Still Moving Forwards, Still Remaining Still

I think that a great many people would agree that as years go, 2016 has been somewhat less than ideal. A slew of well-loved actors, singers, writers and other famous personages have shuffled off this mortal coil, while we’ve been faced with unexpected political upheavals. Here in the UK, we suddenly found ourselves preparing to drift away from the European Union, a situation that I do not consider to be good, either in the short or long term, and in the US they’ve just managed to elect a man who, as far as I can tell, is woefully unsuited to the job, and whose campaign has relied largely on divisive and discriminatory rhetoric. I suspect that for many people, especially for minorities in the US, this is a real ‘one set of footprints’ time for them.

Nevertheless, I remain cautiously optimistic. In the case of Mr. Trump, I hope that the realisation of the responsibilities he’s taken on will cause him to rethink his more radical policies, and present a more conciliatory and understanding style than his populist vote-winning suggests. In the UK, there is a chance that we will be able to make something of our new-found independence, and that the rash of racially and religiously motivated attacks and harassments that followed the vote will die back down, and Britain will maintain its reputation for tolerance and openness.

I’m not saying I necessarily think these will happen, merely that I remain quietly, cautiously optimistic. I have been thinking recently about one of the less well-known Christian virtues; that of Stillness. In eastern traditions, it might be called tranquillity. In Catholic thought, it is (or is related to) the heavenly virtue of Patience, which our second holy tome (i.e. Wikipedia) defines as “the forbearance that comes from moderation; enduring the seemingly unbearable with patience and dignity; building a sense of peaceful stability and harmony rather than conflict, hostility, and antagonism.”

It is also, obviously related to the theological virtue of Hope (pipped to the top spot by Love, but nonetheless on the podium as one of the Top Three Virtues as voted for by a live television audience). Of course, Hope is itself related to its fellow medalling virtue, Faith. I suppose that in some ways it is much like the classical virtue of stoicism, although that has connotations of emotionlessness, of suppressing the emotions and the outwards display of them, rather than cultivating a stillness within oneself.

Christian scripture, litany and hymnody is full of calls to stillness. “Be still, and know that I am God”. “Be still, for the presence of the lord, the Holy One is here.”  “Be still my soul.”

It’s about remaining calm, remaining tranquil, being patient and hopeful in the face of upsets and setbacks. It is about trust as well, about having faith that, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”  Or, if you prefer, not disimilar to that now horrifically over-used,over-adapted and irritating wartime catchphrase "Keep Calm and Carry On".

It is easy to react, especially given the way the world seems to be shifting back towards bigotry and intolerance, with fear and despair, or worse, anger. The protests we’ve seen in America in the nights since the election are not a useful reaction to the election of Mr. Trump. They are an emotional lashing out, and while they’re perfectly understandable, they are not helping. If anything they’re making things worse and confirming Trump’s supporters in their conviction that they represent order and lawfulness.  He was fairly and democratically elected, now we have to figure out what to make of the situation we’ve been given.

I am not suggesting not taking action; stillness isn’t about inactivity. Having faith and hope in a better future doesn’t mean sitting around and waiting for it to happen. Action must be taken, work must be done, that future must be built, and we, unfortunately, are the ones who must build it. We must have faith that we will be guided and supported in that work and remain hopeful that the goal is achievable, despite what appear to be difficult times and significant setbacks.  We must keep moving forwards, and atempt to remain still while we do it.

So, I shall try to remain patient, I shall try to remain hopeful, I shall try to maintain my faith both in God’s guidance and in the future He guides us towards. I shall try to be still, and in the stillness, hear the small, silent voice that says, “All will be well. I am with you. Do not be afraid.”

I’ll finish this post with a verse from the hymn, Be Still My Soul:

Be still my soul, thy God doth undertake,

To guide the future as he has the past.

Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;

All now mysterious shall be bright at last.

Be still my soul, the waves and winds still know,

His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

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.

Reorganised Religion

“I’ve got no problem with religion or spirituality; it’s organised religion that I hate.”

This, or a close variation on the theme, is something I’ve heard or read frequently, and I can perfectly understand the sentiment.  After all, it’s religious institutions of various sorts and their hierarchies that have been responsible for inquisitions and persecutions, crusades, abuse scandals and cover-ups, politicking, back-biting, corruption, inefficiency, and the manipulation, exploitation and oppression of the poor, vulnerable and credulous.  It’s not a great record when viewed from that perspective.

However, it will no doubt not surprise you much to discover that although I can understand it, it is not a sentiment that I agree with.  If you are totally opposed to all religion or spirituality, then I will think that you are wrong, but I will accept that that is your position.  However, to me, saying that you’re in favour of religion, but not organised religion is the same as saying that you’re in favour of medicine, just not hospitals.  It’s like saying that you like singing but hate choirs, love music but loathe orchestras, think that children should get out more but oppose the Boy Scouts, or think that science is great but that scientists should do their science at home, in isolation from each other.  The possible analogies are almost endless.

After all, medicine has had its murdering doctors and sex attackers; the NHS is ponderous and inefficient, and plagued by cases of bullying, abuse and corruption that couldn’t have occurred in a series of unconnected clinics and practices.   Plenty of choir masters, scout leaders, and teachers have been found guilty of neglect and outright abuse, often of the most shocking kinds.  Even such benevolent organisations as Alcoholics Anonymous has seen cases of assault and abuse from ‘sponsors’ towards their charges and the last couple of weeks have shown that organised sport is riddled with bribery and corruption that couldn’t have occurred if people just played football in the local park and left it at that.  I used to be a member of a large battle re-enactment society, and the politicking and back-biting at every level from the top all the way down dismayed and discouraged me.

I know I’m at risk of drifting into hyperbole and straw man-ism here.  Some things of course are not improved by organisation; crime for example (although the criminals may disagree) and after all, an opposition to ‘organised religion’ isn’t necessarily an opposition to what Wesley referred to as ‘social religion’.  Surely Christians can get together and do their thing in a group without being ‘organised’?  But can they really?  After all, doing a thing socially means doing it within a society, and societies can only function through a set of mutually agreed rules.  In society in the widest and most general sense, these rules and conventions have developed and solidified over time, and various natural and artificial mechanisms are in place to enforce them.  In societies in the more specific sense, these rules must be set out and agreed and then enforced, to allow the society to perform the function for which it was gathered.

Who sets out these rules?  Who enforces them?  If fifty or a hundred Christians (or any other group for that matter) wish to gather together, they will have to hire a building (or at least arrange for a large marquee).  How is it paid for, and by whom?  Who’s in charge or arranging the place and time, and letting everyone know?  Who, if anyone will start or chair the proceedings, and how will they be chosen?  Who will make the tea afterwards, and who will clear up and put the chairs away?

An individual can buy food for the homeless, but it requires an organisation to run a soup kitchen.  An individual can teach a few illiterate children, but an organisation is needed to build a school.  I can sing to myself in the shower (although my wife prefers me not to), but it takes a whole congregation to really do justice to ‘Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer’.

“Whenever two are gathered in my name, there I will be”, but three is a crowd.  Four is a society, and society must have some level of organisation.  As the society grows, organisation becomes hierarchy, with implicit levels of authority.  With authority and hierarchy and increasing size come inflexibility, inefficiency and the potential for abuse and manipulation.  People, being people, will always fall to politicking and scheming, with ambitious individuals seeking to rise to positions of importance and see their rivals fail.  Intra-societal politics and back-biting will lead to cliques and factions, maybe even schisms and splits, hurt, hatred and recrimination.

No group or society is free of this tendency, as I have found time after time throughout my life.  The problems with organised religion are merely the problems of organised anything else, and that's not organisation per se, but human nature.  If only we could have the former unaffected by the latter, I’m sure it would be fine.  It is the great shame of the Church that it is as bad as any other large organisation, if not worse, when it is the very one that ought to be better.  The very things that ought to, and often do, make the Church such a wonderful and powerful motivating and mobilising force for good in the world are the very things that make it such a potent and virulent force for evil when they are inevitably misused.  As with the vast majority of things about religion, organised or otherwise, that its opponents rail at, the problem isn’t religion; it’s people.  As Chesterton said, “The only truly unanswerable argument against Christianity is the Christians”.

This is undeniably true, but to quote John Wesley “You must find companions or make them. The Bible knows nothing of solitary religion.”

A soloist can be good, but they are nothing like a choir.  A lone musician can be wonderful, but they are always better when they are accompanied.  Though we are many, we are one body, because we all share in one bread, and if we are sometimes far less than we ought to be, when we are together and organised we are still greater than the sum of our parts.