is not well at all, Mr. MacDonald.

Part of the problem is that we are born into a culture in which the ruling paradigm is scientific.  The objections raised against Christianity tend to be scientific ones, or at least based on a scientific notion of rationalism, and therefore the arguments against these objections are couched in the same terms.  Rational objections are raised, and therefore we feel that we must offer rational answers.  I have said before in this blog that Christianity is not rational (or rather perhaps, not rationalistic; there is more to be said on this, probably elsewhere), but such an answer would not only not satisfy these detractors, it would make them think that there was no answer at all.

I think that this will probably bear a whole other blog post to chew over, but to return to my main point for this post, have I ended up crafting this splendid rational model, and then had the foolish temerity to make out that it is Christianity.  Christianity isn’t thought or deduced or calculated, it is lived and breathed and acted.  It is easy to forget this in the joys of mental gymnastics. 

They (whoever they are) say that the first step towards solving a problem is to admit that it exists.  Despite the overall tone of this post, I am not overly interested in self-flagellation, sack-cloth and ashes.  I will always maintain that Christianity is not and has never been about making people feel bad about themselves, or afraid of either God or whatever might come hereafter.  It is about self-awareness in the most empowering and optimistic way. I do not think that I am a terrible person, just not necessarily a very good Christian.  I try to live by the teachings and tents of Christ, and I occasionally even succeed briefly, but I spend far more time pondering the theory (and with no guarantees that I’m even getting that right) than I do thinking of how I can set about the practice.  It’s a struggle.  When I see people online hurling vitriol at my faith, I feel duty-bound to defend it lest they assume that there is no defence, but in doing so I am forced onto a field and into a defence which do not suit the subject.

I find that I am mostly an armchair Christian, an amateur Christian theoretician, which is to say not a very good Christian at all.  Well then, as long as I remember that, and aim upwards, things should come right.  I won’t attempt to theorise about the how, I’ll just try and believe in the result.

The Two Ditch Diggers

You will recall, dear reader, that a few posts ago, I discussed having read some Dr Seuss, and being afflicted with a sudden fit of rhyming poetry, a sample of which I exposed you to.  At the time, I pointed out that the poem I posted wasn’t the first one I wrote during that particular fit, and that I would provide you with the first one in due course.  That course is now due.

I was considering posting this anyway, since I like to try and keep these posts at least semi-regular, and I haven’t had anything more relevant particularly worth posting recently.  However, I’ve also been drawn into a theological discussion on Facebook; a continuation of the antiquated Protestant grudge match of Calvinism vs Arminianism.  A friend of mine posted a quotation by the 18^th century (and wonderfully named) theologian Augustus Toplady, who was a staunch Calvinist, and therefore wrong.  (Methodists are Arminian, in case you were wondering).  I posted in response, and I have to say that we’ve been extremely courteous, despite our theological differences.

The thing is, although I love theology, and enjoy discussing it, I also believe that it is quite unimportant.  To quote the great George MacDonald, “Theologians have done more to hide the Gospel of Christ than any of its adversaries.”  After all, we surely all agree that God knows what He’s doing, and so as long as we obey His instructions to the best of our abilities, and put our faith in Him, all will be well?

Alas, sleeping dogs (and theologians) are not allowed to lie, and so the arguments rattle on in various corners of the internet, but here’s a (not very) little something for your consideration:

The Two Ditch Diggers

There once was a field in a low-lying land.

It was poorly positioned, improperly planned.

This field would swiftly and suddenly flood

Whenever it rained, and would melt into mud.

And when it was flooded, that poor barren field,

Not a bean, not a carrot or lettuce would yield.

So the farmer whose field was flooded so fast,

Said “This is quite awful, it simply can't last!

Before my poor farm is completed destroyed,

I’ll find some ditch diggers and get them employed,

On digging a ditch to make my field drier,

Now all that I need is some workmen to hire.”

He knew of two fellows who had what it takes,

A worker called John and his colleague, called Jake.

His promised rewards would have made them quite rich,

If before it next rained they could dig him a ditch.

So Jacob and John took poles and twine,

To make sure that they dug in a perfect straight line.

They planted the poles and tied up the string,

Then took up their spades, but here is the thing,

Though both were professionals, as good as can be,

On digging a ditch, they just could not agree.

"The best way to dig it, and make no mistake,

Is first go across, and then down," declared Jake.

"My friend, you are joking, but please don't go on.

We must first tunnel down, then across," stated John.

“Piffle and paffle!” Jake hotly replied,

“You go down just a bit then you go to the side!

And once you have got quite as far as you charted,

Down a bit more and then back where you started!”

Said John, “You go down, to the depth you decree,

Then dig it all sideways, it’s obvious, you see!”

"Down then across?" Jacob said with a snort.

"How can you have had such a ludicrous thought?!

I am laughing so hard that I'm getting a stitch!

What a weird, wacky way to try digging a ditch!"

"If you insist on initially digging across,

Then that is your problem, your burden and loss,"

Said John with a fierce and furious frown,

"But for this field we will first go straight down!"

"Across and then down, and make no mistake,

That's how we will dig!" said the workman named Jake.

"Down then across!" John was angry indeed,

"It's the only way forward and how we'll proceed."

“Across and then down!”

“Down then to the side!”

“Your brain has dissolved!”

“Yours has shrivelled and died!”

It might have been Jacob, or John, who first struck,

But then they were at it and both run amuck,

Punching and pinching and bashing and butting,

And biting and fighting and knocking and nutting!

John gave a bellow and Jake gave a cry,

and both failed to notice the clouds in the sky.

The wind started whooshing through whipple and willow

and piled up the clouds in a billowing pillow.

"Down!" shouted John, "Down, and that is all!"

"Across!" bellowed Jake as rain started to fall.

Dropping and dripping in drizzling drops,

It pelted and pummelled in ponderous plops.

The two battled on as the field started flooding,

Kicking and flicking and thumping and thudding.

They skirmished and scrummed not the least bit dishearted,

By the big job that they'd not even started.

The other was wrong and they knew they were right,

And they bawled and they bellowed and brawled through the night

As the rain it rained down and on flooded the flood,

The seeds washed away and the soil became mud.

The water sloshed upwards with splishing and splashes,

Up past their navels and nostrils and lashes.

Their yelling and tromping and tramping and troubles

Dissolved in a series of babbling bubbles.

Their shouting and stamping and vindictive violence,

Was all of a sudden replaced with a silence.

At last came the day with the dawning of morning,

And thus came the farmer without the least warning,

To see all the work of his ditch-digging team,

But when he arrived they were not to be seen.

Where there’d been a field he’d now got a lake,

And there was no sign of a John or a Jake.

He looked all around with the greatest dismay,

For his workers were gone and his crops washed away.

Shoulders all slumping, back homeward he slunk,

For his hopes were all dashed and his livelihood sunk.

The moral, if really it needs much explaining,

Is ditches need digging before it starts raining,

And methods don’t matter, beliefs are all one,

As long as the task you are given gets done.

You say my beliefs and my theories need righting,

But let’s get the job done before we start fighting.

Later there’s plenty of time for debate,

But let’s dig the ditches before it’s too late.

Bickering’s daft; so on with our calling,

For you never know when the rain will start falling.

Copyright Thomas Jones 2016