Today is the anniversary of the papal bull Regnans in excelsis published in 1570 announcing Pope St Pius V's deposition of Queen Elizabeth I from her royal throne and his call to her subjects to abandon both their sovereign and the spiritual leadership of the 'lewd preachers and ministers of impiety' whom she had planted in the Lord's Vineyard.
You might therefore have thought that Pius was no friend of the Anglican Church in any shape or form. But apparently not, if the following endorsement by an American Episcopalian culled from the internet is anything to go by.
Today is a very special day, the Feast of St Pius V. As one of my patrons (I took Pius as my confirmation name) I'll be serving at the Holy Sacrifice today from his Missal (but in English, alas). If you are able, do join us today at noon at Grace and St Peter's to celebrate this illustrious Pope and Confessor and great friend of the Church of England.
With friends like this . . .
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Crown and Mitre
On 30th January we Anglicans observed the feast of the blessed St Charles, King and Martyr. And we did so with hearts overflowing with gratitude for his courageous defence of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Faith - even unto death. We did, didn't we? Well I certainly did, but some of you might have been just a little too squeamish to do the same, I fear.
Perhaps you were put off by Professor J.P. Kenyon's remarks on the matter, 'His [Charles the First's] was never a masculine character, and his femine delicacy of feature, his tristesse, that Pre-Raphaelite droop so attractive to the old ladies of Anglo-Catholicism, had a limited appeal to contemporaries.' As a put-down (two put-downs, in fact) this is simply superb, but is it true? And is it enough to account for the reality of the king's part in the life of the church, or the reality of the church's life following his death?
Here's the opinion of another distinguished historian of the period, C.V. Wedgewood, 'His church policy was the outcome not of calculation but of conviction; he was ready to die for it.' And what in the end was the church policy Charles was prepared to die for? According to Mandell Creighton, bishop of London at the turn of the twentieth century and a noted ecclesiastical historian, 'Had Charles been willing to abandon the church and give up episcopacy, he might have saved his throne and his life. But on this point Charles stood firm: for this he died, and by dying saved it for the future.'
And these are some of the Royal Martyr's own words on the matter, 'I conceive that episcopal government is most consonant with the Word of God, and of apostolical institution, as it appears by the Scripture to have been practised by the apostles themselves, and by them committed and derived to particular persons as their substitutes or successors therein, and have ever since to these last times been exercised by bishops
But perhaps your sympathies lie with a later (and somewhat Presbyterian) sovereign. At a garden party for Anglican bishops Oueen Victoria remarked to her lady in waiting, "A very ugly party. I do not like bishops." When Lady Lyttelton expressed some disquiet at this pronouncement from the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, the queen said, "I like the man - not the bishop." I'm sorry to say that a good many Anglo-Catholics since then would have happily reversed her reply, and may even have had good reason to do so.
No doubt there have been (and will continue to be) objections to episcopacy from our more protestant brethren, but I'm afraid I find them entirely unconvincing. Perhaps there was a period of uncertainty about the ministry in the early Church (though you might like to take a cursory look at From Synagogue to Church by James Tunstead Burtchaell, CUP 1992, before you make up your mind). For myself I find the universal practice of the churches which have any claim to antiquity (some of which, like the Assyrian Church of the East, have been in a world of their own from very early on) to be most persuasive. Despite enormous differences in their histories, liturgies, and even in their canons of scripture, these churches have all held fast to the doctrine of apostolic succession and to the consequent three-fold ministry as being essential to the Catholic Church.
I mention the scriptural canon because even where the New Testament is concerned, there have been notable differences. The Syriac churches, for example, did not accept 2 Peter, Jude, 2 and 3 John, and the Book of Revelation until very late in the day, and even now the latter is not read at the public services of the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Only tradition tells me that there are four Gospels and not three or thirty. Likewise tradition tells me that in some vital sense bishops have succeeded the apostles in the governance of the People of God. Perhaps some bishops have been no good. But then, the gospel of John has been used to promote antisemitism, and I have yet to hear of a plan to remove it from the bible as a result. Episcopacy was established in the church before the canon, and has ever since been a foundation of the church's life. No doubt the church could get by without St John's gospel, just as some denominations get by without bishops - but it would be an impoverishment, and a statement that Christianity was on the wrong path for fifteen hundred years, which (in this instance, at least) makes very little sense to me.
However, there is an exception. There is always an exception! And the exception in this case (you will be surprised to learn) is the Roman Catholic Church. Should you consult Principles of Sacramental Theology by Father Bernard Leeming SJ (published in London by Longmans Green in 1956) you will be interested to discover that bishops are largely surplus to requirements, since the Roman Pontiff can give permission (and presumably power) to simple priests to ordain to the priesthood and the diaconate, and perhaps even to the episcopate. At least three popes have done so, and Father Leeming rather reluctantly acknowledges the fact.
But we shouldn't be too surprised. Remember those missals which we all had (well, some of us) before the Second Vatican Council, with an imprimatur from none other than one L. Suenens, working his way up to the archbishopric of Malines and a galero (a cardinal's red hat)? In the helpful introduction to these missals we are told that 'There are three major Orders or consecrations,' and that they are those of subdeacon, deacon, and priest. And just in case a bishop should feel left out, he is assured that he possesses 'the fulness of the priesthood.' Furthermore there are (or at least have been) reputable dogmatic manuals (so-called) used in seminaries which maintain that ordination to the episcopate is not a sacramental act.
Since Vatican Two, of course, all is changed. But let's not forget that until the pope says sorry, the Roman Church is officially Presbyterian. So, given a rather obvious 'defect of intention' where the episcopate is concerned, do they really have valid orders like us?
Perhaps you were put off by Professor J.P. Kenyon's remarks on the matter, 'His [Charles the First's] was never a masculine character, and his femine delicacy of feature, his tristesse, that Pre-Raphaelite droop so attractive to the old ladies of Anglo-Catholicism, had a limited appeal to contemporaries.' As a put-down (two put-downs, in fact) this is simply superb, but is it true? And is it enough to account for the reality of the king's part in the life of the church, or the reality of the church's life following his death?
Here's the opinion of another distinguished historian of the period, C.V. Wedgewood, 'His church policy was the outcome not of calculation but of conviction; he was ready to die for it.' And what in the end was the church policy Charles was prepared to die for? According to Mandell Creighton, bishop of London at the turn of the twentieth century and a noted ecclesiastical historian, 'Had Charles been willing to abandon the church and give up episcopacy, he might have saved his throne and his life. But on this point Charles stood firm: for this he died, and by dying saved it for the future.'
And these are some of the Royal Martyr's own words on the matter, 'I conceive that episcopal government is most consonant with the Word of God, and of apostolical institution, as it appears by the Scripture to have been practised by the apostles themselves, and by them committed and derived to particular persons as their substitutes or successors therein, and have ever since to these last times been exercised by bishops
But perhaps your sympathies lie with a later (and somewhat Presbyterian) sovereign. At a garden party for Anglican bishops Oueen Victoria remarked to her lady in waiting, "A very ugly party. I do not like bishops." When Lady Lyttelton expressed some disquiet at this pronouncement from the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, the queen said, "I like the man - not the bishop." I'm sorry to say that a good many Anglo-Catholics since then would have happily reversed her reply, and may even have had good reason to do so.
No doubt there have been (and will continue to be) objections to episcopacy from our more protestant brethren, but I'm afraid I find them entirely unconvincing. Perhaps there was a period of uncertainty about the ministry in the early Church (though you might like to take a cursory look at From Synagogue to Church by James Tunstead Burtchaell, CUP 1992, before you make up your mind). For myself I find the universal practice of the churches which have any claim to antiquity (some of which, like the Assyrian Church of the East, have been in a world of their own from very early on) to be most persuasive. Despite enormous differences in their histories, liturgies, and even in their canons of scripture, these churches have all held fast to the doctrine of apostolic succession and to the consequent three-fold ministry as being essential to the Catholic Church.
I mention the scriptural canon because even where the New Testament is concerned, there have been notable differences. The Syriac churches, for example, did not accept 2 Peter, Jude, 2 and 3 John, and the Book of Revelation until very late in the day, and even now the latter is not read at the public services of the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Only tradition tells me that there are four Gospels and not three or thirty. Likewise tradition tells me that in some vital sense bishops have succeeded the apostles in the governance of the People of God. Perhaps some bishops have been no good. But then, the gospel of John has been used to promote antisemitism, and I have yet to hear of a plan to remove it from the bible as a result. Episcopacy was established in the church before the canon, and has ever since been a foundation of the church's life. No doubt the church could get by without St John's gospel, just as some denominations get by without bishops - but it would be an impoverishment, and a statement that Christianity was on the wrong path for fifteen hundred years, which (in this instance, at least) makes very little sense to me.
However, there is an exception. There is always an exception! And the exception in this case (you will be surprised to learn) is the Roman Catholic Church. Should you consult Principles of Sacramental Theology by Father Bernard Leeming SJ (published in London by Longmans Green in 1956) you will be interested to discover that bishops are largely surplus to requirements, since the Roman Pontiff can give permission (and presumably power) to simple priests to ordain to the priesthood and the diaconate, and perhaps even to the episcopate. At least three popes have done so, and Father Leeming rather reluctantly acknowledges the fact.
But we shouldn't be too surprised. Remember those missals which we all had (well, some of us) before the Second Vatican Council, with an imprimatur from none other than one L. Suenens, working his way up to the archbishopric of Malines and a galero (a cardinal's red hat)? In the helpful introduction to these missals we are told that 'There are three major Orders or consecrations,' and that they are those of subdeacon, deacon, and priest. And just in case a bishop should feel left out, he is assured that he possesses 'the fulness of the priesthood.' Furthermore there are (or at least have been) reputable dogmatic manuals (so-called) used in seminaries which maintain that ordination to the episcopate is not a sacramental act.
Since Vatican Two, of course, all is changed. But let's not forget that until the pope says sorry, the Roman Church is officially Presbyterian. So, given a rather obvious 'defect of intention' where the episcopate is concerned, do they really have valid orders like us?
Friday, January 29, 2010
To be or not to be
Ever since I was a small boy I have been fascinated by matters which I have not had the slightest possibility of understanding. Although I have found this particularly helpful in forming my opinions, and essential in expressing them, it has been a drawback all the same. But please note that modern science backs me up. Take, for example, Werner Heisenberg and his uncertainty principle. Even the name has a certain quality of reassurance for those of us who would like to understand such things as mathematics and physics, but who have always had difficulty in being entirely certain that two and two make four. (When I was at primary school the headmaster informed me that if I couldn't do arithmetic I would never amount to anything. He was quite right - I couldn't and I haven't.)
The uncertainty principle tells us that at the quantum level of reality it is just not possible to be sure about the behaviour of atoms, let alone their constituent parts such as electrons and quarks. And given the fact that atoms are themselves more than ninety-nine per cent empty space, and that the tiny fraction which is something rather than nothing can be described as 'a blur' I can't say I feel too bad about my ignorance.
This is especially so as Heisenberg's successors seem to be approaching the great Somers-Edgar principle which is simply this - the universe doesn't actually exist. Even as a eleven or twelve-year old I had my doubts. I can remember standing at the bottom of Pitt Street at the time when I was still attending Arthur Street School and wondering whether the scene before me was actually the way I percieved it, or if it was even there at all. (I might say that at this point in my life I was drinking nothing stronger than milk.) Perhaps the presence of Knox Church to my left unhinged me somewhat, but I had the same doubts even when I was standing inside St Patrick's Basilica. Nowadays, I must confess, inside all too many churches this is not so much a doubt as a hope.
Clearly something exists in some way or other, but it is not at all clear just what that way might happen to be - especially, it seems, to physicists. Which makes the pious (or impious) certainties of Richard Dawkins and his friends hard to credit. With empty atoms, string theory, the possibility of eleven dimensions (at the last count), imaginary time, quantum mechanics and other scientific propositions, not to mention the theory that the universe divides into millions of complete and separate versions of itself in order to accomodate all possible outcomes - by comparison with all this, believing in God is mere child's play.
The uncertainty principle tells us that at the quantum level of reality it is just not possible to be sure about the behaviour of atoms, let alone their constituent parts such as electrons and quarks. And given the fact that atoms are themselves more than ninety-nine per cent empty space, and that the tiny fraction which is something rather than nothing can be described as 'a blur' I can't say I feel too bad about my ignorance.
This is especially so as Heisenberg's successors seem to be approaching the great Somers-Edgar principle which is simply this - the universe doesn't actually exist. Even as a eleven or twelve-year old I had my doubts. I can remember standing at the bottom of Pitt Street at the time when I was still attending Arthur Street School and wondering whether the scene before me was actually the way I percieved it, or if it was even there at all. (I might say that at this point in my life I was drinking nothing stronger than milk.) Perhaps the presence of Knox Church to my left unhinged me somewhat, but I had the same doubts even when I was standing inside St Patrick's Basilica. Nowadays, I must confess, inside all too many churches this is not so much a doubt as a hope.
Clearly something exists in some way or other, but it is not at all clear just what that way might happen to be - especially, it seems, to physicists. Which makes the pious (or impious) certainties of Richard Dawkins and his friends hard to credit. With empty atoms, string theory, the possibility of eleven dimensions (at the last count), imaginary time, quantum mechanics and other scientific propositions, not to mention the theory that the universe divides into millions of complete and separate versions of itself in order to accomodate all possible outcomes - by comparison with all this, believing in God is mere child's play.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Doubting Thomas
Today we have been observing the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, for whom I have a somewhat ill-informed liking, if only for two particular reasons. The first is that as a small child he would apparently ask his elders "What is God?" Not who?, you will note, but what? I entirely realise that he should actually have been asking whether anyone had found his teddy bear, and I thus have some sympathy with his poor elders - but I do think he was on the right track. God has got to be more than a little old man on the top of a middle eastern mountain with a long beard and a short fuse.
I also like Aquinas for his reported answer to his own question at the end of his life, namely, that having actually experienced the Real Thing (please note the capital letters) he understood that there could be no answers, except for the ones that make sense. And where God is concerned, sensible answers often make no sense at all. Thus the Angelic Doctor is said to have refused to finish his great Summa with the statement that what he had already written (and that was an awful lot) was only so much straw.
The contrast between St Thomas and a good many of the Doubting Thomases of our own time (often fully paid-up clergy and theological professors, alas) could hardly be greater.
I also like Aquinas for his reported answer to his own question at the end of his life, namely, that having actually experienced the Real Thing (please note the capital letters) he understood that there could be no answers, except for the ones that make sense. And where God is concerned, sensible answers often make no sense at all. Thus the Angelic Doctor is said to have refused to finish his great Summa with the statement that what he had already written (and that was an awful lot) was only so much straw.
The contrast between St Thomas and a good many of the Doubting Thomases of our own time (often fully paid-up clergy and theological professors, alas) could hardly be greater.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Taking urgency
16th December was the anniversary of my baptism in 1951. I can't say that I remember it well, but I do recall looking up at the wooden roof and seeing the sunlight slanting through the windows. This was in St Matthew's Church on the corner of Hope Street (most appropriate!) and the officiating priest was Archdeacon Hamblett, the father-in-law of the painter Colin McCahon. At the time even members of my family would have wanted other people to think that they believed in God - even though most of them didn't, some of them with good reason. The latter included my father and his siblings. The reason for their somewhat determined unbelief was not scientific or philosophical, but much closer to home than that - it was their own dear mother.
Grandma was quite a character, and had had quite a life, not much of it very pleasant or enjoyable. Both her father and his father before him had fallen into debt and had chosen (at different times) to remove themselves from this world as a result, leaving their respective daughter and granddaughter to fend for herself and her children. As a result they all spent at least one winter on the west coast in nothing more than a tent before my great-grandmother was imprisoned for debt (of course!) and her children were sent to the workhouse. Not a very good beginning, I think you will agree, and it didn't improve very much after that either. Grandma grew up to be a beautiful and charming young woman, but not one with the best judgement it would seem, as she went on to marry a well-bred but not entirely useful Englishman who fathered her children but appeared to be largely incapable of supporting them. So Grandma turned to religion, and not just to any religion - she became a Seventh Day Adventist. She also became an absolutely determined advocate for her faith, whether her family or anyone else liked it or not. Hence her children's militant unbelief.
Naturally the failure of her offspring to follow her on the path of righteousness was a considerable disappointment, but Grandma nevertheless remained ever-vigilant against ungodliness. When I was six years old, and my parents were out of the house, she got me to sign the pledge. On their return they insisted on tearing it up and gave Grandma a stern lecture on the evils of manipulating impressionable young minds. I, meanwhile, burst into tears, crying that I would become a gin-soaked alcoholic because Grandma had told me so - as indeed I did, although I had to work at it for some years thereafter. Grandma was not always wrong.
There was also something of a kerfuffle when she gave her eldest son a book about the South Seas. As he already had a copy, his wife took it back to the shop, where the saleswoman examined it to make sure it was resaleable. It wasn't. One of the photographs in the book showed a most attractive Polynesian girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt - and a large piece of black tape which Grandma had placed strategically just below her neck in case my uncle (then in his fifties) was led astray. My aunt, who had no time for religion of any sort - let alone Grandma's - took the book and drove home in something of a rage. On the way a little idea popped into her head. She turned up at Grandma's and announced that at last she had Seen The Light. Grandma was thrilled - until my aunt informed her that she was going to became a Roman Catholic. (She didn't, of course.)
My other grandmother was also religious. She was a Christian Scientist and would tell me when I was sick that my illness was in my head, something which was particularly true whenever I had a cold. On the rare occasions that she and Grandma met you could see that they didn't exactly have a lot in common, but as they were the only members of my family to have some sort of religion, I think I did rather well to remain a mere Anglican, which is rather more than I can say for most of my cousins who (most understandably) remain resolutely indifferent.
And I think I know why. Some years ago, when another of my father's brothers arrived in England for a holiday with his wife, I accompanied them to various historic monuments, including a few churches. In one of the latter my uncle put some money into the offertory box, and when I asked him why he had done so, he replied in two words, "Fire insurance." Naturally I enquired as to whether or not he actually believed that. He didn't. And just to make his reasons clear he said in a quietly mocking voice, "Ah yes - little children dying of cancer, and all to please the God of Love." Merely theological explanations at this point didn't quite seem appropriate. My uncle had caught God out, at least in his own mind, and even now, almost forty years later I'm not at all sure what would have been an adequate reply, or even if such a thing were possible.
So my uncle had found that God was fundamentally heartless, perhaps not so much immoral as amoral, and thus not worthy of his attention, let alone his allegiance. He could simply dismiss him from consideration, backed up, of course, by what he understood of modern science. And how could I have found just the right words in those circumstances to effect the necessary change of mind and heart? He had, after all, heard it many times before.
So why didn't it convince him? That's the sort of question I don't think we ask ourselves often enough. Insofar as I have any kind of answer, I think it has a lot to do with context in which the Gospel is preached. Something must already be part of the experience of your listeners for them to build on. Where the first Christians were concerned their understanding of things already included a belief in what we would (rather loosely) call the supernatural, so more of the same not only made sense, it helped to make sure that the supernatural was on your side and not otherwise. Becoming God's friend (and staying that way) was thus a very good idea.
But nowadays God can seem too unreal (and too unreliable) to bother about. Darwin, Marx and Freud have seen to that. Not to mention celebrated scientists like Richard Dawkins and famous philosophers like Antony Flew. Or at least that's what we thought. But recently, Professor Flew has let the side down badly by becoming a theist (a deist in fact). And why do you suppose that is? Because science (if you please) has convinced him that there must be what he describes as an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good. Otherwise the universe could never have happened, it could not show the extraordinary order that it does, our genome could never have evolved by chance no matter how many billions of years it had at its disposal, and self-reproducing life just could not arise spontaneously from inanimate matter.
My uncle was able to be an unbeliever without too much trouble. He didn't really have to think about it. God's shaky morality and scientific implausibility gave him the right to dismiss the deity without looking too closely at his opinions and the reasons for them. But it is my belief that those who share those opinions are in for something of a shock in the coming years. Despite, or even because of, the Darwinian fundamentalists, science is beginning to reveal a reality which I am sure is a necessary part of the Gospel - and we should loudly and ostentatiously proclaim it as such.
As the title of Professor Flew's latest book says, There is a God. If we want to make faith in God much more widely possible for our generation we need to investigate closely this new development in the sciences. For if people come to believe that 'an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good' and which created and sustains everything including themselves, is not just scientifically plausible but perhaps even scientifically necessary, then the question of their relationship with this reality (or the lack of it) might well become rather more urgent.
Grandma was quite a character, and had had quite a life, not much of it very pleasant or enjoyable. Both her father and his father before him had fallen into debt and had chosen (at different times) to remove themselves from this world as a result, leaving their respective daughter and granddaughter to fend for herself and her children. As a result they all spent at least one winter on the west coast in nothing more than a tent before my great-grandmother was imprisoned for debt (of course!) and her children were sent to the workhouse. Not a very good beginning, I think you will agree, and it didn't improve very much after that either. Grandma grew up to be a beautiful and charming young woman, but not one with the best judgement it would seem, as she went on to marry a well-bred but not entirely useful Englishman who fathered her children but appeared to be largely incapable of supporting them. So Grandma turned to religion, and not just to any religion - she became a Seventh Day Adventist. She also became an absolutely determined advocate for her faith, whether her family or anyone else liked it or not. Hence her children's militant unbelief.
Naturally the failure of her offspring to follow her on the path of righteousness was a considerable disappointment, but Grandma nevertheless remained ever-vigilant against ungodliness. When I was six years old, and my parents were out of the house, she got me to sign the pledge. On their return they insisted on tearing it up and gave Grandma a stern lecture on the evils of manipulating impressionable young minds. I, meanwhile, burst into tears, crying that I would become a gin-soaked alcoholic because Grandma had told me so - as indeed I did, although I had to work at it for some years thereafter. Grandma was not always wrong.
There was also something of a kerfuffle when she gave her eldest son a book about the South Seas. As he already had a copy, his wife took it back to the shop, where the saleswoman examined it to make sure it was resaleable. It wasn't. One of the photographs in the book showed a most attractive Polynesian girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt - and a large piece of black tape which Grandma had placed strategically just below her neck in case my uncle (then in his fifties) was led astray. My aunt, who had no time for religion of any sort - let alone Grandma's - took the book and drove home in something of a rage. On the way a little idea popped into her head. She turned up at Grandma's and announced that at last she had Seen The Light. Grandma was thrilled - until my aunt informed her that she was going to became a Roman Catholic. (She didn't, of course.)
My other grandmother was also religious. She was a Christian Scientist and would tell me when I was sick that my illness was in my head, something which was particularly true whenever I had a cold. On the rare occasions that she and Grandma met you could see that they didn't exactly have a lot in common, but as they were the only members of my family to have some sort of religion, I think I did rather well to remain a mere Anglican, which is rather more than I can say for most of my cousins who (most understandably) remain resolutely indifferent.
And I think I know why. Some years ago, when another of my father's brothers arrived in England for a holiday with his wife, I accompanied them to various historic monuments, including a few churches. In one of the latter my uncle put some money into the offertory box, and when I asked him why he had done so, he replied in two words, "Fire insurance." Naturally I enquired as to whether or not he actually believed that. He didn't. And just to make his reasons clear he said in a quietly mocking voice, "Ah yes - little children dying of cancer, and all to please the God of Love." Merely theological explanations at this point didn't quite seem appropriate. My uncle had caught God out, at least in his own mind, and even now, almost forty years later I'm not at all sure what would have been an adequate reply, or even if such a thing were possible.
So my uncle had found that God was fundamentally heartless, perhaps not so much immoral as amoral, and thus not worthy of his attention, let alone his allegiance. He could simply dismiss him from consideration, backed up, of course, by what he understood of modern science. And how could I have found just the right words in those circumstances to effect the necessary change of mind and heart? He had, after all, heard it many times before.
So why didn't it convince him? That's the sort of question I don't think we ask ourselves often enough. Insofar as I have any kind of answer, I think it has a lot to do with context in which the Gospel is preached. Something must already be part of the experience of your listeners for them to build on. Where the first Christians were concerned their understanding of things already included a belief in what we would (rather loosely) call the supernatural, so more of the same not only made sense, it helped to make sure that the supernatural was on your side and not otherwise. Becoming God's friend (and staying that way) was thus a very good idea.
But nowadays God can seem too unreal (and too unreliable) to bother about. Darwin, Marx and Freud have seen to that. Not to mention celebrated scientists like Richard Dawkins and famous philosophers like Antony Flew. Or at least that's what we thought. But recently, Professor Flew has let the side down badly by becoming a theist (a deist in fact). And why do you suppose that is? Because science (if you please) has convinced him that there must be what he describes as an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good. Otherwise the universe could never have happened, it could not show the extraordinary order that it does, our genome could never have evolved by chance no matter how many billions of years it had at its disposal, and self-reproducing life just could not arise spontaneously from inanimate matter.
My uncle was able to be an unbeliever without too much trouble. He didn't really have to think about it. God's shaky morality and scientific implausibility gave him the right to dismiss the deity without looking too closely at his opinions and the reasons for them. But it is my belief that those who share those opinions are in for something of a shock in the coming years. Despite, or even because of, the Darwinian fundamentalists, science is beginning to reveal a reality which I am sure is a necessary part of the Gospel - and we should loudly and ostentatiously proclaim it as such.
As the title of Professor Flew's latest book says, There is a God. If we want to make faith in God much more widely possible for our generation we need to investigate closely this new development in the sciences. For if people come to believe that 'an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good' and which created and sustains everything including themselves, is not just scientifically plausible but perhaps even scientifically necessary, then the question of their relationship with this reality (or the lack of it) might well become rather more urgent.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sign of the Times
Well, Christmas Day has been and gone, and Archdeacon Cardy's sign has been and gone with it. Just as well, too. The latter was of course tasteless, ridiculous, objectionable, unbecoming, lewd, suggestive, indecent, and likely to cause offence. It was also not unexpected. We all love Christmas - most of us anyway. We like carols, and fake snow and Santa and jinglebells and all the other seasonal manifestations of Christianity which have endeared themselves to us from our playpens until now.
But we are not too sure about the real thing. You know what I mean, incarnations, resurrections, ascensions - stuff like that. In fact, we have grown beyond such charmingly mythological stuff. And it's not always that charming either, is it? Think of the wars, the inquisition, the intolerance, the oppression of women. Religion clearly turns good people bad - especially when they actually believe in it.
But fortunately we don't. And now we don't have to. We can have our christmas cake and eat it. And we have Sir Lloyd, Bishops Spong and Randerson, Ian Harris (he of the ODT column Honest to God - if you please) and the good archdeacon to give us permission to bypass the real thing in favour of Christianity-Lite, dogma-free and non-saving. It's just the thing for a guilt-free sacred snack. But shame on the clerical cooks for promoting spiritual anorexia.
But we are not too sure about the real thing. You know what I mean, incarnations, resurrections, ascensions - stuff like that. In fact, we have grown beyond such charmingly mythological stuff. And it's not always that charming either, is it? Think of the wars, the inquisition, the intolerance, the oppression of women. Religion clearly turns good people bad - especially when they actually believe in it.
But fortunately we don't. And now we don't have to. We can have our christmas cake and eat it. And we have Sir Lloyd, Bishops Spong and Randerson, Ian Harris (he of the ODT column Honest to God - if you please) and the good archdeacon to give us permission to bypass the real thing in favour of Christianity-Lite, dogma-free and non-saving. It's just the thing for a guilt-free sacred snack. But shame on the clerical cooks for promoting spiritual anorexia.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Unheavenly Music
I am a born-again curmudgeon. Like my late father, I take exception to things which a more balanced and mature person would simply take in his stride. It was always a little dangerous to appear in public with my parent in his latter years. Embarrassment was too often an integral part of the experience. Like the occasion when we went into a shop in which muzak was playing. I don't much care for muzak myself, but I was not a little alarmed when my father started shouting at the rather bewildered salesman, "Do you have to play that bloody rubbish in here?" With my hand firmly on his arm, we made a rapid (but I hope not undignified) exit before he got into his stride.
These days I feel more and more like doing something similar - usually when I'm in Church. We seem to have developed a particular kind of Christian muzak, sometimes sung, sometimes said, and of great repellent power (as Queen Victoria said of Tsar Alexander the Third). Here is an example of the spoken variety, through which I gritted my teeth a few years ago: "Our Father who is in us here on earth. Holy is your name. In the hungry who share their bread and their song your kingdom come, a generous land where confidence and truth reign. Let us do your will. Bring a cool breeze for those who sweat. You are giving us our daily bread when we manage to get back our lands or get a fairer wage. Forgive us for keeping silent in the face of injustice and for burying our dreams, etc., etc." Perhaps you recognise it, or then again, perhaps not.
Here's another example from the same service sheet: "O God, we have come to the hills, where heaven and earth meet. Whisper to us sweet things as the breeze stirs through blades of grass. Shout to us marvellous things as the river roars down its bed of stones. And in this centre where the stillness of your whisper answers the thunder of your shout, etc., etc." It has an emetic quality worthy of the vapourings of Patience Strong.
It's not just the fact that such efforts are examples of the sentimental drivel which sometimes seems to engulf us that worries me. It's the fact that this is theological sentimental drivel. It has a message, and it's not one which is compatible with the Christian religion. Why? Because it is centred on us, not on God. All too many hymns and prayers - indeed whole services - seem to be about us, about making us good and useful, ready to usher in the kingdom, save the whales, defeat racism and sexism, and bring about heaven on earth. We have made the good the enemy of the best because it's so much easier to get on in society if you can adopt a cause everyone can applaud you for promoting. As for a transcendent God, that's perhaps just a little too difficult. But if we have lost our nerve (not to mention our faith) then we have no business concealing the fact with sentimental drivel. Christ said to Pilate, "For truth I came into the world." And the whole truth and nothing but the truth is that only God will do.
These days I feel more and more like doing something similar - usually when I'm in Church. We seem to have developed a particular kind of Christian muzak, sometimes sung, sometimes said, and of great repellent power (as Queen Victoria said of Tsar Alexander the Third). Here is an example of the spoken variety, through which I gritted my teeth a few years ago: "Our Father who is in us here on earth. Holy is your name. In the hungry who share their bread and their song your kingdom come, a generous land where confidence and truth reign. Let us do your will. Bring a cool breeze for those who sweat. You are giving us our daily bread when we manage to get back our lands or get a fairer wage. Forgive us for keeping silent in the face of injustice and for burying our dreams, etc., etc." Perhaps you recognise it, or then again, perhaps not.
Here's another example from the same service sheet: "O God, we have come to the hills, where heaven and earth meet. Whisper to us sweet things as the breeze stirs through blades of grass. Shout to us marvellous things as the river roars down its bed of stones. And in this centre where the stillness of your whisper answers the thunder of your shout, etc., etc." It has an emetic quality worthy of the vapourings of Patience Strong.
It's not just the fact that such efforts are examples of the sentimental drivel which sometimes seems to engulf us that worries me. It's the fact that this is theological sentimental drivel. It has a message, and it's not one which is compatible with the Christian religion. Why? Because it is centred on us, not on God. All too many hymns and prayers - indeed whole services - seem to be about us, about making us good and useful, ready to usher in the kingdom, save the whales, defeat racism and sexism, and bring about heaven on earth. We have made the good the enemy of the best because it's so much easier to get on in society if you can adopt a cause everyone can applaud you for promoting. As for a transcendent God, that's perhaps just a little too difficult. But if we have lost our nerve (not to mention our faith) then we have no business concealing the fact with sentimental drivel. Christ said to Pilate, "For truth I came into the world." And the whole truth and nothing but the truth is that only God will do.
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