On “Losing my religion”….

I am a mandolin player. Or perhaps more accurately I should say that I play the mandolin. On this side of the Anglo-Saxon Atlantic, mandolin playing is mainly limited to folk music, although across the Chanel it has long been known as a classical instrument (Vivaldi wrote at least two mandolin concertos). In the US the mandolin has a long and treasured place in country and bluegrass music. But as far as I know there is only one rock/pop mandolin riff that is widely known. Back in the ‘90’s R.E.M. had a hit with the song “Losing My Religion” which starts with it. The song and the accompanying video went on to win multiple awards. You might think that the song had something to do with religion. Perhaps a celebratory atheistic anthem of its newly recognised irrelevance or a wistful retrospective of a now forgotten childhood heritage. But apparently not. R.E.M. frontman Michael Stipe who wrote the lyric has said that it was actually about unrequited love: “..what I was pulling from was being the shy wallflower who hangs back at the party or at the dance and doesn’t go up to the person that you’re madly in love with and say ‘I’ve kind of got a crush on you, how do you feel about me?’”. Doesn’t take away from the brilliant mandolin riff of course. In any case it turns out religion isn't quite what you might think.

That’s interesting because it often isn’t. The meanings given to the word have changed over time, as often happens. And even if there really is a thing being labelled (in the sense that we also give names to non-things like purple spotted unicorns) this is also likely to change through time and and over space (i.e. being different in different places and spaces). So it is sometimes genuinely difficult to know what is meant when we talk (or even sing) about religion, lost or otherwise. There is nothing new or unique in this; try looking up the etymological history of “nice” – you’ll be surprised. Even broad categories used to identify obvious and necessary boundaries turn out in some important cases to be recent innovations that are neither obvious nor necessary. The rhetorical drawing of contrasts is therefore also tricky. The idea that the categories of “natural” and “supernatural” have always been with us, and we’ve always been clear about what these categories are, crops up in many debates. Indeed it is the supernatural, as distinct from religion or God, that was Dawkins’ main target in “The God Delusion”. He clearly thought he knew what he meant, and that his readers did too.

But the categories of natural and supernatural are relatively recent. And around them there has been more than a little myth-making particularly once they transformed into “-isms” claimed to competing with each other. This particular framing (although not the words themselves) appeared late on in the 19^th century promoted by, among others, T.H. Huxley. Huxley and his ilk then read these categories back into history. Promising (in their terms) pre-Socratic philosophers were identified as being early stalwarts taking their plucky stance against surrounding supernatural beliefs and religious practices. A line of heroes was then traced through that most influential of ancient philosophers, Aristotle. And so down to contemporary debates where science, rationality and naturalism were pitted against religion, faith and supernaturalism, with the implication that we all know which side of the line we (and the intellectual greats of the past) must stand. Except it was never thus and is not so now.

The Greek philosophers, of all schools and stages, were clear that the divine was involved with all aspects of human life and thought, whether for good or ill. For them, “natural” inevitably implied, among other things, divine activity. And Greek science (a much wider activity than what is meant in English by the word today) showed little sign of progress or development away from such notions. Arguably it was actually the rise of Christianity which in some of its forms began to remove the divine from many of the areas of life it was formerly thought to inhabit. Many of the innovators who began to give science the form it has today, from Bacon on, made no great distinction between their thinking as scientists (not a word they would have understood in our sense) and theological thinking. Investigating the world with the tools available was an investigation of the works of God. The success of science  was, to many, not the success of naturalism in the face of supernatural resistance, but actually progress in illuminating and understanding the works of the Creator. No contest here. But something does thereafter seem to have been lost.

A broadly Biblical understanding of everything there was and is was what led to (or at least was the context of) the development of science as we know it today. But a catastrophic narrowing of science seems to have taken place, particularly as it became professionalised and institutionalised. The historian Peter Harrison recently put it like this “Whereas the sciences are sometimes said to be based in curiosity, from the mid-twentieth century that curiously rarely extended to fundamental questions about the metaphysical foundations of science or the intelligibility of the natural world” (Some New World, p328). As a matter of history those “metaphysical” foundations were thought to be Biblical by the majority of the practitioners from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. It was Huxley and others, relatively recently, who set up various false antitheses. And they were then highly successful in evangelising for this particular view of our intellectual and scientific history. Once constructed in their terms, loosing the supernatural, indeed losing religion, was not the loss of anything of value. Indeed, it was seen as a necessary and progressive step.

The problem is that we are now living with the consequences of this loss of “who knows what”. And it actually turns out that the most serious consequences are not for religion (in the modern sense) as much for science, politics and culture. Religion appears to be going from strength to strength all over the world. But particularly in Western Europe and the US, wistful noises are now being made in the oddest of corners for what has been lost. And science itself seems particularly to be suffering. 

So if you thought REM was celebrating the loss of religion in the sense of losing the religious, think again. And even if you had been right, it would probably not be something worth celebrating.

Words, texts and their mattering….

I like words. Sometimes it’s just the sound of individual words that I’m drawn to (like ‘flibbertigibbet’). You may well have your own favourites. But more often it’s words strung into sentences, usually with the aim of communicating something. Hence I’m sitting here typing. And, presumably, that’s why you’re sitting where you are, reading. You like words too. Mind you, spoken words and written words are not identical (I don’t know what ‘flibbertigibbet’ sounds like inside your head). But they do serve the same sort of purposes, the main one being to communicate meaning. But meaning is a word, and slippery one too. Linguists, philosophers, theologians and scientists have all tacked the issue of what meaning “is”, and have not always arrived at compatible definitions. Some have therefore concluded that there is no such thing as meaning. But that would seem to subvert the whole business of communicating with one another, something humans have actually been doing for a very long time, and with a fairly high degree of success (an observation I’ve commented on before). And it is a view that is, basically, self-refuting.

But what this does highlight is that in using words, whether as a sender or receiver, thought and care are often required. When precision is needed, we can usually achieve it. It does complicate matters and tends to slow communication down. And sometimes we can all get a bit impatient with this. But there is something here that is familiar from many areas of life and behaviour - a speed accuracy trade-off. So when I’m speaking quickly, without much thought, the precision I am communicating with is reduced. A similar thing happens when I sit down at a keyboard and with little thought I just begin to type. Stringing words together isn’t particularly difficult. But stringing them together coherently is a different matter. And of course prior to the words are the concepts that the words are supposed to convey. If I haven’t given these much thought, then prior to the lack of clarity in the words, will be a lack of clarity in the thoughts. The net effect will be ambiguity and uncertainty. This is sometimes a thoughtful intention, but that is probably the exception rather than the rule, and carries its own meaning.

On the other side of the communication process, the same sort of considerations must apply. A whole series of processes are going on in your head right now. Some of them are fairly low-level and not under your control (at least to any great extent) – things like resolving the words on the screen you’re looking at so they are clear enough to read, or extracting meaning from individual words. But at a higher level, implicitly or explicitly, you will have to decide how much work you’re going to put into understanding what I’ve written. If you’re not particularly interested, you will probably merely skim the text, perhaps alighting on the odd word here or there, following the narrative or the argument (such as it is) at a superficial level. If I were to write something obviously crazy at this point (like “raspberry”) you might notice. But then again you might not (in which case the entire point of what I’ve just written will be lost on you!). But if I’ve succeeded in catching your attention, and you’re interested in the meaning of meaning, or the meaning of words, or the business of communication, you’ll be working to understand both what is written and what is meant. That will take time on your part, time that you could have spent doing something else. That implies a price that you either will, or will not be prepared to pay.

To be sure, there are lots of reasons why you might not want to pay a particularly high price to extract the meaning from this particular text. It is after all, merely a blog post, one of many on this blog (this is #152), and there are of course many blogs (plus books, magazines etc). But we all have an innate idea that some texts are much more important than others. And with these we have a sense that it will pay to do the work. And there are those texts which claim (or are claimed) to be potentially life changing (not something I’d claim for my blog I hasten to add). If you are persuaded that this is the case, the words (and the sentences and paragraphs they make up) will matter a lot and you’ll want to do the work to get at the meaning. While such claims may be spurious, Benjamin Franklin (among others), he of “Give me 26 lead soldiers and I will conquer the world” certainly thought that words could matter.

Part of the human condition is that our time and resources are finite, so choices have to made. Given the slipperiness of words, the question arises as to how best to spend our finite resources. Because we know that some words matter more than others we direct variable degrees of attention towards the text of adverts, comic strips, headlines in tabloid newspapers and captions on TikTok compared to those in a textbook we need to study to pass an exam or a philosophy book making an argument that we really want to get to the bottom of. Experience, our own and that of others, can also be a guide. Where we know that others have claimed to find particular words truly transformative (sometimes transformations we ourselves may have witnessed), these will be the ones we really want to pay attention to and work at to understand.

There is a particular text in mind (of course). It is one of the most critically scrutinised in history. It has been pilloried and banned in some jurisdictions. It has been lauded and literally worshipped in others. This wide range of responses and attitudes itself is evidence (of a sort) that here is something worth exposing oneself to, reading, reflecting on and responding to. Given the range of reactions to it, and conflicting claims about it, it is clearly likely to have its complexities. This can’t all be down to the vagaries of the readers and hearers of it. So it is likely that work will indeed be required. But at least there is a prima facie case that here indeed are words that should be encountered first hand, as opposed to depending on second-hand, necessarily filtered accounts of it. And there does appear to be a coherent core meaning that both historically and now millions have extracted from it (as well as some crazy conclusions and consequently crazy behaviour).

If the Bible is what it and many of its previous readers have claimed, then here are words that matter. And perhaps they matter more than anything else.

One hundred and fifty years (and counting)

Just as we have done for the last few years at this point in the summer, we decamped to Keswick in the English Lake District. It’s a shortish hop for us (about two and a half hours north up the M6 – when open). There are lots of reasons to come to Keswick, most famously the majestic surrounding hills, the beautiful lake, the ice cream. But as readers of this blog will know (and apparently there are a few of you), these are but chocolate sprinkles on a very chocolaty chocolate cake. The real reason we’re here is the Keswick Convention which this year is 150 years old. I’ve written about the Convention before (in 2018, 2019 – the others are easy enough to find). Clearly, to last 150 years, it must be getting something right. But I wonder what it is?

Longevity is, of course, no necessary indication of value. Where human institutions are concerned, more than a few have lasted a long time. Those that do tend to be the ones that continue to meet some basic need or perform some useful function. But they do this by doing two apparently contradictory things successfully. First of all they remain the same to the degree that continuity through time can be observed, remaining identifiably a single institution rather than a succession of different ones. Yet life is change, so they must also change, grow or evolve as needs (either perceived or real) change. If there’s no change, then fossilisation and irrelevance develop. Too much change, and it begins to look like the particular institution in question doesn’t really qualify as such or that it has neither firm foundation or core of any value. It strikes me that Keswick has negotiated this conundrum rather well. The world (in both sacred and secular aspects) has changed over the the last 150 years. And so has the Keswick Convention. Yet it has a distinguishable DNA that has been constant.

The original aim of the Keswick Convention (which began with a tent for 1000 in Thomas Dundas Hartford-Battersby’s vicarage garden) was essentially to get serious about living out the Christian life. At the centre of it was Bible teaching. It’s worthwhile reflecting in what today is considered a “secular” culture, that the notion of taking the text of Scripture as being both authoritative and transforming seemed as odd to many in the final part of the nineteenth century as it does today. Although 19^th century Britain was well-churched, belief was beginning to become as shallow as it was broad. David Bebbington identifies the early 1870’s with the beginning of the ebb of evangelicalism on this side of the Atlantic. In the established Church of England there were many who rather looked down on taking Scripture and its call to transformed living too seriously. According to the historian Mark Noll there was a growth in “Broad Church opinion and the progress of High Church practices”. Classic evangelical views (i.e. historical, biblically orthodox belief) were increasing seen as out-of-date and in need of radical revision, and there were those in professional theology (who prepared the men who would fill the pulpits) who were only too eager to carry the revision out. The Robertson Smith case and Charles Briggs paper defending “Critical theories” (both in 1881) were harbingers of what was to come. Outside the Church of England, the theological drift that would soon engage Spurgeon in the “Downgrade” was well and truly underway among “independents”.

In contrast the post-enlightenment “inevitable progress” narrative (which could point to real advances in science, technology and medicine) gathered steam. And it was portrayed as the antithesis of classic, orthodox Christian belief; a competing, more successful and more “adult” narrative. Christianity (and Christian theology) was merely one superstition among many which was on the cusp of being banished for good. Human reason and its products were all that were needed. Long before the bloody 20^th century put paid to the myth of inevitable progress (although the odd still-twitching digit is occasionally  encountered today) Hartford-Battersby discovered for himself that true transformation occurred from the inside out, effected by the Word of God, through the Spirit of God. This is what he wanted to share with others. And so the Keswick Convention was born.

Of course, he and his friends had rediscovered something that had always been true. But truth has a way of sinking out of sight (or being obscured) before reappearing again (as it must). There is always a need for transforming truth. To use some jargon, the transformation that occurs when someone comes to faith in Christ (i.e. is converted, saved, becomes a Christian), while fundamental is not final in the sense that no further change is necessary or possible. There is a need to hear that we all begin in desperate need of rescuing (the kind of language used by Paul at the beginning of Galatians). Having been rescued, utterly and completely, in way that can only be accomplished by God Himself, a new life of gratitude begins. Our position is secure in Christ; our thinking and behaviour now have to change to be in conformity with this new position. And this needs to be shaped and directed. The motivation may be gratitude marked by changed appetites and attitudes, but it’s tempting to feel that it’s all then “over to us” to work out how we navigate our new way in a world and culture that now seems (and is) threatening and hostile. Fortunately, the needed help is on hand.

God’s great plan for His people does not end with their rescue any more than it begins with it. Thereafter he provides the resources required to lead the new life that has been inaugurated. And He is not somehow removed from this part of the struggle but is right in the thick of it. Hence the idea, taught by Jesus, and amplified by Paul, that He not only rescues us, but then resides in us, to provide the heft to swim against the tide. He resides in us to help us avail ourselves of His presence mediated by His Word (and vice versa). The much maligned Bible, the most heavily criticised and attacked of books, continues to be a means of not merely way-finding but of continued transformation as it is read, explained, heard and responded too. This continuing need was always at the heart of Keswick.

It remains so. In placing Scripture at the heart of what goes on for three weeks at the Convention each summer, it continues to meet what turns out to be the deepest of human needs. In presenting the Gospel, the good news of God’s rescue plan (that dead, cold, stony hearts can be made alive again) is presented to a culture which needs to know that such transformation (literally from death to life) is still possible. But for those that are newly alive, direction and instruction in the new life that follows is also made available. This explains the longevity of the convention. Real needs being met. Needs that are as old as fallen humanity and that will persist until God calls time on the world as it is. But many things about the Convention have observably changed. It has gone from one week to three, and from a tent for 1000 to one that holds nearer 3000. The location of the tent has moved around too. The number and style of talks has altered. Victorians were made of much sterner stuff compared to 21^st century Christians; substantial back to back sermons of some length were not unusual. Now there’s a single morning “Bible reading” and an evening “Celebration” (with added additional seminars and other types of session). The style and content of worship (though not its object) have changed. What were once innovations, like the separate youth programme, have continued to evolve. Inclusiveness and accessibility for those with disabilities or particular additional needs is receiving the attention it deserves. But important as all of this is, it is peripheral (though not trivial). At the centre is something as simple as it is profound. God is a speaking God. He speaks though His word and in His speaking accomplishes the impossible transformations that are our basic need.

Here’s to the next 150 years.

The stories we tell….

My reading project for 2025 is N. T. Wright’s “Christian Origins and the Question of God”. But because I managed to finish my 2024 project (Calvin’s “Institutes”) early, I decided to get started on Vol 1 of “Origins”: “The New Testament and the People of God”. Now admittedly there’s a lot of ground clearing goes on in the early chapters, but it’s useful for getting one’s bearings. And central to a lot of it is the issue of “story”. Of course the Anglo-Saxon scientist in me began to bridle at this point. But I managed not to get to the stage of chanting “just give me the facts” under my breath. Of course, had I been better educated (which is my aim in reading Wright in the first place) I would have realised that such a chant would simply be evidence of my capture by a particular story, the “modern” story. This is a story on an epic scale that still has quite a lot of us in its grip. It’s a tale about facts being true statements concerning things that exist absolutely, and phenomena that can be established in their totality using data (observations, measurement etc; for further discussion of facts, see here). We need to busy ourselves collecting such facts and once we have enough (although the threshold for “enough” is rarely explicitly stated) we can know some things for a certainty (because we’ve established the facts). Anything that doesn’t fit with this scheme (ie anything that can’t be measured and weighed, prodded and poked) probably isn’t meaningful, possibly doesn’t even exist and certainly isn’t worth bothering about. Therefore, basically only science can be trusted (because this is the sort of thing that science “does”), anything else is junk. This general view is a holdover from a particular philosophy that no longer impresses philosophers (and their fellow travellers in the humanities in general). But it holds sway in the minds of more than a few scientists I have encountered. And you’ll find it in the popular books they write (usually at or towards the end of their professional scientific careers). So more than a few non-scientists, otherwise normal and intelligent people, have made this their story. The problem is that as a story it is self-refuting. It itself is not a fact or collection of facts, it’s not science (even although it usually involves science) it cannot be measured, and therefore if true it must be false. 

Having calmed myself down, I returned to thinking about stories more widely. Wright’s contention is that “stories are important as an index of the world-view of any culture”. Which got me to thinking about the stories that are current today, those stories that might reveal the world-view of the contemporary culture. This is not a task I am capable of carrying out in any great detail. Others have spent more time and expended much more effort on projects like this. Carl Trueman and his “The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self” comes to mind (well worth a read, published in 2020, but by now probably obtainable second hand). What is the defining story of contemporary culture? It clearly cannot be the 18th/19th century story of humanity’s inevitable progress. The bloody 20^th century, with its world wars and atrocities, surely provided ample evidence that inevitable progress was a cruel fiction and could not be a story worth investing in. Its bankruptcy has been amply confirmed by the early disasters of the 21^st century. The story that elevates science and assumes that anything not approachable scientifically (ie most of life as we live it), while widespread, is now only held tentatively. Science itself is in a spot of bother, assailed by crises of reproducibility (what should have been one of its hallmarks turns out to be surprisingly rare) and integrity (a proportion of scientists turn out to be thoroughly untrustworthy). The results range from climate crisis denialism to falling vaccination rates with the consequential return of once banished diseases. Or maybe the more recent story that denies that there is any overarching story, and the nihilism to which this inevitably leads, is in fact the current prevailing story.

How this came to be is precisely what Trueman and others have tried to track. By his account, the efforts of a number of “story tellers” have brought us to where we are, of whom the most familiar are perhaps Marx, Nietzsche and Freud. The particular stories they originally told have themselves largely been discredited and discarded. It’s the residual, cumulative influence of their stories and their cumulative effects that are still with us. For each of these three, part of the objective was the destruction of one particular competing story. Nietzsche was perhaps the most obvious and knowing of the three as far as this aspect of the project was concerned. God might have been killed, but Christianity still had to be dealt with; it would in time “perish”. He was happy to initiate, or at least be in at the beginning of its demise. He knew (or suspected) that this would be a long-term project. In his preface to “The Dawn of the Day”, written in 1881, he writes of “a ‘subterrestrial' at work, digging, mining, undermining.” He probably didn’t realise how long it would take, in part because he was thoroughly dismissive of Christianity’s intellectual merits. After all, key Christian truths originated “in nothing but errors of reason”. He had a substitute story, and yet this story, along with those of Marx and Freud, have faired and aged arguably much worse than Christianity (and indeed other religious “stories”). The churches that these thinkers had so little time for, the centres from which the Christian story was and is (in theory at least) proclaimed, while apparently struggling in Europe and North America, appear to be doing rather well in Africa, South America and Asia. And at an estimated 100 million (estimates vary, this is by no means the highest; see here), there are more Christians in China today than in Europe. It appears that the story that Christians tell has yet to fall into the pit that Nietzsche sought to dig for it. If numbers matter, this might suggest that the story that Christians tell, of all stories, appears to be worth investigating.

But I’m not sure that these numbers do matter. What matters is the truth of the stories we tell and their ability to explain things for us; things like the past, the present and even the future. You may have noticed that we’ve been retelling part of the Christian story this week, acting it out, watching our children acting it out. Mind you, some of the versions on display may have been considerably tweaked from the original. Fortunately the original is available and can be checked, along with the larger Gospel story to which it belongs (not to mention the overall Bible story to which both belong). One can go right to the sources, rather than be suckered by caricatures. What will you find there and what world-view will it reveal? Will it be better than other stories that have been and still are told? Well, that’s a whole other story – which is rather the point.

How come you can understand this….?

One of my 2024 reading objectives was to read Calvin’s “Institutes of the Christian Religion” from cover to cover over the year. I managed it in eleven months. Obviously I was not reading it in the original 1559 Latin, nor the sixteenth century French translations. Fortunately for me it has been translated into English, and I was enjoying the fruits of Ford Lewis Battles’ labours (along with an army of Calvin scholars), originally published just over sixty years ago. The combination of Calvin and Battles has proved itself to be highly effective and in some places even entertaining. Although separated by over 500 years and a number of intellectual and cultural revolutions (and a lot else), I think I can claim to have understood more than the gist of what Calvin was on about. I’m sure that there are many allusions I missed (notwithstanding the copious footnotes), and no doubt some of the arguments he takes up have lost their force and relevance. Yet over the months it appears I was able to follow along reasonably well. And yet there are those who would have you believe that this really should not be.

We have lived through (and some may still be in) a period in which the claim has been made that communication, particularly by means of texts (which obviously lack some of the information that we have when speaking to each other), is a fairly ropey business, particularly if you want to claim that authors are routinely able to transmit the contents of their minds accurately to their readers. Additionally it has been claimed that communication of ideas is rarely what anyone actually tries to do; more usually they are trying to manipulate (dominate, oppress) you. But even this is fraught with difficulty as words on pages do not carry meaning. Meaning is to be found in interpretations inside heads. So it turns out that I can have no (or at least little) legitimate expectation that you are following what I’m writing, and therefore only a slim hope that you now understand my (admittedly sketchy) outline of postmodernist theory. One wonders in that case why I’m trying. My general persistence in such exercises (this blog now runs to 145 posts) hints at a potential problem. Any theory has to be tested against what actually happens “in the wild”. And when this theory is tested, it turns out that it doesn’t do too well.

I rather like the illustration given by Don Carson in “The Gagging of God” (p102), when he relates what happened to him when he got into conversation with a student after having delivered some hermeneutics lectures. She took him to task for being stuck in a 19^th century positivist mindset, and listed all the reasons why he should be more open to the new (ie postmodern) approach. He tried to defend his position (which it should be said was neither modernism nor positivism), but with no success. Then in a burst of what he calls “sheer intellectual perversity” he changed tack and congratulated her for using irony to demonstrate the “objectivity of truth”. She began to get rather exasperated, at which point he congratulated her further for adding emotion to irony. Close to incandescence she finally worked out what he was up to. He quietly pointed out that in practice deconstructionists (the spear-point of postmodernism and her own position) only thought that other peoples’ writing could not communicate the thought of authors in any meaningful way. The writings (and 'speakings') of the deconstructionists themselves were mysteriously exempt from any difficulty with the transmission of their meaning, which is why we were all expected to pay careful attention to them.

If communication of ideas (and other contents) were all but impossible, presumably we would have all given up trying to do it a very long time ago. And yet the opposite has been observed. Language is one of the defining features of human beings; we want to communicate, we must communicate. Once the spoken word was all that we had; we had to speak. Writing, communication of spoken work in written, symbolic, form, appears to have developed several times in history, independently in different human civilisations. In Mesopotamia and Egypt symbolic representation of information developed some time before 3000BC. Once a minority sport, with the invention of printing writing (and reading) exploded. And for all that technology is claimed to be the death of writing, who can resist a good written caption on their Tik Tok video (just so it's understood).

 It was a while after the invention of writing that  Moses, who lived around 1300BC (probably), started to record the history of a particular group of people who would come to be known as the Jews. He clearly did so believing his efforts were of some value, and, it turns out, lots of folk throughout history (if what they have said and written are to be believed) have tended to agree with him. Such communication is not perfect (no human endeavour is). What Moses wrote, and indeed whether he actually wrote it, is contested territory. As with me and Calvin, you’ll probably have to read it in translation. Some of it will seem very odd, some perhaps disturbing. But have a go at reading it. The first five books of the Bible are attributed to him. Decide for yourself whether he says nothing, or whether you can make that particular material mean anything. You’ll certainly find it considerably less obscure than Derrida.

In seeking to communicate truth, Moses was doing no more than reflecting the truth that he claimed he was writing: that he (along with the rest of us) was created in the image of God (recorded at the beginning of his writing in Genesis 1 – easy to find). God is a speaking god. He has communicated by means of the spoken word, and of course the written word. Many other words have been written (and not just by postmodernists) to explain why this can’t really be true. And yet, in the experience of many of us He continues to speak. And if written words don’t impress you, consider this. Here we are approaching another Christmas, full of the usual nonsense. But at its core is a celebration of the event that demonstrates that God is not limited to words, written or spoken. To quote some words written in the New Testament “..in these last days he has spoken to us by his (lit: in) son…” (Hebrews 1:2).

If you’ve understood anything so far, have a go at understanding that.

“Was Jesus a Jew?” (and other matters)….

I would like to stress that the above question is not mine, but one that was put to me this week. It was not asked by someone trying to be smart or make a point or start a debate. They simply did not know the answer and were curious. Being unclear about Jesus origins is perhaps forgivable given centuries of (mainly) European “Christian” art that has tended to portray Him as relatively light skinned, with shiny hair and a very well trimmed beard. Centuries of creating Him in our own image, in the same way that fallen humanity always does with God. The question cropped up in the context of a conversation about Christmas as we shared our mutual dislike of many of its contemporary features. Although this was, and for some of us still is, an opportunity to celebrate the incarnation of the second person of the Trinity (the Word being made flesh as John puts it), Christmas has all but completely morphed into a secular celebration of general niceness, bonhomie and wistfulness. And in this form it is built around various myths.

I am fairly sure that my friend is sure that these myths are myths. Small children, should any be in the vicinity, should perhaps be ushered out of the room at this point – you have been warned. But we all realise that the idea that the presents that appear on the morning of 25^th December, often laid under a fir or pine tree (whether real or synthetic) are not placed there by a stranger in a red suit and white beard on the basis of merit accumulated in the previous twelve months. He who shall remain nameless (but about whom many a parent lies to their offspring) is made up, as is the historical hinterland often attributed to him. Other inventions that appear at this time of year include three wise men and inns with sympathetic inn-keepers but no room. Given the accretion of this mythology, and the widespread Biblical illiteracy that is a feature of the culture, it is not really a surprise to find doubts arising about that other central figure of Christmas, and still the star of many a school nativity, Jesus.

Of course one can investigate who Jesus is, and I would argue that any educated person should. A sensible place to start would be the Biblical accounts of His birth. But here we find something that seems rather strange (as well as lots of things that are contested). Only two of four Gospel writers (Matthew and Luke) include birth narratives in their accounts at all. Mark (who was probably first to produce a Gospel) and John (who probably wrote after the others) both begin their accounts with Jesus’ baptism, when he was aged approximately 30. The most detailed birth narrative occurs in Luke, but he provides almost as much detail about the birth of Jesus' relative John the Baptist (whose birth we never celebrate). And yet for two or three months of every year, thanks to the relentless focus of advertisers and media, you might think that Jesus’ birth is a key event we should focus on. Apparently this was neither the view of 50% of the Gospel writers or, for that matter, the early Church.

For the first two or three centuries of the Church’s existence, more prominence was given to Jesus' baptism (celebrated in the Feast of the Epiphany in January) and His death and resurrection (celebrated at Easter – in spring, and for a while a literally moveable feast). In part this was because birthdays in general were yet to take on their modern significance. So it took a while for consensus to emerge as to when Jesus was born. And at the time there were much more important issues that had to be settled. Besides, precise dates were not much of a thing in the ancient world. So initially, estimates of His month of birth ranged from November to March. Only gradually was December 25^th adopted (at least for liturgical purposes) in part so that a celebration of Jesus birth might displace more dubious pagan celebrations.

Perhaps this Biblical and early Church disinterest in focussing on Jesus birth was also because while it was obviously necessary for what came next, and while it was surrounded by a number of heavy hints as to His significance, it was in some ways profoundly ordinary. And concentration on it, to the exclusion of the rest of what we’re told about Him, runs the risk of “perpetual baby syndrome”. In our minds He forever remains a cute and suspiciously quiet (according to “Away in a manger”) infant. Yet beyond his birth we need to understand the life He led, what He said and did, and not miss the significance of the death He died. However you view these things, cute would hardly be an adequate description. What He did outraged and astonished in equal measure. What He claimed, explicitly as well as implicitly, needs to be carefully weighed. For these are not mere matters of the historical record. The critical call that Jesus made (and makes) is not so much that we must reckon with His birth, but that His life and death having continuing personal as well as cosmic significance. And of this is validated by His resurrection perhaps the most significant event in history, at least so far.

Questions like the one my friend was asking can be answered. We can certainly establish where Jesus was born, and the circumstances surrounding His birth. We can be sure of His ethnicity (He was a Jew), and His heritage (with regard to His human descent He was from the tribe of Judah, though the kingly line of David), and see how his coming fulfilled ancient promises and patterns. I contend that none of this is myth, nor is it merely history, and all of it is significant. By all means enjoy contemplating His birth, but don’t get stuck.

Personally, I comfort myself with the thought that although it’s almost Christmas, Easter is just around the corner.

Not “vs” but “and” (so get over it).

I still occasionally come across talks entitled (to give but one example) “Religion vs Science: Can the two coexist?”; as of writing, the YouTube snippet of this lecture I stumbled upon had racked up 1.2M views. This title is fairly typical of a way of talking about science (somehow defined) and religion (somehow defined) that sees them as typically and inevitably in conflict. In its strongest form this conflict thesis is ahistorical (and in some cases anti-historical) taking this to be a steady state. It is the way things are now, and essentially the way they have always been, and it is the way they must always be. In its weaker forms there is often some acceptance that while this may not have been the way things were at some time in the past, the relationship inevitably developed into one of conflict and conflict is now the only possible way to describe the interaction of science and religion (or faith) by anyone who is in any sense mature in their thinking. This is so misconceived that it is difficult to know where to begin in refuting it. But let’s begin at an obvious place which will come as no surprise to any regular reader of these posts (you know who you are!).

The idea of an inevitable clash has been constantly undermined by the large numbers of serious people who, both now and in the past, have happily combined both a commitment to science (some at very exalted levels) and religion, specifically Christianity. My suspicion is that if you were familiar with Indian science you would find devout Hindus who were scientists, and in other parts of the world devout Muslims, similarly active in science. But I will stick with what I know best, and that form of religion that arguably played a vital role in the emergence of what we might call the experimental sciences. Because, as it happens, I am one such example.

I confess that during my career I was never particularly publicly prominent, I never chaired august scientific institutions, I influenced not one decision of national or international scientific public policy. But I was clearly a professional scientist, trained the way scientists are trained (a first degree in Physiology, PhD in Neurobiology, various postdoctoral jobs in other people’s labs), did all the things scientists do (as evidenced by the expected publications, many of which can be search for on the web and are open access), progressing as scientists progresses (I won a Welcome Trust Vision Research Fellowship earlyish in my career, set up my own lab, subsequently obtained substantive University posts, was a trainer of other doctoral scientists, etc). Yet I am also a Christian, and of kind some find to be most objectionable, variously labelled fundamentalist, evangelical, Bible-bashing and so on. It is true that occasionally a few other scientists tried to convince me of some basic contradiction between the two designations “scientist” and “Christian”. But a moment’s pause always demonstrated that the problem was with their definitions and modes of thought. Usually either their understanding of what science is and how it works was lacking (a surprisingly frequent occurrence even among scientists), or their familiarity with Biblical Christianity was low or non-existent. Caricatures of both science and Christianity are not hard to find and with them apparent contradictions and conflicts. But on closer inspection these turn out to be more apparent than real.

Note that I am not making the reverse mistake of claiming that it is impossible to find some who say that they personally find that there is a conflict between science and Christianity (like the lecturer mentioned at the outset), or that there are no examples of those who were “keen Christians” who report “losing their faith” because of science. What I am claiming is that there is ample evidence that this is neither necessary nor inevitable, and that I, with others, constitute that evidence. Because I have always worked in universities, I have always lived in University towns, and worshipped in churches found in such places. So it is perhaps not a surprise that there were always others around, who were educated to a similar level in science (although not always working as professional scientists) who like me found no obvious conflict in our personal thinking. There might be parts of the country where such creatures are thin on the ground. But I am neither rare or special. In my current church (which is admittedly large by UK standards, and is in a city with several universities) I can think of several science PhDs, across disciplines. Such is the contemporary scene I survey. But the reality is there have always been those who quite happily combine science and faith, without compromising either.

The historical situation is perhaps even clearer than either my personal case or the more general contemporary picture. This is slightly more contested ground, but those doing most of the contesting are often ignorant (sometimes wilfully so) of the actual history. Professional science as we know it today is a 19^th century development, but it emerged from 17^th century political, religious and philosophical ferments. Of particular interest are some of the key early players, particularly those who championed “experimental”, as opposed to “rational”, science. Experimental science in England (often called natural philosophy at the time) was actively promoted by such figures as Sir Francis Bacon (1561-1626), leading (at the time of the restoration of the Monarchy) to the establishment of The Royal Society of London in 1662. What is interesting about Bacon, and some of his acolytes like Samuel Hartlib (c. 1600-1662), is not merely their Christian sympathies, but the distinctly Puritan and Calvinistic framework that they operated within. This was even detectable in later characters like Robert Boyle, John Locke and even Isaac Newton (although Newton was famously heterodox in his theology). It was not merely that many of these men were shaped and educated in a world dominated by Protestant Christianity; many were themselves ardent believers (although by no means always Puritans), who saw in science as much as a theological exercise as anything else. Those named are not isolated examples; they could be multiplied. No conflict here then, at this early stage (at least not between science and religious belief).

There is another interesting historical example of peaceful coexistence worth noting: “The Declaration of Students of the Natural and Physical Sciences”, 1864/5. The date is significant. Signed by 717, including 66 Fellows of the Royal Society, this was a response to the furore that had raged following the publication of Darwin’s “Origin of the Species” in 1859. The Declaration made clear that the signatories regretted “..that researches into scientific truth are perverted by some in our own times into … casting doubt upon the truth and authenticity of the Holy Scriptures”. This made no sense, because “physical science is not complete” (nor it might be added is our understanding of God’s revealed truth). Contradictions between science and the Bible should be left “side by side”, and ultimately would be reconcilable because there is only one world, and ultimately one source of truth (ie God). If (or when) we find contradictions between scientific and Biblical views, the problem is likely to be in either the evidence (which is only ever partial) or our interpretation of the evidence (which can be no more perfect than we are). But the wider point to be made here is that at a key juncture in the 19^th century, the notion that there was a necessary conflict between the two, was by no means the only, or perhaps even a majority view among scientists.

So can the two, science and religion (or faith, or belief) coexist? Personal, contemporary and historical considerations suggest that they have, they are, they can and they will. 

Easter retuning…..

We all perceive through filters. While this has a specific technical meaning, the technicalities needn’t detain us for too long; the general point is easily understood. Take vision (or seeing) as an example. Technically, because our visual system is designed to work in a particular visual environment (or if you prefer, it evolved in a particular context), it has assumptions built into its structure. Another way of saying this is that visual information comes to us through a number of filtered channels. Provided these remain appropriate, everything works fairly well and we can see what we need to see to do the things we have to do. Of course, in order to tease out exactly how this all works, sneaky scientists find ways of tweaking the circumstances in which a participant's visual system has to work (‘tweaked circumstances’ is essentially what an experiment is) to trip it up. This, it turns out, is not hard; it is the basis of visual illusions – stimuli that induce misperceptions. You can find lots online with which you can fool your own visual system. Personally, I rather like the “change blindness” phenomenon (although technically this is more an attentional than visual type of illusion). You can find a classic example here; see if you can spot what is changing as photographs are presented to you. If you can’t work it out (most people do eventually), the answer is at the end of this post. The general point is that we easily miss things that are different from our usual experience and expectations, that violate the assumptions we inevitably make about what is going on around us. Rather, we tend to assume that we are very aware of everything that is going on around us, and certainly that if anything important was going on, we’d certainly notice it.

Not surprisingly, what applies at the relatively low level of perception also occurs in different, arguably more complicated, contexts. Consider all that Peter and the other disciples of Jesus of Nazareth had seen and heard as they followed Jesus all over first century Palestine. Let’s take the shortest of the Gospel accounts of the experience they accumulated over a period of about three years, the one composed by Mark. Early on they are sufficiently impressed by Jesus and what he has to say to respond positively when he calls them to follow him. It’s unclear what they thought they were getting themselves into. Perhaps a private club or religious society? Perhaps they initially hoped that this would eventually develop into a larger popular movement of national revival. And yet from the outset this was a rather strange grouping (particularly in its membership), being told strange things by Jesus. They heard and saw Jesus’ explicit and implicit claims to be God! He claimed to be able to forgive sin and claimed authority over their holy day, the Sabbath. In a wilderness setting, just like the one they would remember from their national history as recorded in Exodus, he did the impossible and provided bread for thousands, something their history told them God had uniquely done in the past. Jesus healed the excluded and delivered the spiritually enslaved. He even restored the nearly and newly dead, as well as raised the thoroughly dead. What did they make of this? Not much at the time is probably the answer, as they, along with the crowds that Jesus often encountered, reacted in astonishment time after time. Much of what Jesus was saying and doing seems to have been as foreign to them, as out of kilter with their usual daily experience, as it is to ours.

But as well as publicly observable demonstrations and teaching, the disciples had personal time with Jesus that was way beyond what was accessible to the crowds. They could, and did, ask questions and for explanations. Jesus went out of his way to explain to them what he was saying, and indeed describe what was going to happen to him before it happened. Three times in Mark, and at particular points, he explains that he is going to be rejected, abused and killed, and that he was going to rise from the dead. Mark records that particularly this last point was completely lost on the disciples. It obviously was not to be taken literally; Jesus could not mean that having ceased to be alive he would return to life in any real sense. Like us, they understood the basic realities of life and death, how the universe worked – we live and we die, end of. There might be notions of some sort of existence after the point of death, but that was a matter of philosophy or complicated theology; it belonged with talk of spirits and collective memorialising of the dead. It wasn’t a real sort of thing, at least not really real. So, obviously Jesus had to be dealing in metaphors and pictures. But what could they mean? Eventually, as Jesus became ever more explicit about both his impending death and his rising from the dead, the disciples just stopped asking him what he meant.

So what were their expectations as they eventually arrived in Jerusalem, the location where Jesus had been telling them he would die and rise again? Perhaps they were swept up in the excitement of the welcoming crowds who thought they knew exactly what Jesus was about. Perhaps they hoped that Jesus’ talk of rejection and death was just that, talk. Things seemed to be on a more promising track. Here they were in at the religious and civil heart of their people, and it seemed Jesus was indeed about to lead a popular movement, with perhaps the disciples playing the role of trusted lieutenants. But then Jesus goes and messes it up. He seems to go out of his way to outrage the religious and civil authorities. In an apparently monumental miscalculation he even turns one of his own intimate circle against himself, such that one of his followers called Judas is prepared to conspire with the authorities to have Jesus arrested. The rest, as they say, is history. Perhaps you have been rehearsing some of it today on “Good Friday”. The tragic end to a promising beginning. And yet, had they really listened they might have known that things were not as they seemed. This was not a tragedy unfolding, not an ending, and more of a continuation than a beginning.

But then what was going on was so beyond their experience and expectations that inevitably they were no more able to understand it than we are today without external intervention. Their filters were on the wrong setting as it were. Their starting assumptions were wrong. And still today there is something about the way we are constituted that makes it hard to see and hear what's going on with Jesus. Even if we think it is worth trying to, it is hard to get beyond the mere rehearsal of historical events to a transforming understanding of the what and the why of his death in those appalling circumstances of rejection, betrayal, mockery, abuse, suffering and death. Fortunately the same help is available to us as would eventually allow Jesus’ first disciples (or at least eleven of them) to process the raw material of what they had seen and heard and understand what was going on. It takes nothing less than God himself, through his own word, by means of his own Spirit, to cut through our natural way of thinking and the expectations it generates, to retune our filters, so we can know, understand and respond to Jesus. Fortunately for us, he has always been happy to do exactly this. Just try asking.

And if you still don't get what changing in the 'change blindness' demo, pay attention to the engine under the wing of the aircraft in the pictures. Imagine not seeing that!

It’s (as yet) all Greek to me

I’ve mentioned my studies a couple of times (see here and here). Alas, formally they are now over. I say alas because I have really enjoyed all of the process, content and, as it happens, the outcome. Perhaps it’s the academic in me. So, next summer, all being well, I shall graduate from Union. However, for tactical reasons I managed to avoid serious engagement with the original languages in which the Bible is written (primarily Hebrew and Greek). This was tactical because at my relatively advanced age learning a new language in the time available, essentially from scratch, would have been a big ask. I have picked up occasional words in both Hebrew and Greek in my MTh studies, and over the years from commentaries and articles. But I have no real understanding of the grammar of the languages, and the actual number of words I am familiar with you could probably count on the fingers of two hands and plus the toes of one foot. Given the time and assessment constraints in the MTh, there were lots of other things I wanted to study and (whisper it) I wanted to pass well. Still, this avoidance has led to the occasional pang of guilt. So with the MTh now complete, I have embarked on learning New Testament Greek with the help of some of Union's learning resources (which I still have access to as a current student). I hope to be of a suitable standard by graduation to contemplate taking some of the language modules on a “stand-alone” basis next session.

But why bother you might ask? After all, I actually believe in what is often called the doctrine of Scripture’s perspicuity. “Perspicuity” is to the contemporary mind a very opaque word meaning “clarity”. While “All things in Scripture are not alike plain in themselves…” (to quote the Westminster Confession, 1.7), the really important things, like how God can be truly known, is so clearly taught that “not only the learned, but the unlearned, in a due use of the ordinary means, may attain unto a sufficient understanding of them.” “Ordinary means” in this context is the reading and teaching of Scripture in our vernacular languages (ie in translation). This was a major point of contention in the Reformation and for a recent book-length defence of this position Mark Thompson’s “A Clear and Present Word” is worth a read. But it is not that there is a central kernel that can be generally understood, surrounded by lots of really hard stuff that should be left to “experts” (whatever that means). In the Old Testament, Israel was told to teach what God had revealed to their children (Deuteronomy 6:7) and it is emphasised that this is a far from impossible task; in general God’s words are both understandable and doable (Deuteronomy 30:11-14). In the New Testament, much of Jesus’ teaching is remarkably clear and straightforward. It’s not that the semantic content of both Jesus’ teaching and the rest of the New Testament, the words and concepts, are hard to understand. The real problem lies elsewhere. The very fist step to understanding is not essentially intellectual but spiritual, more about the heart than the mind. You can get an idea of what I mean by reading Ephesians 2:1-3. Ask yourself what the dead are capable of.

When God by His Spirit brings life where there was only death, and throws that switch that brings light where before there was darkness (akin to Jesus’ healings of the blind), the Bible comes alive in whatever language you happen to normally operate in. It remains God’s word and provides more than enough to keep any one of us going for more than a lifetime. Why, then, a need to get into the weeds of the original (or near to the original) Greek? Because they are not weeds and there is always more, layer after layer of nerve jangling, mind-stretching truth. But here are some immediate reasons. All translation involves interpretation. So the Bible translations that I use rely on the interpretations of others. Usually these are fine; no text can mean anything (something that the more extreme post-modernists got disastrously wrong) and only occasionally do different translations diverge significantly. But to be able to see where and why the divergence in English comes about, strikes me as valuable. And of course some divergent interpretations are occasionally based on a particular asserted meaning of the original text. To be able to go and check that there hasn’t been some twisting of the original, or that some linguistic fallacy isn’t being perpetrated (for a number of these see Don Carson’s “Exegetical Fallacies”), is also valuable. Then there is the pleasure of eventually being able to almost see into the mind of John and compare it with Paul, to develop a feel for their individual writing style. All of these seem to me to be real incentives for doing what will be hard work over an extended period.

So I’m currently on the initial slopes of the foothills. Some are quite steep. Others seem to be going on for quite a distance. My progress is sometimes slower than I would like. But the journey is a worthwhile one, and the view from the top will be glorious.

Science’s problems – getting bigger?

In my last post ("Science's big problem(s)") I pointed out that science was a human activity, and therefore prone to being less than pristine and perfect. Precisely because it is carried on by scientists who, whatever else they may be, are certainly human, there are bound to be mistakes made. This needn’t derail the whole exercise (as is clear from the history of such mistakes), but it does mean that a degree of humility and realism are appropriate. Such humility and realism notably departed in the 19^th century, almost deliberately driven out by the likes of Huxley, his X-club and the like. Warfare (they claimed) was the inevitable state of things between science and religion/theology (in the West usually Christianity and Christian theology), and was ably stoked by the likes of John William Draper and Andrew Dickson White. Science reigned supreme, was the only source of real knowledge (about everything), and other approaches to reality (which everyone agreed existed and mattered) were only of historical and therefore limited interest. Christian belief, at least in its orthodox, supernaturalist form, was not useful for anything, could be dangerous and misleading, and should essentially be dispensed with, at least for practical purposes. Humanity had to move on from its intellectual adolescence to something closer to maturity. If tricky issues arose, they could be settled by sensible, scientific men (and they were mainly men), without resorting to other modes of thought.

One of intellectual history’s tragedies is that theology played a role in its own demise, retreating from its position as the “queen of sciences” and almost cravenly capitulating to the attack of its critics. Prior to the activity of Huxley et al, and increasing the success of their attack when it came, theology developed what looks to the outsider (or at least this outsider) cold feet. Assailed by external attack from the likes of Spinoza and Voltaire, and weakened by those who might claim to be its friends like Kant, theology didn’t appear to be in a mood to put up much of a fight. It, along with the Christianity it had sought to illuminate, appeared to accept that it had to move on from “naive supernaturalism” in order to be fit for the age of enlightenment (and later romanticism or whatever was flavour of the day). This was partly because science, so impressive in its achievements, was claimed to make supernaturalism untenable. No point being sentimental about it. Besides which, all the supernatural stuff (God creating and sustaining a universe from nothing, talking donkeys, healed lepers and paralytics, resurrections and the like) was not core and key and could be lost without losing anything important. Rather than scrutinising the underlying presuppositions and claims of the likes of Kant and Hegel, theology had to capitulate if it was to be intellectually respectable. In particular, the Bible and its claims had to be radically reappraised on the basis of what the reason of the day found palatable.

It is worth pointing out that in parallel with this capitulation in the theological academy, in the real world outside, different stories were unfolding. So, from the late 1730’s in the Anglo-Saxon world, the likes of Whitefield and Wesley went about the business of preaching essentially the same Gospel as that of the Apostles leading to the “great awakening” which, in turn, arguably led to wider social reforms in 19^th century, and to influences still detectable today in North America. In the 19^th century there also remained those who prominently preached that same Gospel seeing it affecting the thinking and lives of ordinary men and women (the likes of McCheyne and Chalmers in Scotland, and Spurgeon and Ryle in England). And in the latter part of the 19^th century the apparent need of some to press the narrative of an inevitable conflict between science and Christianity is itself evidence that progress in eradicating “superstition” had not been as extensive or successful as the likes of Huxley hoped. To this day there are echoes of this in some of the rantings of the “new” atheists of recent memory (whose demise was discussed here). But these are stories for another day. I need to get back to science and its contemporary challenges.

It is a feature of the conflict narrative that it singularly failed to explain why quite to many of those involved in science continued quite happily to be believers of all sorts, including orthodox Christian believers, apparently having no difficulty reconciling one profession with another. The accusation was occasionally made that this could only be accomplished by them keeping two contradictory worlds apart. But, for what it’s worth, this was neither my personal approach, nor my observation of the approach of others. Rather the opposite appeared to be the case. I benefited from the influence of those who reckoned that hard thinking did indeed have to be done, but that Christians had no need to fear truth. Neither was there a need to fear caricatures, half-truths and castles built on sand. As Christians in science were were following a valid and important vocation, not risking either our faith or our intellectual integrity. But it turns out that even outwith the evangelical camp (to which I belong), something was astir in theology.

There have always been alternative models, besides that of conflict, for the interaction between theology and science. Some see no necessary interaction between the two at all, claiming that they address very different issues with very different tools; they can be compartmentalised and should be kept separate. Others, while arguing in a similar vein, think that they are complementary and compatible, rather than separate. Now it appears that the worm has began to turn. Perhaps anticipated by philosophers like Mary Midgely and her critique of scientism in both its crude and subtle forms (e.g. see her “Science as Salvation”), there are those from a theological perspective prepared to claim once again not just an important place for theology, but an indispensable, or even a superior place in providing explanations that matter. This sometimes emerges from expected sources (e.g. see this article from Michael Hanby, Associate Professor of Religion and Philosophy of Science at the John Paul II Institute at the Catholic University of America), but it may be gaining a degree of intellectual respectability propelled by those from a range of backgrounds prepared to do hard yards (e.g. see Paul Tyson’s recent “A Christian Theology of Science”).

It could be that in a postmodern world where meaning is what anyone and everyone takes it to be, this sort of “theology in charge” movement is just part of the inevitable mix (not to say mess). It may amount to nothing new or interesting. But the intellectual hegemony claimed for a certain view of science may be coming to an end, opening up a respectable space for theology once again. There are particular types of questions that science provides a means of answering. It would be to no one’s advantage to deny this. But there have always been really big questions that science never could really answer. The trick remains, as ever, to distinguish baby and bath water.

Disciplinary matters…..

I have written previously about my switching disciplines at a relatively late stage of life, swapping my scientific laboratory for a desk in my study and theological tomes ancient and modern. For me it has been largely without frustration for a number of reasons. First of all I suppose that this is because I am under little pressure related to my studies in theology. I am not doing it as a prelude to anything in particular. And despite the fact that people keep asking what comes next, I have no difficulty in replying that I don’t have a clue. In a sense (at least in the sense that is normally meant) I’m not doing it for anything. Secondly, I thought for a while about where I should study and with whom. These days it is relatively easy to study as a distance student at any number of prestigious institutions, so I had the pick of a range running from well-known University departments to various seminaries and Bible Colleges.

The academic snob in me saw the attraction of a masters from one of the more established seats of learning, perhaps one of the universities that I had previously inhabited. But theology transformed into something called “religious studies” in many such places a long time ago. My settled starting point for theology is that God has revealed Himself in a number of ways, but primarily in the person of His Son, and in the form of His word the Bible. For any theology nerds still reading, this will sound ridiculously out of date. But because these days we all claim to believe in tolerance, this might be accepted as a position to be established and defended (although largely assumed to be indefensible), that is accepted as a possible destination but not as a starting point. So, had I studied in most University theology or religious studies departments I was anticipating a frustrating period of defending the (apparently) indefensible, while perhaps learning a theological language that appeared not to say much about anything and little of any wider value. One might stumble into the realms of the sociology or psychology of religion, both useful in their own way in understanding today’s world, but neither actual theology. On reflection this did not seem to me to be an attractive prospect. Hence I chose Union, where we were at least starting from the same basis (or bias), and then doing Christian theology (the word has to be qualified these days to be meaningful).

The centre of my studies has been Scripture. Indeed technically I am doing an MTh in “Scripture and Theology”. While for most of the last two millennia this would have seemed like an entirely sensible combination, in many a theology faculty in our major universities it would be regarded as anachronistic. The Bible is just one human document of interest among many others to those of a religious disposition. Like those others it is a mixed bag. Occasional bursts of inspiring language and intriguing aphorisms, lots of mythology, and claims that today are neither true nor believable. Much of this is assumed to have been firmly established thanks to the diligent work of dedicated scholars stretching back perhaps as far as the 18^th century. Except that a sceptical frame of mind (always a good idea in my view) quickly became a philosophical campaign with its own blind spots and prejudices. Some of the “findings” and claims of the 18^th and 19^th century Biblical critics (and some of their more recent incarnations) turned out to be built on shaky historical and textual foundations. But such an edifice had been erected that there was no interest in dismantling it and finding other approaches (or even reverting older ones). Academic theology that became committed to a critical (in the wrong sense) view of Scripture fairly quickly found its ways into pulpits with predictable results; a mutilated Gospel, empty churches and a community in a crisis of multiple confusions.

This rather negative view of academic theology is neither original or peculiar to me. There has long been those both in theology and the Church that viewed the critical view of Scripture as misconceived as well as being based on shaky intellectual foundations, and there has long been opposition to it. Some of the opposition came from within theology and the Church, but occasionally some came from other Christian academics. I recently came across “A Lawyer Among the Theologians”, written by Sir Norman Anderson, and published in 1973. Anderson was one of those key post-war evangelicals who was of the first rank academically and intellectually. He was a name fairly well known to students of my generation. In this particular book he looked at the theology of the 60’s and 70’s from the point of view of one who was trained (as a lawyer) to analyse evidence and arguments. As far as I can judge he tried to be fair to the theology he discussed as it applied to the Jesus of history, the resurrection, the atonement and some of the writings of Bishop John Robinson (Anderson himself was also an Anglican who would go on to be the first chairman of the C of E House of Laity). At the end of the book he writes:

I must confess, that as an academic from another discipline—together, I believe, with a lot of other people who are neither theologians nor ministers of religion—I am becoming increasingly tired of the attitude of mind betrayed by many members of theological faculties and occupants of pulpits. It seems to me of very questionable propriety (I nearly said honesty) for them to cite New Testament texts freely when these texts accord with their own views, but ignore (or even evade) them when they do not; to quote passages from the Bible freely, but give them a meaning and application which I very much doubt if any court of law would regard as what their authors meant or intended; and to make dogmatic assertions about what can, and what cannot, be accepted as authentic or historical without any adequate evidence for these statements. As I said at the beginning of this book, members of theological faculties seem to me to indulge in more mutual contradictions, and more categorical statements about matters which are still wide open to debate, than any other academics. They are, of course, fully entitled to their opinions; but I do wish they would distinguish between theory and fact, and treat their evidence in a fair and responsible way. (Anderson, A Lawyer Among the Theologians, p229)

A long quotation, but it is salutary (at least to me) that this was written fifty years ago. I feel his pain. As another “academic from another discipline” (somewhat further removed from theology compared to Anderson) I confess that, in some of what I have been reading, and in some statements of certain clerics, I have noticed and been equally annoyed at some of the same traits. I hope that in my new studies the worst I could be accused of is treating my evidence in a fair and responsible way.