#33 Theology: it’s all about conversation

17 Thursday Sep 2009

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The work of Paul Tillich (1886-1965), who is considered by many to be the leading Protestant theologian of the 20th century, offers an intriguing perspective on the God-musings of religion-scholar Karen Armstrong (see Post #32).   If nothing else, taking a look at Karen Armstrong’s views from the perspective of his work reminds us that theology is an ongoing conversation—at least for those with open, inquiring minds.

For the purposes of this post, we’ll set aside most of Tillich’s three volume systematic-theology and focus on a mere two pages in the introduction to his first volume, entitled Reason and Revelation, Being and God.  In case you’d like to reflect further on what follows, or want to bring your own mojo to bear on Tillich’s work, check pages 42-43.

In this short, but typically brilliant, part of his introduction, Tillich discusses what he calls the “experiential theology” which has grown out of the “evangelical tradition of American Christianity.”  Although Tillich was born and educated in Germany, a large swath of his career took place on American soil, giving him the unique ability to reach objective, well-informed conclusions.  He perceived that experiential theology, at least the kind particular to the American situation, attempts to generate an “empirical theology” grounded in experience.

Now we can bring Karen Armstrong into the conversation because her “sense-of-God” approach falls neatly into Tillich’s “empirical theology” category.

The first move of what Tillich calls empirical theology is to show that “religious objects [like God] are not objects among others.”  Armstrong made this exact move when she decided God was not an object among objects.  God was not like a plate or a glass or a table she could pick up and examine.  Those objects existed, and so they could be found.  But since she couldn’t find God (like an object), making God’s existence the starting point for her search had led her down a dead end.  That path had only served to alienate her from God—her travels had yielded nothing more than a shadowy abstraction.

Still with me?  Whoever said theology, even stripped-down theology, was simplistic?

Armstrong, having abandoning God’s existence as the starting-point for her search, found God when she identified a different starting-point—that of creating a “sense of God.”  In other words, she decided to look for God in what seemed, to her, to be the most secure source available—her own experiences.  Instead of starting with the question “Does God exist?” she started with “What does God mean to me?”

How many of you have reached a dead end like Armstrong’s and resorted to finding God in the quality or dimension of your own experiences?  If you have, then, like hers, yours is an American empirical theology.  Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?  Your friends’ jaws will surely drop open when you spring the words “American empirical theology” on them.  Try it and see.

Tillich further explains that American empirical theology agrees with European phenomenological theology a la Rudolph Otto in his famous book, The Idea of the Holy.   Now you can also tell your friends that your empirical theology has something in common with “phenomenological theology.”  A warning:  you’ll have to practice saying “phenomenological” several dozen times before you nail it.  But it’ll be worth it.  Your friends’ jaws will drop even lower.

Besides the concerns raised at the end of Post #32 by yours truly and by those who took the time (or had the time) to leave comments, Tillich identified a few problems with Armstrong’s empirical-theology approach.  Any theology, like most things in life, has its advantages and drawbacks.  The advantages, as Armstrong herself so well illustrated, was that she was able to find God after decades of fruitless search “out there”.

But here’s a potential drawback.  Let’s pretend that we’re using Armstrong’s empirical-theological method.  Since the whole of experience can’t serve as the source for a “sense of God,” we have to identify an experience as having a unique quality.  Surveying the vast set of our experiences, we look for one few that strike us as having a special quality, special enough so that we can label them religious experiences.  It could be that feeling of wonder when watching the sun rise (see Post #30), or an unexplainable feeling of calm in the midst of crisis (see Post #4).

This means that we’ve had the “special” experiences before we ever label them as such.  Until we assign to them the “special” status of religious as a result of theological analysis, the “special” experiences were simply part of the whole of our experiences.  Our theological analysis, looking for experiences to label religious, finds them.  Then, on the basis of these so-labeled religious experiences, we develop an empirical theology.  Philosophers call this circular thinking.

Is circular thinking a problem?  Not necessarily, but proponents of empirical theology should realize that their thinking is as circular as those who adopt other kinds of theologies, including ones that empirical-theology-proponents might find objectionable.

Are there any other (potential) downsides?  Empirical theology traps God in our experience.  God is “trapped” because God no longer transcends experience.  God, in the traditional sense of the God-Who-is-not-us is excluded from this kind of theology.  While such an entrapment is attractive for Armstrong, others will find it harder to walk away from theologies that locate God outside of the human realm.

The bottom line is that, like the conversation between Tillich and Armstrong in this post, theological conversation is ongoing.  All theologies, including our own are (or should be) works in progress.  As such, we benefit (as do academic theologians) from the ability to be clear about our assumptions and about what counts as adequate criteria of validity for us.  Any theology can be called into question.  Plusses and minuses are part of the package.  Does this mean we shouldn’t adopt an empirical theology like Armstrong’s?  Not at all.  But theologians, academic or not, will want to informed about the strengths and weaknesses of their positions.

#32 The wait for God is over

09 Wednesday Sep 2009

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Like many of us, the religion-scholar and popular author, Karen Armstrong, spent decades waiting for God.  Raised a Roman Catholic, God remained a shadowy figure even as she sat through countless sermons and countless catechism classes.  God, described to her in abstract terms, meant little to her.  God existed—of this, Armstrong was certain, at least on an intellectual level—but God remained out of reach, too remote to become a reality for her.

Sound familiar?

Armstrong has more patience than the average Joe or Jane and so she continued to wait for God.  She was convinced that if she kept up her efforts to find God, she would eventually be rewarded by a vision that “would transfigure the whole of created reality.”  To prepare for this vision, she joined an order of nuns.

Armstrong never did glimpse “the God described by the prophets and mystics.”  She suffered from what some call “spiritual dryness.”  Except that she’d never been blessed with a period of spiritual wetness to help her through the dryness.  Unable to maintain the status quo, she decided, with regret, to abandon the religious life.  Soon, her belief in God’s existence slipped away.

Although she’d stopped hoping for an encounter with God, Armstrong maintained her academic study of the history of religions.  Ultimately, the research that went into writing her bestseller, The History of God, put her in touch with clergy from the three “religions of the book”— Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.  Several of these rabbis, priests, and Sufis offered her this advice.  “Instead of waiting for God to descend from on high,” they suggested, she “should deliberately create a sense of him for” herself.

Reflecting on her many years of waiting (in vain) for God, she realized that she’d always looked for God who, she’d believed, existed “out there.”  But God wasn’t to be found “out there.”  God wasn’t an ordinary object like a glass or a plate or a table.  God wasn’t an object she could pick up and examine.

She wrote that, in hindsight, the rabbis, priests, and Sufis would “have told me that in an important sense God was a product of the creative imagination, like the poetry and music that I found so inspiring.”

They would have encouraged her to stop looking for God “out there” and, instead, to find ways to make God a reality for herself.  Also, “A few highly respected monotheists would have told me quietly and firmly that God did not really exist—and yet that ‘he’ was the most important reality in the world.”

Must something exist to be real?  Tough question.  Lucky for us that Armstrong likes brainteasers of this sort.   After pondering the question, she decided that she could set aside the question of God’s existence.  By setting aside that question, she freed herself to create a sense of God’s reality for herself.  She could even make her sense of God the most important reality.

Hallelujah.  Her wait was over.  She had finally found God.

To recap, Armstrong ended her wait by changing the question from “Must God exist to be real?” to “How can I make God real for myself?”

Here’s a note of concern, though.  Armstrong’s God is no doubt as lovely and gentle as the poetry and music she finds inspiring.  But (there’s always a but, isn’t there?) for the rest of us, are checks needed on the sense of God we create for ourselves?  How do we put a damper on creating a sense of God Who looks like a green-eyed spaghetti monster?  The part about the green eyes is too over-the-top for an acceptable God, don’t you agree?  Seriously, how do we put a damper on say, a sense of God Who looks the other way when we make promises we don’t intend to keep?  Or worst, Who orders us to harm or kill others?  Here, the September-11-2001 terrorists’ God comes to mind.

Reference:  Karen Armstrong, A History of God:  The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam (New York:  Ballantine Books, 1993).

#31 A “why-do-the-right-thing” quiz

30 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by in Ethics, God, Theological Ethics

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iStock_000008497727XSmallNOTE:  The Naked Theologian will be on hiatus for the month of August and will return after the Labor Day holiday.

A Scenario:

You stop by the convenience store to pick up a gallon of milk.  On your way out, you hand the cashier a $10 bill.  After she gives you your change, you realize she confused your $10 for a $20.  You now have more money than when you walked into the store. (Granted, this scenario is a stretch.)  The cashier has started to ring up the next customer and you have to decide whether to give the money back.

A Question:

Why would you do the right thing? (Ethicists call this “the metaethical question”—and now you can too).

From the list below, choose all the reasons you’d do the right thing.

1.    fear of God’s punishment
2.    you were in a good mood
3.    it was the most expedient thing to do
4.    habit
5.    c’mon, there was only $10 on the line!
6.    because God rewards the virtuous
7.    your better instincts took over
8.    you knew you’d feel good about yourself for doing the right thing
9.    hmmmmm…don’t know
10.  it was the best decision given the circumstances
11.  it was the right thing to do, period
12.  the cashier was cute and you’re between partners
13.  whim; you never really know what you’re going to do ahead of time
14.  you knew others would think you rock when you’d tell them what you did
15.  your happiness comes first—this choice made you happy
16.  the happiness of others comes first—this choice made the cashier happy
17.  you tried to imagine what kind of world you’d like to live in, and then decided
18.  you wanted to set a good example for your kids
19.  God calls, 24/7 for your response to the demand that you bring justice and
loving-kindness into the world
20.  you expected the cashier would thank you profusely; you like being thanked
21.  you tossed a coin; it landed in her favor
22.  the cashier looked like she needed the bucks more than you did
23.  you’re on a personal quest for moral perfection
24.  her brother is 6’5”, 250 lbs.—he hurts people who take advantage of his sis
25.  you were afraid you’d get caught and the police would get called in
26.  you were afraid you’d get caught and be publicly humiliated
27.  _____________________________________  (other)

More Questions:

From the list, select the 3 best reasons for doing the right thing in any moral situation?

Are the 3 best reasons different from the ones you chose with regard to the cashier?

If the 3 best reasons don’t always motivate you, why not?

Can you boil down the 3 best reasons to a single reason?  This is your maxim—in other words, this is the overriding moral rule you would prefer to use when trying to decide what to do.

Comments?

#30 Deists of the world, unite!

22 Wednesday Jul 2009

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Deist, deist, theist—say those words in Jersey (pronounced Joy-zie) and they all sound the same.  Fortunately, spelling will help us keep tabs on which is which.  Besides spelling, there are important differences.  Of note: Deists (capital D) went the way of the dodo bird and deists (lowercase d) are rarer than diamonds.  Theists rule–like it or not.

Now to clarify.  A story about François-Marie Arouet , a.k.a. Voltaire (1694-1778), nicely illustrates the difference between a Deist, a deist, and a theist.  He’s considered by people-in-the-know to have been a “mystical, and even emotional deist.”

Voltaire was already eighty years old when this incident took place.  He rose before dawn and, with a visitor, he climbed a nearby hill to watch the sunrise.  Upon reaching the top, Voltaire was overcome by the beauty of the morning scene.  He took off his hat and knelt, exclaiming:  “I believe, I believe in you, Powerful God, I believe.”  Then, on his feet again, he drily proclaimed, “As for monsieur the Son and madame his Mother, that is a different story!”

Voltaire was a French Deist (note the capital D).  Deism (with a capital D) was a religious movement. Also called the “religion of reason,” it originated in 18th century England.  

Today, if someone adopts tenets like those of the English and French Deists, he or she qualifies as a deist (lowercase d).  How you doing with keeping the capital D’s and the lowercase d’s straight?

Here’s more.  Deism, deism and deists (words derived from the Latin for god, deo) subscribe to a God who created us and the universe.   Since then, the universe has continued to operate under reliable and discoverable laws.  And since then, God has not mucked with the laws of nature or with our personal lives. 

By contrast, theism and theists (words derived from the Greek for god, theos) subscribe to a personal God, active in human history, and guarantor of eternal life. You know—the beliefs to which most of today’s religious believers in the West subscribe.  In case you forgot, let me remind you–theists rule.

Probably because French philosophes like Voltaire were literary individuals, not trained philosophers, they were able to popularize and disseminate the new religious movement.  They believed (wrongly, it turns out) Deism would emancipate society from ignorance and fanaticism. 

Here’s how, in a lightly adapted passage, Voltaire described the deist:

A deist is a person firmly persuaded of the existence of a Supreme Being equally good and powerful, who has formed all existences; who perpetuates their species, who punishes crimes without cruelty, and rewards virtuous actions with kindness.  

The deist does not know how God punishes, how God rewards, how God pardons, for he is not presumptuous enough to flatter himself that he understands how God acts; but he knows that God does act and that God is just.  The difficulties opposed to a providence do not stagger him in his faith, because they are only great difficulties, not proofs.

He does not join any of the sects, who all contradict themselves.  His religion is the most ancient and the most extended, for the simple adoration of a God preceded all the systems in the world.

He believes that religion consists neither in the opinions of incomprehensible metaphysics, nor in vain decorations, but in adoration and justice.  To do good–that is his worship; to submit oneself to God–that is his doctrine.  He succours the poor and defends the oppressed.

Does this describe you?  Then you’re a deist. 

If so, it may be instructive to consider why Deism, the religious movement, was short-lived. 

Yes, Deism died in fairly short order both in England (in its more theoretical and abstract version) and in France (in its more popular and literary version).  

In place of Christianity, Voltaire envisioned a rather vague, popular form of Deism.  Doctrine would be reduced to belief in a just God, whose service was the practice of virtue.  Worship would be simple and would consist primarily in praise and adoration and lessons in morality. 

According to religious-studies scholar, James Livingston, Deism fizzled, in part, because it failed to attract the masses.  Why?

 1.            It was too abstract, too intellectual in spite of its claim to simplicity; feeling and aesthetic sense are required of any religious faith that expects a wide appeal

2.            It lacked unity—its radical demands for autonomy were liberating but did not encourage the shared sense of faith and worship necessary for congregation-building

So, deists of the world, you’re likely feeling pretty alone.  There aren’t many of your kind.  And anyway, you (supposedly) aren’t the sort to seek each other out to worship together.  Which is why there’s not a First Deist Church of insert-your-town’s-name-here.  Why not unite and start one today?  Dare to prove the experts wrong.

HNFFT:  If you qualify as a deist, what do you say to the charge that your beliefs are too abstract and intellectual for most people (this is not necessarily a negative)?  How do feelings and aesthetics come together with your deistic beliefs?

Reference:  James C. Livingston:  Modern Christian Thought:  The Enlightenment and the Nineteenth Century, vol 1, 2nd ed. (Upper Saddle River, NJ:  Prentice Hall, 1997), p. 26-28.

#29 Wisdom, Prophecy and God

15 Wednesday Jul 2009

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iStock_000005417329XSmallA Situation:

The man gazed guiltily at his old friend across his congealing plate of huevos rancheros.  He’d flown into Albuquerque the day before, two months after he’d watched his wife lose her battle with breast cancer.  Now, as he ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant, he agonized over the affair he’d had during his previous visit to Albuquerque a year earlier.  His wife had already been diagnosed.  He’d been scared and lonely.  He’d wanted to forget his troubles, if only for an hour or two.  “I should’ve stopped myself,” he sighed now with remorse.  Both men felt uneasy.  What the speaker wanted, more than anything else, was to make amends.  He wanted forgiveness, too.  But now that his wife had died, who could forgive him?  Most importantly, he wanted to be made whole once more; in other words, he wanted redemption.  But to whom could he make amends?  And who could forgive him? Where was redemption to be found?

A Midrash:  

Wisdom was asked:  what is the punishment of a sinner?  and answered:  sinners will be prosecuted by [their own] vice.

Prophecy was asked:  what is the punishment for the sinner?  and answered “the soul that sins, it shall die” [Ezek. 14:4].

God was asked:  what is the punishment of the sinner?  and answered:  let him do repentance [teshuva] and be expiated. 

Reference:  Amos Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 69.

#28 And the newest convert from atheism is…

08 Wednesday Jul 2009

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Atheists, you’re about to get a lot more attention.  In Turkey, a new game-show will soon pit clergy from various faith traditions against each other by letting them have a go at trying to coax “sworn” atheists into their respective folds. 

The show, called “Penitents Compete,” will give an imam, a Buddhist monk, a rabbi, and a priest a chance to hone their persuasive powers on ten atheists.  The pay-off for the contestants?  Besides “serenity” and the ultimate prize of all—belief in God, the converted atheists will also be rewarded with the immediate and material pleasure of an all-expenses paid trip (ummm, pilgrimage) to the holiest site of their new religion—Mecca for Muslims, Jerusalem for Christians and Jews, and Tibet for Buddhists.  To prevent deceitful believers from posing as atheists just to win a vacation, eight theologians will question prospective contestants to make sure their views are in line with orthodox atheism.  To make doubly sure, contestants who, thanks to the show, decide to embrace one of the represented religions will be monitored to make sure their conversions are genuine.

The pay-off for the religious leaders?  A chance to argue the superiority of their faith traditions in front of a large TV audience.  And who knows, maybe some of the atheists sitting at home, rooting for their fellow non-believers, will end up converting too.  The show aims not just to rescue a few atheists from the ranks of the penitents (assuming that “Competing Penitents” refers to the contestants and not to the religious leaders who, in their own way, are themselves competing).  The show is also intended to give Turkish viewers, the majority of whom are Sunni Muslims, a chance to learn more about other religions.

Some early-complainers are worried that the show will trivialize faith and God, but if it gives viewers a delightful way to learn about other faith traditions, why not?  Most intriguing, though, are two facets that may not have occurred to the producers.  Viewers will be exposed to charismatic spokespeople who might very well make their respective faith-traditions seem equally plausible and equally appealing.  Could this give rise to a certain, well, skepticism, among heretofore comfortably-believing believers?  If several of the faith traditions seem equally plausible and appealing, the people sitting at home, watching, may end up wondering where truth is to be found.  Where they had had no doubts, they could find themselves asking about the kind of justification given for each of the religion’s beliefs.  How does one test the truth (or lack thereof) of a particular belief?  Can truth be found in more than one religion?  In all?  In none.  Where?  How can a person tell?

Of interest too is how the show will explore methods of evangelizing.  Is it really possible to persuade someone to change his or her mind about his or her religious views through the use of rational arguments?  The common opinion among scholars is that such arguments usually fail to persuade.  The producers are cleared-eyed on this point; they anticipate that, at most, one atheist out of ten will convert during any given show.

The imams on “Penitents Compete” will clearly have a competitive edge over the other religious leaders.  The atheists chosen to compete will be Turks who have rejected their birthright religion and bucked the mainstream (99.8% of Turks are Muslim).  Will they have done so in the privacy of their own thoughts?  If they have, then, to participate in the show, they’ll have to come out of the closet and identify themselves as infidels to a TV audience that will include friends, family and neighbors.  In the end, peer pressure and family disapproval may operate as the biggest motivators to convert from atheism—back to Islam.  So, all ye fancy hotels in Mecca, get a few rooms ready for some new Turkish believers!

HNFFT:  If you have converted to a different faith tradition, why did you do so?  Did rational arguments work with you?  What is your test for truth?

Reference:  Richard Popkin, The History of Scepticism from Erasmus to Spinoza (Berkeley:  University of California Press, 1979); http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/turkey/5729452/Turkish-gameshow-attempts-to-convert-atheists.html

#27 Iran and an ethics of yielding

28 Sunday Jun 2009

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dreamstime_5824966There is the world as-it-is, and then there is the world that-could-be. 

In Iran, this is the world as-it-is:  the disputed legitimacy of the recent re-election of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad propelled enraged supporters of his opponent, Mir Hossein Mousavi, into the sweltering streets of Teheran.   Ahmadinejad (with the blessing of the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei) pushed back with increasing brutality, deploying riot police and the much-feared, violence-prone, Basij paramilitary forces against unarmed citizens. 

But what if, in a world that-could-be, Ahmadinejad chose, instead, an ethics of yielding?  Yes, an ethics of yielding. 

One must be careful how one draws lessons from the past (thanks to their variety and number, historical events lend themselves too easily to an unscrupulous defense of almost any ideologically-driven claim).  But we can, for the sake of discussing a world that-could-be, draw on the work of Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592), a French essayist who lived and wrote during a time of bitter wars of religion between Protestants and Catholics, and a time of violent political conflict between rebellious nobles and the crown.  

A heterodox Catholic, Montaigne believed that God leaves us free to work out our lives on human terms.  And in the process of working out his own life on human terms, Montaigne developed a new ethics of accommodation based on shared trust and on shared humanity.  Opposed to the zealotry of the warring parties, Montaigne pleaded for an attitude of yielding both on the part of the victor and of the vanquished.  He even argued that his ethics of passivity was the best way to preserve each side’s desire for respect:  “You can swallow your pride and have it too, provided you learn how to be a good loser” (this quote comes from David Quint‘s Montaigne and the Quality of Mercy).

To return to the topic at hand–in a world that-could-be, if Ahmadinejad followed Montaigne’s recommendations, what effect, practically-speaking, would this have on Iran?  Having defeated the protestors with a massive and intractable show of force, Ahmadinejad could now preserve both his self-respect and that of the protestors by adopting a stance of clemency.  Toward those he formerly pursued, he could adopt a stance of flexibility, of softness.  And by choosing to identify with those he crushed and reduced to weakness, he would demonstrate courage.  Yes, courage–because he would allow his opponents to remain a threat to him and his government.  In the Iran that-is, Ahmadinejad has elevated himself to God-like status.  In the Iran that-could-be, Ahmadinejad would reclaim his humanity.

Montaigne’s ethics of yielding is not reserved for the victor.  The vanquished must also yield.  In the Iran that-could-be, the protestors would choose not to resist.  Instead, they would demonstrate the highest self-respect by acknowledging the power of Ahmadinejad, and by acknowledging the humanity and weakness they share with him.  They would disarm themselves, and trust in their foe.  A recent Newsweek image captured the difficult kind of clemency Montaigne had in mind; it showed a small group of protestors using their own bodies to shield a disarmed riot cop from the rage of their fellow protestors.  They had the courage to be merciful to their captured enemy even though they knew that he would probably try to harm them again on another day.

But even Montaigne, as much a skeptic in his time as most of us are today, dismissed the efficacy of preaching Christian humility.  He resorted, instead, to the ploy of promising the merciful victor an enhanced reputation.  After all, he pointed out, mercy aggrandizes the merciful one and the vanquished testify to the greatness of the one who has spared them. 

So, President Ahmadinejad, if you’re reading this post, will you show mercy, and yield to your countrymen and women’s longing for greater freedom and opportunity? Or will you maintain the course of the Iran-as-it-has-been and rely on fear and oppression to silence your opponents?  You have, after all, been handpicked by Ayatollah Khamenei to implement his dream of creating an Islamic caliphate.

But let’s try one last argument:  President Ahmadinejad, you miscalculated when you resorted to fraud to over-represent the election that you most likely won anyway.  Thanks to your miscalculation, you unleashed the greatest internal threat to Iran’s government since the Shah was toppled and you discovered the depth of your countrymen and women’s yearning for change.  Yield, Mr. Ahmadinejad, or you too might find yourself toppled.  If toppled you are, may your people yield and have mercy on you.

HNFFT:  Every day, we face situations where we have power-over others, or others have power-over us.  What could intentional weakness look like for you in those situations?  How could you practice an ethics of yielding?  

References:  Christopher Dickey, “The Supreme Leader,” 40-45, and Fareed Zakaria, “Theocracy and its Discontents,” 30-39, both in Newsweek, 29 June 2009; David Quaint, Montaigne and the Quality of Mercy (Princeton, NJ:  Princeton University Press, 1998).

#26 No theology, no science–no joke!

18 Thursday Jun 2009

Posted by in God, Philosophy, Philosophy of Religion, Religion, Theology

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Science and theology are perceived, by some, as sitting on opposite banks of an abyss.  They assume that the twain never can (or should) meet.  But the separation between science and theology is a relatively recent phenomenon in the history of the West.  Until the Renaissance, science was barely more than a descriptive discipline, while theology, considered the queen of the sciences, was a richly speculative and complex field of endeavor.  

Fortunately, theology (yes—theology!) came to the rescue of science by providing it with a new understanding of reality.  Theology (yes—theology!) provided science with the intellectual and conceptual tools it needed to get out of a deep rut and push forward with several important discoveries.  These discoveries, in turn, allowed the development of technologies that now seem as essential to us as air or water.  What–life without a computer?  Without Wi-Fi?  A cell phone?  Pleeease! 

This shift in human beings’ way of looking at reality occurred long enough ago that we’ve mostly forgotten that we haven’t always grasped reality the way we do today. Here’s a key illustration:  there was a time when it was “common knowledge” that the earth moved around the sun.  Peoples in the ancient world conceived of reality such that, for them, astral bodies such as the sun and moon rotated in orderly and eternally-static circles around the earth.  Based on simple observation this view of reality made sense.  The things they could see appeared to revolve around them while the ground on which they stood seemed solid and stationary.   Today, of course, we know that while we tend to perceive motion relative to where we ourselves stand, we may, from the perspective of someone else, be moving.

So how did our mindset change?  A 15th theologian by the name of Nicholas de Cusa (1401 – 1464) reached several novel conclusions about perspective.  Some scholars still refuse to count his contributions as scientific because, technically-speaking, he was a theologian.  But others, like philosophy professor, Karsten Harries, the author of Infinity and Perspective, credit him with destroying the belief in the geocentric theory of the cosmos inherited by pre-Renaissance science from the ancient world.

Thanks to Cusa, Harries argues in his book, Copernicus was able to break out of this mindset, a mindset that had persisted millenia.  

So what was Cusa’s insight, exactly?  It underwhelms us moderns but, in the 15th century, his insight was revolutionary.  Cusa had been sent by the Pope to negotiate a reconciliation between the Greek Church and the Roman Church.  On the return sea-voyage, his ship was heading home from Greece when he realized that if he couldn’t see the shore, he wouldn’t have any idea the ship was moving; instead, he would perceive the ship as sitting still in the water.  He also realized that if he were not a passenger but, rather, someone standing on the shoreline watching the ship, he would, from his vantage point on land, perceive the ship as moving.  Two perspectives (the one on the ship, the other on land) led to two experiences of movement. 

In his theological work, On Learned Ignorance, Cusa wrote that the centers “by which we orient ourselves are fictions, created by us” to reflect the standpoint of the observer.  Multiple centers of perspective, he realized, were not only possible but equally valid.  Applying this insight to the universe, he argued that a person standing on Mars or on the moon was just as likely as an earthling to consider his or her piece of rock to be the center of the cosmos.  Cusa concluded that the universe “will have its center everywhere and its circumference nowhere, so to speak; for God, who is everywhere and nowhere, is its circumference and center.”

By undermining the idea of a single-center based perspective, Cusa called into question any cosmology based on just one center.  His clarity about the possibility of multiple centers and perspectives took him even further than Copernicus and Kepler would go a century later with their heliocentric cosmology.  His influence was so sweeping and long-lasting that Kepler and Descartes acknowledged him as a precursor.  

The Cusa-Copernicus-Kepler scenario offers more than just intellectual interest.  If Harries is spot-on about Cusa’s contribution to science (historians of science, do you care to weigh in?), then there’s an important lesson to take away from this fascinating chapter in science-theology relations.  The lesson is that if scientists like Copernicus and Kepler had refused to take seriously the theological writings of a pious genius like Cusa, then we might all have had to wait a lot longer for modern science.   

Theologians and scientists live in the same world and, as fellow human beings, they’re charmed by mystery and seized by wonder.  They ask many of the same questions about the world.  They simply turn to different resources in their attempts to answer those questions, resources which need not be labeled incompatible.  But as long as scientists and theologians sit on opposite banks of an abyss (created ex nihilo), no conversation will take place.  Let’s start building a bridge, shall we?

References:  Karsten Harries, Infinity and Perspective (Cambridge, MA:  MIT Press, 2001); Nicolas of Cusa, Selected Spiritual Writings, trans. H. Lawrence Bond, Classics of Western Spirituality (New York:  Paulist Press, 1997).

#25 Spiritual (But Not Religious)

08 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by in God, Religion, Religious Philosophy, Spirituality, Theology

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dreamstime_9033984Have you ever noticed how some opinions say more about the opiniators themselves than the thing they’re opiniating about?  God would be one such example.  The opinions people have about God often say more about who they are than they do about who God is.  But, uncharacteristically, God is not the topic of this post. 

“Spiritual but not religious” is the topic at hand.  And according to the work of Heinz Streib, a psychologist of religion at the University of Bielefeld in Germany, the ever-more popular phrase, “spiritual but not religious,” mostly reflects ambivalence about organized religion.  

Surprising?  Maybe not.  If you’ve paid attention, folks out there who label themselves “spiritual but not religious” usually add a wave of the hand and a shake of the head to indicate their disapproval of religion in-general and their level-headed decision to embrace ‘spirituality’ instead.

While spiritual and religious are different words, the difference may end there.  At least, that’s what was revealed by a recent study conducted by another psychologist of religion, Peter Hill (as reported by Streib).  Participants in the study identified themselves as either religious or as spiritual but both groups ended up with equivalent scores on a test for ‘religiosity.’  In essence, then, the test-subjects who considered themselves ‘spiritual but not religious’ actually qualified as ‘religious.’  Yikes.  Probably not something the ‘spiritual’ types wanted to hear.

But spirituality and religiosity both refer to the feelings, thoughts, and experiences that arise during one’s search for the sacred.  In fact, Streib ended up wondering whether it makes any sense for scholars of religion to spend time studying spirituality in addition to religion.  Better, he concluded, to stick with the single category of ‘religious.’

Too bad, really, that members of organized religions, including non-doctrinal ones like Unitarian Universalism, call themselves ‘spiritual not religious.’  They’re members of organized religions after all; but, instead of claiming, with pride, their chosen faith, they use a label that underscores their ambivalence toward any religion, including their own.  

Sure, they may have trouble putting down the burden (bad memories, anger at clergy, rejected teachings) of their previous religion(s).  But, who knows, reclaiming the word ‘religious’ might just indicate a healthy level of healing.  It would announce that they’ve moved on.  As for those who have always been unchurched, the willingness to call themselves ‘religious,’ in this most pluralistic of times, would announce a desirable respect for religion (with a capital R).

So, “spiritual but not religious” people of the world, here’s a challenge.  Try calling yourselves ‘religious’ for a couple of weeks.  No handwaving or headshaking please.  See how it feels.  You might just discover the label fits after all.

#24 Everybody goes to heaven, right?

31 Sunday May 2009

Posted by in Ethics, God, Philosophy of Religion, Religion, Theological Ethics, Theology

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Most Americans agree that yes, everybody goes to heaven after they die.  Not buying it?  The part about most Americans agreeing that everybody goes to heaven? Here’s the empirical evidence.  A few months ago, a study conducted by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life (mentioned by Charles Blow in a New York Times editorial) showed that 70 percent of Americans believe religions other than theirs could lead to eternal life.

So it’s true, 70% of Americans agree–everybody goes to heaven.  

Still not buying the poll data?  Evangelicals didn’t buy it, because they argued that the respondents had obviously not understood the question.  After all, Jesus clearly states in the gospel of John, “I am the way, the truth and the life:  no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”  In other words, there’s a segregationist sign posted over the only gate into heaven.  It says:  Christians only.  To believe otherwise is a heresy called universalism.

So Pew decided to ask the question again.  The results, released in December 2008, confirmed their initial findings.  Sixty-five percent said that yes, other religions could lead to eternal life.  Just to make sure no one was confused, Pew also asked its respondents to specify which religion(s) could lead to eternal life.  The sixty-five percent yes-sayers threw open heaven’s gate to pretty much every religion.  Fifty percent even said atheists would pass muster, and people with no religious faith, too.  How’s that for generous?  So tear down that sign, Mr. Evangelical.

Okay, so the majority of 21st century Americans agree that almost everyone goes heaven after they die.

But if God doesn’t hold us accountable in the afterlife, is it okay to set aside meaningful discussions about moral requirements in this life?

That’s not a rhetorical question, since polls show that religious Americans, whether affiliated with a specific faith tradition or not, whether liberal or conservative, are shearing moral requirements from their theologies (see Post #23 for more on this topic).

The mystic and universalist, Julian of Norwich, offers an intriguing answer to balancing a belief in an all-loving God with the impulse to make people accountable in the afterlife for the harm they’ve caused in this life.  Julian, a woman who sought God actively, was rewarded in 1373, when she was a little over thirty years old, by several mystical experiences that she called showings. 

Try as she might to find the Church’s ‘fatherly,’ angry, and punishing God, she found only a God who “is the goodness that cannot be angry, for he is nothing but goodness.”  The fact that any of us exists, Julian reasoned, is proof that God isn’t an a punishing God.  Since everyone commits sins of commission or omission, if God could become angry, we’d all be gonners.  According to Julian, human beings, not God, are the ones who judge whether a deed is well done or is evil.  As far as God is concerned, even our “lowest deed is done as well as the best”.  And since God is nothing but goodness, Julian concluded that we’re all heaven-bound. 

How does she balance a loving God with moral requirements?  Julian handles this difficult theological quandary by finding a sneaky way to introduce a system of reward.  Based on her showings, she identifies a sliding scale of heavenly bliss.  The first and lowest degree of bliss in heaven is God’s gratitude for our service, a gratitude that is “so exalted and so glorious that it would seem to fill the soul.”  The second degree of bliss in heaven indulges our pride because God makes a public announcement to all the souls in heaven, praising our good deeds.  The third degree of bliss is a pleasure that remains forever “as new and delightful” as it did when we first felt it.  

To assign the appropriate degree of bliss, God uses a formula mostly based on time and length of service.  The formula favors those who “willingly and freely offered their youth”, as well as those who, even for one day, served “with the wish to serve forever.”

According to Julian then, everybody goes to heaven, everybody gets bliss, but depending on our deeds, we are eligible for one of three degrees of bliss.  Her God is perched on the narrow edge of that judge’s bench in the sky but hasn’t been shoved off altogether.  This all-about-love-God, to whom Julian prayed, sits in minimal judgment of us. 

Like her, many religious Americans are quite sure that any God worthy of the name loves us and is too good to condemn us.  The mercy-justice issue may continue to trouble us in spite of a creative solution like Julian’s.  Is a three-bliss kind of God really the kind of God we want?  

Because if we all end up blissed-out in heaven, is God just? 

If God grants first-degree (or second or third-degree) bliss to the daughter who routinely calms her work-rage by pummeling her frail, elderly father, is that God just?  Is that God fair?  

If God grants bliss to the single mother who turns a blind eye while her boyfriend sexually assaults her ten-year old daughter, is that God just?  Is that God fair?

But why dwell on this issue at all?  Must we insist that God be fair when it comes to putting out the welcome mat at heaven’s door?  No.  We need not insist that God be fair.  

Maybe Julian’s right and we get assigned one of three degrees of bliss.  Right or not, we can agree with her conviction that “the more the loving soul sees…generosity in God, the gladder” we will be to serve God all of our days.  Simply put:  belief in a loving God leads us to be more loving ourselves.  And if belief in a loving God leads us to be more loving ourselves–what’s not to love about that?

References:  Charles Blow, “Heaven for the Godless?” The New York Times online edition, 26 December 2008;  Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love LT, trans. Elizabeth Spearing (London:  Penguin Books, 1998).