Doubting Doubt

A few weeks ago I read A.N.Wilson's splendid little book London: A Short History. This is really an architectural history of the capital city; I highly recommend it. I thought, at the time, that the author was not as scathing about London's spiritual heritage as I had expected. In fact, in places I found a wistful longing for the age of faith.

I had expected a tirade. Perhaps, like Ingersoll, Wilson would have lamented the ignorance displayed by a forest of steeples; or, like Cowper there would have been some oblique reference to "dark, satanic mills," that is, the non-conformist chapels of the early Victorian age. Instead I found Wilson praising Wren's efforts to rebuild London's churches following the Great Fire of 1666, or lamenting their loss during the Blitz. And this surprised me. Surely, this was the same A.N.Wilson who poured scorn on the Christian faith in God's Funeral, or ridiculed anti-intellectualism in Jesus: A Life?

Indeed, it was. An apologist for a post-Christian worldview, Wilson had moved from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism to scepticism. His views were widely read and very influential. So, why didn't he take any potshots at Christians in London?

The answer may be that A.N.Wilson was in the process of returning to the Christian faith. According to an interesting article in the New Statesman, Wilson has now turned 180 degrees, and has decided that Christ is risen. He atrributes this to "the confidence I have gained with age."

Good for him. It takes courage to admit that you have been wrong. It was courageous of him, in the first place, to renounce the faith in which he had been raised, and to concentrate upon his doubts. Too many people do this as an excuse for their behavior. In Bertrand Russell's autobiography he admits that one of the reasons he rejected the Christian faith, as a student, was that it was easier for him to get girls that way (and, presumably, to ditch the guilt). I've come across any number of people who have suddenly had doubts at exactly the time that they are tempted to abandon Christian morality. It's strange that they often speak so fervently of intellectual struggles, whereas in reality the struggle usually had more to do with another part of their anatomy. The sadness is, of course, that once renounced it's hard to return. Hard, but not impossible, as A.N.Wilson has now proven.

Often, those who really do doubt the central tenets of the Christian faith (as opposed to those who say that they do for ulterior motives), grow tired of living within a system that seems to be made up, entirely, of negations. There may be something exhilerating about saying, "I think Christ died on the cross, and his bones are buried somewhere in Palestine!" But with what is the resurrection faith to be replaced? Like those Victorian secularists who returned to the faith of their youth, A.N.Wilson has grown tired of nihilistic atheism. Now he says that those who doubt God are like "people who have no ear for music or who have never been in love."

I hope that Wilson will write a book about his return to faith, and that he will take the time and trouble to counter the arguments he used in some of his earlier works. Now it's time for the Holy Spirit to work on a few others - like Bart Ehrman and Richard Dawkins. Could it be that the tide is beginning to turn, and that Dover Beach will soon be covered once again?

See New Statesman article http://www.newstatesman.com/religion/2009/04/conversion-experience-atheism

Also, more popular article in Britain's Daily Mail http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1169145/Religion-hatred-Why-longer-cowed-secular-zealots.html

And, for those who need it: Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach.html

Seeking Empty Space

Today's reading from the Aidan cycle, in the Northumbria Community's Book of Celtic Daily Prayer, is taken from Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Anne writes about needing to try to find balance in life, no matter what forces tend to pull one off center. She finds no easy answers, but she shares a clue - shells from the sea.

There has always been a temptation, in the Christian life, to renounce the world and to retreat into isolation. It's an understandable reaction to what can be a godless and uncaring world. During the so-called Dark Ages, following the fall of Rome, many Christians scattered to the fringes of society. Some found safety and security in monasteries, others escaped to live in hermitages. Modern Evangelicals have tended to speak disparagingly of this flight from the world as an evasion of responsibility, but we have not been immune from it ourselves.

On the other hand, some Christians become so involved in the world that they have no time left, no space available, within which to seek the still small voice. Often, they become activists, running from one good cause to another, while their spirits are starved within them. Eventually, when prayer is crowded out, they become indistinguishable from the world in which they are called to be salt and light.

How can we maintain balance between Christian activism, which is in the world, and Christian pietism, which is not? How can we prevent ourselves from lurching between extremes? Must retreat and engagement always be mutually exclusive?

Anne's answer lies in the simplification of life - cutting out some of the distractions. "The answer," she writes, "is neither in total renunciation of the world, nor in total acceptance of it." We must seek the balance between solitude and communion, between experiencing God on the mountaintop and serving Him in the valley.

At least part of the answer lies in the deliberate simplification of our lives. We have too few blank pages on our calendars. We are becoming slaves to the electronic organization of our days. We feel guilty if we have even half-an-hour during which nothing is scheduled. We are too busy, too over-committed. Are we afraid of silence? Have we devalued prayer?

A walk on the beach will prove that there are many pretty sea-shells. When we are young, we try to collect them all, but we are soon overcome by the volume. There aren't enough window sills upon which to display them all. They end up, quietly festering, in a plastic bag at the bottom of a closet. But when we are older we discover that one need not collect them all. They are more beautiful, more precious, and more significant if they are few. Our lives can become cluttered far too easily, even with goodness and beauty, if we have too much. Maturity consists in learning that limits are good.

Perhaps we would have less difficulty balancing the pendulum between retreat from the world and return to it, if we had more empty spaces in which to seek God's will. "My life at home, I begin to realize, " writes Anne, "lacks this quality of signifcance, and therefore of beauty, because there is so little empty space."

Shame

Some absolutely horrifying news is beginning to emerge from Dublin. An inquiry into conditions in Catholic residential facilities in Ireland has found that church leaders knew that sexual abuse was "endemic," but that they did nothing to prevent it. The 'Child Abuse Commission' has determined that physical and emotional abuse and neglect were features of such institutions. About 35,000 Irish children were placed in religious care during a period of 60 years. Some of the children were orphans, others were illegitimate, many were subjected to systematic abuse.

One man reports that he was sexually abused from the age of three, either by the Christian Brothers who ran the establishment, or by older boys. A girl reports that she spent her days doing laundry, getting up at 6.00 a.m. to attend mass. She was locked into her room at night with a bucket and an iron bed; the window was barred, almost like she was incarcerated. Her only 'crime,' was to be the child of an unwed mother. Incidentally, that mother died while her daughter was 'in care.' The authorities did not think it necessary to inform her.

"I have absolutely no faith in the Catholic Church. I am a Christian but I am not a Catholic. I left my Catholic religion at the industrial school gates," said one victim. His reaction to the trauma of abuse is not untypical. How much damage has been done to the Church by this appalling behavior? How many more will leave when the full story is revealed?

Strong words are coming from some Catholic leaders. The Most Reverend Vincent Nichols, the leader of the Roman Catholic Church in England and Wales, said that those who perpetrated violence and abuse should be held to account, "no matter how long ago it happened." He continued, "Every time there is a single incident of abuse in the Catholic Church, it is a scandal." The leader of the Catholic Church in Ireland, Cardinal Sean Brady, said he was "profoundly sorry and deeply ashamed that children suffered in such awful ways in these institutions." At least somebody is showing some integrity.

There can be no excuse for the abuse, and there can be no excuse for protecting those who perpetrated it. Justice must be done, and be seen to be done.

And those who damaged so many lives would do well to heed the grim warning of Scripture. "It would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around his neck than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin. So watch yourselves." Luke 17:2-3. Whether or not the Irish authorities manage to track down and prosectute those who are responsible, the perpetrators will still have to face the righteous anger of the One who said "Let the children come to me. Don't prevent them, for of such is the Kingdom of God." Luke 18:16

Report at: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/8059826.stm

Or http://itn.co.uk/e41a5e1febbbd9096a4cba0baeacea4a.html

Ill Met By Moonlight

William Stanley Moss' account of his exploits in Crete during World War II makes fitting reading for Memorial Day. Operating in occupied territory, with the help of local anadartes, Moss, and a small team of special operations commandos, managed to kidnap a German General and, somehow, spirit him off the island. What ismost interesting about the story is that almost all of it is taken from a journal written by the author as events unfolded. There is a startling immediacy about the language. Several times the author relates that he has to stop writing because the light is failing, or because a local shepherd has just brought the band something to eat.

Two things struck me:

First, I was appalled by the senseless violence of some among the occupying force. In one incident, a Gestapo officer has to swerve his car on a country road and stop in order to avoid hitting a shepherd boy crossing the road with his sheep. Seeing that his car has sustained a slight scratch, the officer beckons for the shy child to come to him. When he does as he is told, the officer promptly breaks the boys arm across his knee as punishment.

Second, and in contrast, the story contains a remarkable sense of shared humanity between combatants. The General, although obviously shamed by his capture, only rarely demonstrates the haughtiness of his office. A classical scholar, the son of a pastor, he is able to exchange Greek aphorisms with his captors. He shares the same bottle of raki, and pulls at the same blankets to escape the cold. He may be a patriot, but he is not an idealist. He serves his country, not the Party.

This is the sadness of war. Often, the only thing that separates the soldiers of opposing armies is the color of their uniforms. In one, telling, incident, Moss and his villanous band of Cretan resistance fighters celebrate Easter Day in the mountains, singing songs of resurrection in several languages (and, one suspects, several keys). Surely this is a foretaste of the Kingdom of Heaven, where every tongue sings praise to the Lamb, and war shall be no more.

Angels in the Gloom

Anne Perry's book, bearing this title, is the third in her series following the Reavley family during the First World War. The main character is Captain Joseph Reavley, a chaplain who has received the Military Cross for bravery in rescuing the wounded at Ypres. He is sent home to recouperate, following an injury, and there becomes embroiled in scullduggery concerning a secret naval weapon that could turn the tide of war. Perry's presentation of the characters is largely sympathetic. It makes a pleasant change to come across a representation of a 'man of the cloth' which is not horribly caricatured. Unfortunately, she reverts to type in her description of Kerr, the village vicar, who is a sorry excuse for a clergyman - weak, bumbling, and totally ineffectual. It's easy to see, also, that Perry has a horror of warfare. She does not glorify bloodshed, as do so many others. Neither does she minimise the courage of the common soldier.

What suprises me about the story is the theological hinge concerning the existence of God. Kerr, who has never been anywhere near the Front, cracks under the strain of comforting those who have lost loved ones. He finds himself with nothing to say, beyond inappropriate platitudes about King, Country, and Glory. Reavely, on the other hand, goes as far to accept, on at least two occasions, that he is not sure about the existence of God. But then he goes on to state his rationale: It is not about us. When we bring comfort to the bereaved we are not to think about our doubts, but their needs.

In the end, though he may entertain reservations about whether or not God is there, or interested in the affairs of men, Reavley contends that he is absolutely sure of this: that the things for which Christ stood, like honor and truth and love, are true for all times.

I've never actually heard anyone expound this doctrine; perhaps it was more prevalent in an age which actually knew what Christ stood for. It sounds a little like the religionless Christianity that gained some adherents in the 1960's when, building on the works of Friedrich Neitzsche, Thomas Altizer and others wrote about "Christian Atheism." Altizer taught that it is no longer possible to believe in a transcendent god, but that the spirit of Christ is immanent wherever his people gather. In this way, we may continue to revere Christ, even without God.

(By the way, don't you just love the duct tape holding this guy's raincoat together?)

Here's the problem - and not just for Captain Reavley - Christ believed in God, indeed He understood Himself to be the only begotten Son of the Father. When the disciples came asking who He was He accepted Peter's belief, that He was the Christ, the son of the living God; neither did He rebuke Thomas who greeted his risen Savior as "My Lord and my God."

Maybe Anne Perry does not accept the divinity of Christ; apparently she is a Mormon. But even this does not solve the problem. Even if Christ was not "the image of the invisible God," that same God was still His primary point of reference. Jesus of Nazareth was who He was because of how He understood His relationship with His Heavenly Father. So, to take concepts like honor and truth and love, and to ascribe them to a godless Jesus, is do strip them of meaning. What does 'love' mean without the narrative of redemption? We can give the word any meaning we choose, but we cannot force our interpretation upon Jesus. And if we attempt to divorce elements of His teaching from His understanding of the nature of God, we do violence to the Gospel.

Is there a warning there for today's church? When our understanding of the Christian faith is more anthropological then theological, then it is fundamentally flawed.

Men of War

Patrick O'Brian's little book on Nelson's Navy allows us to grasp something of what it was like to serve at sea, two hundred years ago. O'Brian explains the bewildering terminology of dog watches and carronades, of mizenmasts and studding sails. It's all very confusing to a land lubber, but essential to an understanding of an incredibly efficient maritime war machine.

One side of my wife's family hails from South West England, from Devon and Cornwall. Many of her ancestors served at sea. Lesley's great-grandfather died at the Battle of Coronel, off Brazil, in 1916, the Royal Navy's first serious set-back in over 150 years.

Life at sea was far from easy. The hours were brutal. The food was worse. The joke in O'Brian's 'Master and Commander,' made into a movie a few years ago, is based on how things really were. Jack Aubrey, the post-captain, asks his friend, the surgeon, to choose between two weevils (grubs) that have fallen from a ship's biscuit. Maturin, as a scientist, answers that there would be more nutrition in the larger of the two. Aubrey replies (of course) that one should always choose the lesser of two weevils.

Sailors just ate them. They also ate the larger white grubs, called bargemen, that appeared when the biscuits had deteriorated further. Rats, known as 'millers' because of their dusty coats, were caught, skinned, and laid out for sale. Everything was washed down with copious quantities of grog (rum mixed with water and lemon juice). It was a hard life with little sleep and less pay, until a 'prize' was taken. Unless claimed by the Crown, the value of enemy ships captured by the Royal Navy was divided among the crew. Naturally, the officers took the lion's share, but nevertheless, in a morning's work a sailor could earn the equivalent of 100 years pay. This didn't happen often. Unfortunately, poverty and privation were much more likely outcomes of life in the 'senior service.'

There's something very attractive about the thought of a close-knit, well-trained group of men, serving together over an extended period, whose lives were regulated by the rhythm of the sea. It's interesting to know how one's ancestors lived.

One of the oldest metaphors for the Christian Church is the ship. What does this teach us?

- there are tasks to be done;

- we all have talents to share;

- we must work together to achieve anything of value;

- the voyage need not always be easy;

- depend on the Pilot;

- be careful what you eat...

Bias at the Old Bailey

Horace Rumpole: barrister at law, of Equity Court, the Temple, London; resident with spouse Hilda ('She Who Must Be Obeyed') at 25B Froxbury Court, Gloucester Road, is a larger-than-fiction character who has given pleasure to millions. With his less-than-salubrious hat perched on his head, a glass of Chateau Thames Embankment in his hand, a small cigar protruding from his pursed lips, Rumpole is, as Alan Coren once pointed out, "the best mock-heroic fatty since Falstaff." Whether facing the Mad Bull (Judge Roger Bullingham) down the Old Bailey, or working a small indecent exposure brief at the Uxbridge Magistrates Court, Rumpole is an English eccentric extraordinaire. Leo McKern, though Australian, was born to portray him.

At the same time, there is a burr beneath the saddle of John Mortimer's most celebrated creation. Behind the stories of the eternally junior barrister, perpetually passed-over for promotion to silk by someone with better connections (or less anti-social habits), lies a web of anti-Christian sentiment. John Mortimer's opinions, some might say prejudices, are not particularly well-disguised.

For example, in "Rumpole and the Rotten Apple," the prosecuting officer is called Superintendent Glazier. He is "a tall, rather pale officer with dark hair brushed straight back, wearing a blue suit and a Police Rugby Club tie." He claims that it is his Christian duty "to find a good word to say for all sorts of villains... but I can't stand a bent copper." On his lapel, the Superintendent wears a small pin, bearing the insignia of an organization known as "Police Witness to God." Rumpole compares Glazier to an officer in Cromwell's army, determined to stamp out corruption and backsliding. Of course, it comes as no surprise to discover that Glazier is the rotten apple, and that he has been deliberately framing an innocent fellow-officer. The implication is obvious - Christians are sanctimonious hypocrites.

Mortimer's treatment of "Soapy Sam" Ballard, the head of Chambers, is slightly less unsympathetic, but the picture he paints is still of a small-minded, arrogant man, more concerned about petty rules than justice, not averse to bending those rules to suit himself. Ballard is, naturally, an avid supporter of "The Lawyers as Churchgoers Society."

Rumpole, himself, is a son of the parsonage. His father, a Church of England vicar, did not, apparently, feel obliged to believe many of the 39Articles of Anglicanism. He detested Bible Class. However, since he had no other skills with which to feed his family, the elder Rumpole remained in his unfortunate profession. Once again the implication is clear - no thinking person could subscribe to the Christian faith. All that is left for Rumpole of the Old Bailey is a loveless marraige and a few choice phrases from the Oxford Book of English Verse.

Mortimer's intolerant dogmatism is as unattractive as it is unnecessary. Bias does not improve the stories; but it does tell us something about the author. Why do the television watchdogs tolerate such behavior? If the object of the author's scorn was castigated because of the color of his skin, or if the snide remarks referenced Islam, the books would be held in contempt. But because Mortimer's prejudice is anti-Christian, no-one seems to complain.

Imago Dei

There's a touching story, today, in our local paper, the Brazosport Facts. Apparently, a store owner in Angleton, the county seat, noticed a pigeon which had got stuck on a sign. Some sort of twine, tied around its leg, had become entangled in a sign. The poor bird kept struggling to break free, but only succeeded in making matters worse.
Soon, the police department, animal control officers, and representatives from a local animal rescue group, gathered in the street. With the help of a bucket truck the pigeon was rescued, and will now spend quality time recovering at the animal rescue center.
What a great story! The store owner called 911 because he couldn't think who else to call. And the police responded magnificently, just as one would expect in small town USA. For a brief time, Brazoria County's finest had their attention focused on the fortunes of a frightened young bird.

Unfortunately, the same paper told the story of Edy Joel Jimenez-Ulloa, a 25 year old man from Honduras whose body was found in a ditch not far from Angleton. His body had been bundled into two black trash bags and left, just like trash, at the side of a country road. As yet, there have been no arrests.

Does no one see the frightening incongruity of these two stories? One demonstrates all that is good about human beings, whose compassion can even extend to a frightened bird; the other story demonstrates all that is bad about human beings, whose malevolence can be deadly. In the former, we remember our inheritance. The divine spark flares, if only for a moment. In the latter, God's image is defaced. The spark gutters and dies. And the most frightening thing of all is that we see ourselves in both stories. The hands that heal and the hands that hurt are, far too frequently, one and the same. They are ours.




First story: http://www.thefacts.com/story.lasso?ewcd=7d4ad9694341ad29
Second story: http://www.thefacts.com/story.lasso?ewcd=2f15cbd2b0550251