Life in the pandemic XXIV Alice through the twitter glass…….

I am fairly sure that (most) humanists are nice people. Certainly, the current president of Humanists UK, Alice Roberts, has always struck me as quite nice. I haven’t met her personally of course, but she pops up on the telly in the UK fairly frequently, usually presenting broadly scientific documentaries. They are often very interesting and …. nice. Alice recently got involved in an Easter twitter spat, which she kicked off by tweeting the following around teatime on Good Friday: “Just a little reminder today. Dead people - don’t come back to life.” At the time of writing, this tweet had been “liked” almost 12000 times, and commented on just over 3000 times. The responses were the sort of mixed bag that we’ve all come to expect in the twittersphere. Some were delighted, others were derogatory, and some tweets intimated a degree of disappointment. One line of criticism was that while Alice is quite entitled not to share the beliefs of Christians celebrating Easter, it was disrespectful to tweet as she had done on that particular day. To which she responded: “I don’t have to respect unscientific beliefs.”

Fair enough. After all, respect cannot be forced, and to that extent of course she doesn’t “have to” respect anything. Her critics might (and some did) respond that, particularly as a public figure, she also doesn’t have to parade her lack of respect for particular beliefs in so public a manner, at a time calculated to cause offense. Now, while I’m prepared to believe that the intention was not to offend (and as I discussed previously, Christians of all people should be quite difficult to offend), some pointed out that she has a bit of form in this regard, getting into a previous twitter spat in the gender recognition debate. What’s of more interest is Alice’s comment about “unscientific beliefs”.

It’s not that Alice has a problem with unscientific beliefs in general. I can say with some certainty that there are many beliefs she holds which are unscientific, but which she finds perfectly respectable (otherwise she wouldn’t hold them). I can say this because precisely the same is true of us all. She is a professor of the “public understanding of science”. I take it that she believes that a scientifically knowledgeable public is a good thing, something she and I would agree on. This is a belief that is perfectly worthy of respect, but it is not a scientific belief. Few of the many beliefs that all of us have are. It seems that Alice’s problem is with specific unscientific beliefs, that she feels she can take a pop at. At the top of this list appear to be the beliefs held and taught by Christians.

This is of course is no surprise. Alice is, after all, president of Humanists UK. In a recent interview she stated her belief that “Living a good life comes from you, from employing your own human faculties of reason and empathy and love.” Now, what are we to make of such a belief? For my part, I find it perfectly respectable, and feel no need to poke fun at it. However, it is clearly not in any sense scientific. It is both highly debateable and over centuries has been hotly debated. And it is in my view, respectfully, deeply flawed. But it is not flawed because it is unscientific. Science doesn’t deal in such terms as “good” and “love”, and can’t be used to settle whether this belief is better than any other belief for this or that purpose. Science is entirely the wrong tool to use, in the same way a screwdriver isn’t appropriate for hammering nails.

Of course the game Alice is playing is to portray her humanism as non-religious, rational and scientific, and Christian belief (and presumably other religious beliefs) as unscientific, irrational, and therefore not worthy of her respect. The problem is that the distinction being drawn doesn’t work. It turns out that Alice’s brand of humanism, secular humanism, actually has distinctly religious origins, and was at least originally conceived as a competing religion. As Humanists UK make clear on their website, they grew out late 19^th century “Ethical Societies”, many of which originated within the Christian tradition, but gradually rejected key features of Christian belief, until laterally all traces of supernaturalism were thrown off. However, well into the 20^th century “Ethical” churches were meeting, singing “ethical” hymns and listening to sermons. Sounds familiar. And this isn’t just historical baggage that humanists might claim is ancient history that is now irrelevant. The contemporary manifestation of such ideas (besides Humanists UK) is the Sunday Assembly; interestingly the founding London branch meets in Conway Hall which is owned by one of the original Ethical Societies. The Sunday Assembly was founded by two comedians who “wanted to do something that was like church”. While I find all of this perfectly respectable, it does sound a bit (say it quietly) religious. One might be tempted to tweet that it was all a bit “unscientific”.

I am not the only one to detect these religious undertones in secular humanism. A recent reviewer of John Gray’s “Seven Types of Atheism” reported Gray as being of the view that “humanists are in bad faith”. He continued “Most of them are atheists, but all they have done is substitute humanity for God. They thus remain in thrall to the very religious faith they reject.” Thoroughly shaking off the trappings of Christian belief and patterns of thought, it turns out, is really tricky. Alice, who has confirmed on twitter that she is indeed an atheist, has work to do.

Humanists of Alice’s stripe are not even entitled to exclusive use of the title “humanist”, as though they uniquely have the best interests of their fellow human beings at heart. The word has a long and distinctively Christian history. Again back in the 19^th century, it came to be used for an intellectual movement originating in the Renaissance, and later luminaries such as Erasmus of Rotterdam combined Biblical thought with classical philosophical traditions (among other things). This was a distinctly Christian humanism and there continues to be an important strand of it within the Evangelical tradition, exemplified by the likes of Packer and Howard in their book “Christianity: the True Humanism”. There is a simple reason that it makes sense to talk of Christian humanism. If humanism at its heart is about human beings finding true fulfilment (an aim I think Alice would agree is a worthy one), then Biblical Christianity has two important things to say (neither of which Alice would agree with). The first is that secular humanism has historically failed and will continue to fail to address humanity’s deepest needs, because it denies that these exist. The second is that it is in God’s self-revelation of Himself in Jesus Christ that we will find the answers to our deepest needs. And of course this brings us back to Easter.

I can confirm that it is indeed the case that in general (at least at the moment) dead people do not come back to life. I accept that anyone who denies this as a general proposition is in need of sympathy, if not some form of mental health intervention. But I can also confirm that this general principle was violated on at least one occasion in history. This is not a contradiction, nor is it a scientific statement. But neither is it irrational. There is evidence to be evaluated. Have a go Alice.

Life in the pandemic XXIII: Easter Reflections – No offense, but……

I recently mentioned my liking for reading history (at the time I was reading McGrath on reformation thought). I am happy to report that I progressed from reading about the Reformation specifically, to reading about just about everything else. Well, not quite. I’ve been reading Tom Holland’s “Dominion” (reviewed here in "The Critic") which covers from about 500BC to the modern day. His mission is to answer a question:

 “How was it that a cult inspired by the execution of an obscure criminal in a long-vanished empire came to exercise such a transformative and enduring influence on the world?” 

Interesting as it is, this is Holland’s question and I don’t want to answer here. You can, after all, read his book (which I recommend). But particularly given that Easter has come round again, it is worth contemplating the particular execution that Holland mentions - the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth by the Roman administration in Jerusalem, around 30AD. As Holland goes to some lengths to explain, there is no doubt that this was viewed in a particular way by those who witnessed and heard about it originally. But today it is viewed completely differently (even by many followers of Jesus). And in that change we’ve lost something. Because, to many in the first century and for some time thereafter, the mere idea of crucifixion was utterly offensive. Today we’ve somehow reduced the cross to a silver trinket.

Crucifixion wasn’t invented by the Romans, but it was developed and honed by them, and then employed particularly for the execution of slaves and rebels. While it was occasionally used on an industrial scale, its use in peacetime was more targeted. Besides being a particularly painful and unpleasant way of dying (hence “excruciating”), it was associated with humiliation, and was specifically designed to be so. So if you had wanted to invent a religion that would be attractive in a world dominated by Rome, having crucifixion at the heart of it would not be a very bright move. As Holland says, it “….could not help but be seen by people everywhere across the Roman world as scandalous, obscene, grotesque.” That anyone would follow a leader who had been crucified was preposterous. To claim that the leader in question was a god was beyond preposterous. The mere idea was an insult to the Roman intelligence and offensive in itself.

There was one other group that was likely to be even more outraged at the idea of a crucified God than the Romans. Apparently plotting and then successfully driving Jesus towards crucifixion was the Jewish religious leadership of the day. Their apparent enthusiasm for the crucifixion of Jesus (as opposed to His stoning or some other form of death) was perhaps because it would provide the most obvious evidence that Jesus claim to be God was a complete and odious fiction. The idea that the eternal God could die was a contradiction in the first place. But crucifixion would provide the most brutal demonstration of Jesus’ folly. How, after that, would anyone be able to claim that Jesus was anything other than an attention-seeking fake of the worst kind, with no sense of religious, cultural or civic decency.   

However, as it transpired, the followers of this Jesus had the temerity not just to claim that Jesus was God, but that this most horrifying of deaths had some central role to play in God’s dealings with men and women. They preached not just Christ, but Christ crucified. You could not come up with any proposition more likely to offend the ancient mind, whether Jew and Gentile. And the offense was somehow made worse by the idea that there was some necessity to Jesus dying in this way, and that salvation was to be found by valuing what He was claimed to be accomplishing on a cross of all things. This was to pile offense on offense. And the early Christians knew it (see 1 Cor 1:23).

And yet, time changes things. Holland plots how it took about 400 years before the cross began to appear in art. And over the centuries, rather than something to be appalled at, it became something to be contemplated, even admired. Emotions of revulsion, moved through compassion to even attraction. I well remember visiting Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow, where Dali’s “Christ of Saint John of the Cross” hangs; according The Guardian’s art critic “probably the most enduring vision of the crucifixion painted in the 20^th century”. No blood, no gore, no pain and definitely no offense.

But we lose something important when we lose that original sense of offense. It alerts us to something. It alerts us to an offended God, whose justice and holiness demand a response, a reckoning, for the outrage of creaturely rebellion. How is the scale of such offense to be communicated? How is its magnitude to be answered? God’s answer to both is the cross. But there is a sort of counter-offense in the idea that I need the cross. What has it got to do with me? How dare I be accused of rebellion, and have some demand placed upon me. And for that demand to involve my personal response to, or dependence upon, a man dying on a cross? Again, offense upon offense. It all sounds as crazy now, as it did in the first century. And it should strike us as offensive.

But my natural protestations spring from the great lie that Paul talks about it in Romans (1:25). The real offense is God’s not mine, and the answer to it has to be His too. Such great offense required a response greater than any that humanity individually or collectively was capable of. So the answer is found within the Godhead, and the Father requires a price of the Son, who is glad to return it to the Father. And it is returned by way of His death on a cross. There is a compelling logic to all of this that some continue to find offensive. Nietzsche, of all people, summed it up as “the horrific paradox of the ‘crucified God’”. But Spurgeon was clear that “..true ministry should be, and must be — a holding forth of the Cross of Christ to the multitude as the only trust of sinners. Jesus Christ must be set forth evidently crucified among them.”

Religious offense of one sort or another is often in the news. But if there’s one religious group that really has no place to protest about offense it’s Christians. Because right at the heart of Easter is the most offensive event to occur in history. That is rather the point.

Life in the pandemic XXII: Easter Reflections - Singing in the darkness..

Last year at Easter we were just getting used to lockdown – working from home, one hour’s exercise a day and the rest. It made for an interesting Good Friday reflection on self-isolation. It’s sobering to think that was “Life in the pandemic III” – this is XXII!. There was lot’s we didn’t know then, that we do know now. And yet big questions remain unanswered. Perhaps they are not the same big questions for everyone, although there is likely to be an overlap. We would all like to know things like where the virus came from, how it crossed into the human population, and whether the right things were done at the appropriate time to prevent its spread (although the answer to the last of these seems clear enough). In the meantime, we’ve done what we had to do. Lockdowns, shielding, masks and of course vaccines. We’ve been right to do all we can to protect ourselves, our families and our communities. But at least for me there is that deeper, somewhat nagging question as to what the pandemic “means”. One year on from arguing that such a question is legitimate, I confess that I still have no definitive answer.

Some would argue that this is because such a question is misconceived. That was essentially N.T. Wright’s take on the situation from an avowedly Christian (if probably provocative) perspective. Others might argue that because there’s no one to address such a question of meaning or purpose to, there’s no point posing it at all. If there can be no answer, then there can be no question. And yet it still lurks. And it has struck me throughout the pandemic that even among Christians there has been relatively little discussion of the pandemic’s meaning. Perhaps no one wants to be seen to exploiting a catastrophe and tragedy for polemical purposes. Certainly, I accept that the tone of any such discussion is important. So much suffering should not be met with flip or glib statements that gloss over complexities. Even if legitimate answers can be given, it’s important they’re not given in a hubristic, superior, “told you so” tone. My view, for what it’s worth, remains that there is meaning to be found in these dark months. As answers go, it may not be particularly comforting, and it will still leave lots of subsidiary answers to be ferreted out. But answer, and meaning, there is.

Before coming to what it is, it should be noted that Wright had a wider point to make in his article that is worth pondering. For while he thought looking for the “big” answer to the “big” question, looking for an explanation, was folly, there was a distinctive Christian response to the pandemic. Particularly in the midst of global disaster, surrounded by uncertainty and fear, there is a key response and resource available to the believer. It is found in the concept and practice of lament. Lament is in part an articulation of the confusion and pain we are suffering individually and collectively. Even if at the moment we feel that things are improving with the vaccine roll-out and easing of restrictions, many continue to struggle with long-COVID, and grieving continues for the 120 000 plus who have lost their lives. So there’s lots to lament about. And lament may have undertones of complaint and anger. But it’s more than that. All of us cry, and all of us can complain. But for the Christian who relies on the Living God who is sovereign and loving, there is something else that is the a feature of lament – an active choosing to trust.

By some accounts about a third of the Psalms in the Old Testament are laments. And there is a whole OT book that is a lament, called (not surprisingly) Lamentations. It is no accident that many of the Psalms of lament, almost regardless of where they begin, end with an affirmation of hope in, or praise for, the God to whom they are directed. It is also no accident that right in the middle of Lamentations, in the middle of the third chapter of a five chapter book, the writer tells us that he has hope, and why he has hope (Lam 3:22-27). What he says is neither glib nor vague. His hope is grounded, precise and active. “The Lord is my portion…therefore I will hope in Him” (Lam 3:24). It's not that his questions have been answered now. But he also tells us that even in the midst of confusion, and questions, and pain “It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord” (Lam 3: 26).

Jesus was no stranger to the laments. And of course, we remember that in the midst of the darkness (figurative and literal) of the cross, he took on His lips those words of lament from Psalm 22 “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”. There’s a question. It must have hung heavily in the air, apparently unanswered. But Peter tells us that Jesus “..continued entrusting Himself to Him who judges justly” (1 Pet 2:23). Trusting, even in the absence of an answer.

I take Wright’s point. Part of our response to the pandemic is not to forget the suffering of the last year, but to lament, to sing even in the darkness. That said I think, as with the cross, so with the pandemic. There is meaning and there is an answer to the big question. Both involve a curse. The pandemic is a reminder that this is a cursed world, despite our best efforts to insulate ourselves from said curse. Because it is cursed, although there are flashes of beauty, grace, happiness and peace to be found, these tend to be fleeting. But it will not always be so. There will be a reckoning and there needs to be rescue. And that’s why we sing in the darkness of “Good” Friday. Jesus, by taking that very curse on Himself, provides the basis for our rescue. And He laments, so that one day we won’t have to. We will hear an echo, a hint, of the new song that one day will replace all of our laments, when the darkness is displaced by the sunrise. We sing in the darkness of Friday. But Sunday’s coming.