Faith journey (part 7)

Having taken the step of sharing something of my own faith-orientation, the question I now had to ask myself was this: while maintaining the respect and acceptance of my colleagues (despite my heretical views) did I really believe what I wrote and presented? Did I really intend to make that wager, to entrust myself to the universe of Christian symbols, even while I understood that that’s all they are? Was I capable of embracing a ‘second naiveté,’ that is, a deliberately willed innocence, which says ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in the same breath (or with different brain hemispheres)? Or had I simply found another creative way of tailoring my views to the audience? I came to realize that was probably what happened, and so I found myself in a position not too different from where I was some 12 months before.  

On the one hand, my carefully controlled coming out did reduce cognitive dissonance (a bit like spiritual trepanning), even though it was still something I could only talk about in hushed tones in the stairwell.  But on the other hand, it meant that I ended up arguing for the least disagreeable position available to me, rather than a position I actually agreed with. For on reflection, I really doubted that what I wrote about Christianity as a non-dogmatic pattern of life, rather than a belief system, would hold water, at least in my case.

Let me explain, and I’ll switch to present tense here.

I don’t deny that some individuals can use Christian symbols, narratives and rituals as a scaffold to engage in a personally meaningful and socially generous pattern of life, while also knowing that none of its metaphysical claims are literally true; and furthermore, recognizing that the very tradition that claims to be universal and absolute is in fact contingent and relative. Good for them! But despite advocating for this very position, I find it very hard to engage in Christian practices when I know they are ‘only’ symbolic (I put ‘only’ in quote marks because more generally I think symbols are very important). In the final analysis, it seems to me, that Christianity is incurably dogmatic. Here I find Walter Kaufmann’s critique of Christianity quite to the point (The Faith of a Heretic):

“Christianity defined itself less as a way of life than as a faith, which right from the beginning, involved assent to various propositions” (142). “In the end, a Christian may choose to reject theology...But in that case he gives up Christianity...” (143) “Christianity is inescapably a theological religion, and those who give up the ancient formulations of alleged knowledge about ‘God, his nature and attributes, and his relations with man and the universe’ break with Christianity” (144).

(I would have also quoted Daphne Hampson’s After Christianity here, except that I’ve returned it to the library.)

So the practices arise out of the beliefs, and for the vast majority of people, precisely because these beliefs are taken to be true in some objective sense. In terms of numbers, I don’t know how many believers actually do happily and freely practice the faith without also believing it. Quite likely, those who advocate the ‘willed naiveté’ approach are those who have already invested a lot of themselves in the Christian tradition, and feel bound to it for traditional, family, community or economic reasons. Only someone trying to justify their continued existence in a faith tradition they no longer believe in would develop such an approach. That’s why it seems that conservative, orthodox and fundamentalist churches make the converts, and liberal and progressive churches appeal to those who have lost their beliefs. Of course, there may be exceptions, but they might often be authors, poets, or intellectuals, drawn to the tradition for various aesthetic reasons. 

But the real test of whether or not I believed my own words about a non-dogmatic, praxis oriented Christianity, is how I myself freely and willingly practice it. How do I measure up to (in my own words) “reading and interpreting Scripture, cultivating an inner life, participating in communal worship, practicing reconciliation, listening to others, receiving strangers, engaging in charity, re-imagining a world, accepting discipline, cultivating virtue, avoiding vices, and so on”?

Many I still hold to, or at least seek to enact, feeble as my attempts are. Practices like “cultivating an inner life, practicing reconciliation, listening to others, receiving strangers, engaging in charity, re-imagining a world, accepting discipline, cultivating virtue, avoiding vice”… these are, without a doubt, things to strive for as best we humanly can. But not because they are Christian, but because they’re worthwhile in themselves, having their own intrinsic reward or the well-being of others. And it seems to me that such qualities can all be pursued (if not fully realized) by the light of reason or common decency, or through the resources of other philosophical or religious traditions. Or Christianity, of course.

But there are particular Christian practices that I had long abandoned, dependent as they are on specific underlying beliefs. For example, for some time I had been reading the bible only when I had to, for teaching, preaching or research purposes. Quite apart from dismissing the church’s claim to the bible’s inerrancy (its factual, historical or literal truth), I didn’t find myself hungering to read it, even in a symbolic, imaginative or non-realist way. If it was a matter of personal guidance and meaning, practical help or wisdom, insight into human nature or a realistic accounting of the human story, or just a good story, I was going elsewhere. When I did resolve to meditate on the scripture, it was often out of a kind of loyalty to my vocation, but not because I believe God was speaking to me through it. At best, I found myself approaching the biblical passage as a pretext for bringing out what we already value – much like you can do with a passage from Shakespeare or any other rich and multilayered text. To be honest, I think that’s what most Christians and preachers do anyway…

What about participating in communal worship? With all honestly, this was the worst. Not only because I, the liturgy lecturer, should of all people be actively engaged and involved in this central act of the church, but because in communal worship the disjunction between personal faith and the public confession is intensified. Personal beliefs/faith (or lack thereof) must give way before the assembly reciting with one voice “We believe…” Furthermore, I was finding it almost impossible to sing the hymns of the church which in effect asked you to climb into someone else’s love affair with Jesus. No thanks.  Teaching worship, however, was not so bad, as I focused a lot on the historical development of the liturgy, which is a fascinating subject – and should remind us that all the things theologians and liturgists wrangle over are historically and culturally contingent.

Prayer, I’d agree with one of my former teachers, is the litmus test of belief. If you believe there is a heavenly Father who hears our prayers, or a Jesus who is present where two or three are gathered, then yes, you will pray, or try to. But it becomes a different proposition if you don’t hold these beliefs: prayer than becomes a kind of meditation, which of course may have its own benefit. Here is something I wrote about prayer in a post elsewhere:

Prayer is possibly one of the basic litmus tests for the presence of faith or not. So the fact that personal prayer has become almost non-existent for me is significant, although my job frequently requires me too pray in group or liturgical settings. In fact, I ceased believing a long time ago that prayer has any objective effect on the wider world of nature or humans. Prayer seems largely something we do for ourselves, or more likely, to ourselves. By prayer we reinforce the beliefs we hold, especially if we feel anxious about losing them (“Lord, I believe, help my unbelief”). It is a form of self-indoctrination, which explains why Lutheran spirituality is always going on about the connection between the word of God and prayer (as in Luther’s classic statement on oratio, meditatio, tentatio). Psychologically, I suppose prayer can be seen as a form of processing our thoughts, perhaps by positing God as a silent conversation partner. Prayer in group settings is an interesting case. I think it’s an effective way of binding a community together, precisely by its indirection. That is, by praying to God, rather than addressing each other directly, we can say things via a third party (God) more easily than saying it face to face. Prayer is an effective, yet safe, verbal community binding agent!

More examples could be given. But the point is that having shared and argued for a ‘progressive’ understanding of Christianity with my ALC colleagues, in the following months I would end up critiquing and revising my own position, effectively calling into question the very thing I argued for. At that time, it led me to the conclusion that rather than describe myself as a ‘post-critical’ or ‘non-realist’ Christian, it would be better to not call myself a Christian believer at all.

In my next post I’ll give a snapshot then of where I was in early-mid 2015, and the events that then culminated in my exit (Lexit?) from the ordained ministry.