God is “All of Life”

i always seem to find myself immersed in religious conversations.  Friends, colleagues, acquaintances, and relative strangers–all of them seem to drive discussion toward God, faith, and religious belief.  At some point, I think that this tendency arises from a misunderstanding.  That is, when people find out about my educational background in theological and religious studies, and my professional background as a pastor, they seem to assume that these realities, which I regard as my past, are in fact my present.  This misunderstanding often leads directly into religious conversations, as they seek to pin down precisely who I am.

This week, I had just such a discussion with a neighbor of mine, who happens to be a Hindu.  I had mentioned, prior to this, that I had a BA in Religion, and that I was currently pursuing an MA in Theological Studies, to which she responded with, “You should work in the church!”  In such occasions, I typically avoid any clear or direct response, preferring to leave things obscure and vague so as to avoid any social turmoil.  In this case, however, I was happy to engage in the conversation, as I had never discussed religion with a practicing Hindu.  The conversation went something like this:

I responded to her inquiries into my possible career with the church.  “Despite my interest in the academic study of religion,” I explained, “I no longer feel that I have a place in the church.”  She asked a rather leading question about my still being a Christian, to which I responded, “No, I am not a Christian.”  Then she moved on to an inquiry into my acceptance of a God-beyond-organized-religion.  And once again, I answered negatively–that I do not believe in God.  She took this in stride, and began to shift the conversation away from my beliefs and toward her own.  From what I could gather from our brief engagement, she holds something of a pantheistic belief in God–that God is “all of life.”  That no religion, no name for God, encapsulates the essence of God, and that it is the good in life, the hope and beauty, that most adequately captures what she means by the name “God.”

In response to her interreligious openness, I offered her a hesitant but overall positive response, saying that though I could not claim belief in any sort of literal God-figure, I could ascribe to some bits of the “God-as-life” ideology.  I did not delve further into my own beliefs on the matter, but felt that the initial conversation was a positive moment of mutual connection–a moment in which two people with remarkably different “religious” beliefs came together to mutually affirm one another.

Some of the staunchest proponents of atheism would likely balk at my unwillingness to explicitly state my total disbelief in any sort of external person or force named God.  Some might claim that I misrepresented myself in an effort to create a false sense of agreement with a woman I encounter daily.  And perhaps they are correct; after all, my honest, unqualified answer to her question is simply, “No, I do not believe in God, a god, any god.”  Why, then, did I not simply state my disbelief and leave no ambiguity?

Part of the answer is found in my disinclination toward conflict.  I did not want a conversation to become an argument or a religious debate.  I did want to maintain social cohesion, and so I was willing to take the road of compromise in order to avoid such conflict.  Aside from this, I am also a man of doubt.  I doubt the complete accuracy of my atheistic conclusions.  I do not believe that I hold the absolute truth.  I do not have the answers, do not truly think I will ever hold the final answer.  And so I am, again, willing to entertain ideas foreign to my own ideology, and to “live and let live.”  Though I am rather convinced of its accuracy, I am not certain that atheism is the right answer, the only answer, and so I am comfortable with some sense of ambiguity.  I present myself in ambiguous terms because, ideologically, I live in a haze of ideas, a fog of beliefs where certainty is not an asset but a hindrance to the journey of life.

But mostly, I refused to set myself up as an opponent of faith, to place myself wholly outside the realm of religious belief because, in a sense, I do regard God as “all of life.”  Let me explain.

To me, belief in God comes in two main forms.  There are those who believe that a literal, external force exists in some place, either in or beyond the world of the natural.  And this force is directly, intentionally responsible for the good in life, for the strength to endure hardship, for the good in humanity and in life.  My Hindu friend seems to stand within this camp–believing that there is a Being who sustains the world and brings about the positive.  A force for good, whether called by the name Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, or simply “God.”

Then, there are those who, while rejecting belief in an external force or being, still find the name of God to be a powerful word that can convey a sense of wonder, beauty, hope, and goodness.  That is, rather than regard God as an external force, these folks seem to speak of God as an internal impulse, a drive toward harmony, the capacity for good in the universe.  God is not, in this sense, beyond or even necessarily in the world; instead, God is the goodness within the self.  God is what it means to love, to be fully human, to strive towards goodness.  John Shelby Spong could be an example of this branch of belief.

And I, in my fledgling secularism, still maintain a connection to this latter form of nontheistic belief.  God is not a being, a force, or even a consciousness. God is not a literal reality as I am a reality; nor is God simply beyond the reach of the natural.  Rather, God can be a metaphor for those parts of life which are beyond easy definition.  God is a word I use to give expression to, and indeed cultivate, my sense of wonder and awe.  An idea that gives cohesion to life–that allows one to speak of life in spiritual or mystical terms.  In this way, I can agree with my Hindu friend that the name “God” can be a useful expression for the totality of the human experience.  Not as a definite identity or intentional force, but simply as a way of affirming the goodness of life.  And though we may not agree precisely on what we each conceive of when we say or hear the word “God,” we can at least find a point of connection in our mutual acceptance of the beauty of this life we find ourselves in.  To her, God is a being that encapsulates all of life.  For me, God is a metaphor for the positive acceptance of the totality of life.

And so, I can comfortably let the ambiguity remain.  It may not always be so–I may not always be so open to the use of God-language and mythology to give a sense of wholeness and meaning to life.  But for now, I can choose to place maintenance of relationship above my need to defend my ideology as the only reasonable way.  I can, and prefer to, believe that the worthier fight, in this case, is the fight to stand side-by-side with those who are different from myself, rather than the fight to assert the absolute superiority of my own disbelief in God.

I have a Hindu friend who believes that God is “all of life.”  And I, though an atheist, can somehow agree with such a notion.

The Meaning(s) of Easter

I believe a bit of honesty is necessary at this juncture.  I admit that my motivation in writing this entire Easter series, of which this will be the final post for this season, began with an idea for a single post.  That post (which never saw the light of day) was tentatively entitled “Easter and the Myth of Jesus” or simply “The Easter Myth” and was intended as an atheist reflection on the Resurrection.  At the very least, it was envisioned as a statement of doubt as to the historicity of this crucial event in the life of the Christian movement.  At a deeper level, perhaps, it was a polemic against belief in the Resurrection as something absurd, unreasonable, unfounded.

In one sense, I still feel that way about the Resurrection.  I still believe it is important to be honest about just how mythological this story truly is.  It is a “hero story,” a tale about how one man gives his life up to save the entire world.  It is about one man who is so special that God refuses to leave him dead, but returns him to life so that he can be crowned the cosmic king.  In this sense, the story of Easter absolutely appears to be an ahistorical literary creation–more theology than history.[1] To believe in its literalness requires dozens upon dozens of assumptions, and asks the hearer to believe it with no concrete evidence.  Why, one might ask, should I believe in the story of Jesus’ resurrection and reject the myriad of other resurrection stories found throughout ancient mythology?

However, despite my doubts and criticisms, I believe that the story of Easter is deeper and richer than the literal, historical crowd would like to assert.  In fact, I follow Borg and Crossan when they assert that Easter is better understood, not by asking “Did this really happen?” but by asking, “What does this story mean?”  Scholars like N.T. Wright may believe that the Resurrection is meaningless unless it is truly historical, but I find such an appraisal to be mind-bogglingly shallow.  In fact, I think that a focus upon the factuality of the story–on answering whether it actually happened this way–usually serves to distract one from really understanding what is being said in the Easter narratives.[2]

No, I think Easter meant (and means) something, and this something is not dependent upon a magical event involving the body of Jesus.  (I am, obviously, of the opinion that nothing miraculous happened to the corpse of Jesus, just as nothing miraculous ever happens to corpses–the dead do not come back to life).  It is defining what this something is that provides a window into the meaning(s) of Easter.

What Easter Means

To understand the meaning of Easter, it is important to recognize what the crucifixion meant when it happened.  Modern audiences often celebrate the crucifixion because their theology informs them that it is the most significant event in salvation history.  But for the first followers of Jesus, his death was simply devastating.  One killed himself, the rest scattered.  All of them bemoaned the unexpected loss of their (failed) Messiah.  For these early followers, pre-Easter, the crucifixion was not the moment of triumph that later reflection would make it.  It was the complete and total failure of the would-be Messiah.  They had put their hopes in Jesus, and the crucifixion proved that their hope was misplaced.  As one scholar put it, “[The disciples] bet on the wrong horse.”

Jesus Lives

"Were our hearts not burning...?"

To take the Resurrection stories as literal brings this desperation and sorrow to an abrupt, sudden end.  However, I think that the reality of Christianity’s development was less dramatic.  Slowly, I think, in the weeks and months that followed the death of Jesus, those distraught and defeated followers began to realize (and experience) something that they could only describe in mystical, miraculous, mythological language.  These Jesus followers began to realize that, though Jesus was dead, they still experienced his presence, and in a way more potent and personal than anything they had previously known.  This dawning realization (which is no better illustrated than in the road to Emmaus narrative, Luke 24.13-31) drew them to conclude that something amazing and unbelievable was nevertheless true.  They came to believe that Jesus lives.

The empty tomb and the various appearance stories seem like just that–stories.  They do not match, they do not fit together.  Instead of history remembered, they seem better understood as stories crafted to express one inexpressible, illusive truth (held by these early followers).  Though they saw Jesus die, though they knew he was buried, they came to believe that he was still with them, still alive.  Resurrected.  And this became the first meaning of Easter  Jesus lives.[3]

Messiah and Lord

This experience of Jesus as a still-present (that is, living) reality also served to underline a second layer of Easter meaning.  The death of Jesus had crushed their hopes that he was Messiah; their understanding of “Messiah” did not include death, defeat, or crucifixion (until later).  Thus, his death had seemed to be irrefutable proof that Jesus was not Messiah.  It meant that God was not backing Jesus, and that his message of the kingdom of God was not the way the world really works.  This meant that Rome (and domination systems) won.

However, the Resurrection told these followers that things were not as they appeared to be.  Jesus’ death was not the end of the story.  Jesus had been raised, they claimed, by God, and he was thus proven to be the true Messiah.  The Resurrection was God’s “yes” to Jesus and “no” to Rome.  This is called vindication–and to the early followers, the Resurrection meant God’s vindication of Jesus over those who had killed him.[4] The condemned and executed man was the one whom God sided with; Rome (and imperial oppression) was not.  Jesus resurrection, therefore, meant for his followers that his message (of opposition to Rome and of the present arrival of the kingdom of God) was true.  In this kingdom of God, Jesus was Messiah and Lord.  And if Jesus was Lord, then that meant that Caesar was not.[5]

Though Easter would take on many other meanings (and perhaps some of these meanings were inherent from the beginning)–physical resurrection, the divinity of Jesus, heaven-theology, etc–these two seem to me to be the most foundational beliefs.  The dual statements of “Jesus lives” and “Jesus is Lord,” understood in their historical context, are in very large part the meanings of Easter.  What happened to the corpse of Jesus may be an interesting question, and one that many still focus on as the pivotal question, but to take Easter seriously involves more than belief that one dead fellow literally climbed from his grave.  To take Easter seriously involves what one understands these stories–whether literal or not–to mean.  And for the early Christians, they meant that their Jesus was still alive, and that he was the Lord.

An Atheist Easter Confession

When I began this Easter exercise, it was to distance myself from my abandoned faith.  It was intended to be a cynical, skeptical, anti-Easter tirade.  I am pleasantly surprised, though, to admit that this atheist “observance” of Easter has proven to be a fascinating, enriching encounter with the life and meaning of Jesus (not a personal encounter, though). I may not believe that Jesus lives or that he is Lord, but I do appreciate the passion, the courage, and the message that he was willing to die for.  As always, I find myself terribly impressed and enchanted by the historical figure Jesus of Nazareth (though I may not be so enchanted by the subsequent myth which was created to explain his significance to all humankind).

And though some may find what I have said in this series (and what I will say below) about Jesus as trite, diluted, or impoverished, well… I don’t care!  Jesus seems to me to be fascinating enough without adding on layer-after-layer of miraculous claims and divine language.

For me, the Easter story is not about magical “happenings” and a god-man dying in my place.  It is not about the dead coming back or any of that.  For me, it is not even about the historical Jesus being the king of all the cosmos.  Instead, it is a story about one man who had the courage to stand up to an oppressive, murderous domination system despite the fact that he knew it would likely lead to his death.  It is about the conviction that the powerless are not to be trampled underfoot by the powerful.  And it is about the enduring legacy–the hope–that even at the worst of times, there is something indomitable in the human spirit.  Something that refuses to give up, refuses to let hope die.

The followers of Jesus found such a hope in their crucified Messiah.  And I, at the very least, can say that Jesus is an inspiring example of what is right about humanity.

And so, at the close of this series, I bid you a happy Easter (a little late, I admit).  May your “encounter” with Jesus, whether as a historical figure to be read about and studied, or as a present religious reality engaged through faith, inspire you to value hope, peace, and love in this tumultuous world.

Because, atheist or theist, we should all agree with Jesus:  those who use oppression and violence should not have the last word.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

[1] Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: The Day-by-Day Account of Jesus’s Final Week, eBook, (New York: HarperCollins, 2006), loc. 423.

[2] Borg and Crossan, loc. 425-30.

[3] Borg and Crossan, loc. 457.

[4] Borg and Crossan, loc. 438, 457.

[5] Borg and Crossan, loc. 458.

The Meaning(s) of Easter, Part 4: Participatory Atonement

In the previous post, I endeavored to show that sacrifice, both within first-century Judaism and in Jesus’ own understanding, had little (or nothing) to do with substitution.  That is, for Jesus and his audience, sacrifice was not about one creature dying in place of another so that God would be satisfied.  Unfortunately, in the centuries following the initial Easter event, the notion of substitutionary atonement (of Jesus dying in place of a condemned humanity) has become and remains the dominant interpretation of these narratives.  It is unfortunate because this notion, which is foreign to both Jesus (in Mark, anyway) and Judaism, also seems to mask some important meanings that are present in the Gospel narratives.

If substitionary atonement was not a part of Jesus’ own self-understanding (and his conception of his role in the kingdom of God), the question should be raised about what Jesus sacrifice likely would have meant to Jesus and his audience.  In other words, if substitution is out, what is the sacrifice of Jesus about?

A Call to Discipleship

In Mark, one answer to this question can be found in three successive prophecies in which Jesus “predicts” his impending death and resurrection.  In each of these, Jesus specifically tells his followers that he will die, only to be raised again soon after; and in each instance, his words are met with failure to comprehend.  In these following paragraphs, I do not delve into much detail about the specifics of these passages, nor do I intend to address any questions of historicity (for example, could Jesus see the future?).  Instead, I only highlight on some common features running throughout the three prophecies and what these prophecies reveal about the sacrifice of Jesus.

These three prophecies, found in Mark 8.31-38, 9.31-35, and 10.33-34, all share several common themes.  To begin, all three involve Jesus explaining the road that his journey must take–that is, the way of Jesus, which is a way inevitably leading to death (and through death, resurrection).  And each of his predictions are met with either incomprehension or outright opposition by his followers.  They consistently fail to understand his words; or, even worse, they seek to rebuke Jesus for offering such explanations.  In this, then, we see that the way of Jesus is one that simply does not fit within the mental models these disciples had crafted about their Messiah.  The way of death-to-resurrection was not the way they wanted their leader to take.

Aside from this explanatory nature of the end result of Jesus’ road, each of the prophecies also serves as an invitation to discipleship.  Not only for the Twelve, but also for the crowds, Jesus invites his hearers to join him on the road to Jerusalem, to confrontation with the oppressors and their religious collaborators, and to death and resurrection.  In this way, Jesus uses his prophecies to underline what it means to follow Jesus.  And what it actually means is not something that the disciples want it to mean.

1. In the first prophecy, Jesus explains that his road will lead to his death, then takes the opportunity to invite his audience (any who are willing) to walk with him on the path to the cross.  To take the road into self-sacrifice (to lose their lives, and thus to find them) for the sake of the kingdom vision, and to be prepared in this journey for the likely result–death (Mark 8.34-37).
2. In the second case, Jesus explains that his way is a way that goes against the normalcy of society.  The disciples fight over prestige and places of honor even as Jesus explains that he will suffer and die.  They have failed to understand that his road leads away from the self-aggrandizement and power-plays; it is opposed to the clamoring for power that is displayed by the domination systems and their ilk.  To follow Jesus, then, means to die metaphorically; to become a slave, a child, the last (Mark 9.33-35).
3. Finally, in the third prophecy, Jesus implicitly displays his call to discipleship.  He travels in front of the crowds, and they follow fearfully behind.  In this, he leads his followers toward confrontation and death.  They are right to be afraid, for any who take the road of Jesus will likely face execution by the domination systems he opposes (Mark 10.32).[1]

In these narratives, then, Jesus creates a framework for understanding what it means to follow him (and, indeed, what his own sacrifice means).  It is an invitation, not to a simply religious life of sharing in the post-Easter Jesus, or of basking in the victory that he alone wins on the cross.  Instead, it is a call to a sometimes metaphorical, sometimes literal journey through death to resurrection.  To follow Jesus is to walk with Jesus toward Jerusalem, toward confrontation with “Rome,” and toward the cross–toward death and then resurrection.  It is a call to the cross, not as a religious icon to be bowed before, but as the expected outcome of the discipleship process.  Jesus followers, particularly in Jesus’ own time, should expect a literal death for following the way.

Participatory Atonement

For Mark’s Jesus, then, the road of the disciple is to be understood as participation with Jesus, rather than substitution by Jesus.[2] It is not about Jesus walking the road to Jerusalem alone, facing off against Rome alone, and dying alone on our behalf.  It is about all who would follow Jesus taking this journey with Jesus.  The sacrifice of Jesus is, essentially, a call to all who would respond to engage in a participatory atonement, a communal journey through death to resurrection.

To follow Jesus does not mean believing that the death of a first-century rabbi-activist somehow satisfies God’s hunger for vengeance against a sinful humanity.  To follow Jesus means to risk that final journey with Jesus, to risk standing against imperial domination and violence (and its religious justifications), even knowing that such a journey will likely lead to the disciple’s death.  The sacrifice (and resurrection) of Jesus is not the once-for-all substitution of a righteous man for a sinner; it is the prime example of what following Jesus leads to.[3]

Following Jesus, at least for Mark, is about walking with Jesus through death to resurrection, not simply skipping that painful journey and reaping all the benefits of Jesus’ courage.

————————————————————————————————————————–

[1] Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: The Day-by-Day Account of Jesus’s Final Week, eBook, (New York: HarperCollins, 2006), loc. 217-26.

[2] Borg and Crossan, loc. 236.

[3] Borg and Crossan, loc. 229.

The Meaning(s) of Easter, Part 3: Sacrifice

Somehow, through the centuries, the meaning of sacrifice in Judaism (and particularly the death of Jesus) became muddled and confused.  With the invention of various “theories of atonement,” later Christians cast back their perceptions, forcing them onto a system in which they did not belong.  This has led to widespread misunderstanding as to what sacrifice in Judaism (and perhaps the sacrifice of Jesus) was really about.

Commonly, sacrifice in Christianity is described with two features that would not have belonged to it in its first-century manifestation:

1. Sacrifice is amplified by the suffering of the animal or person being sacrificed, and
2. Sacrifice is about one being (animal or person) dying so that another will not have to.

The real meaning of Judaic sacrifice is now almost totally foreign to Christian ideology.

In regards to Jesus, the story of Easter Friday is often presented with these two preconceptions in mind.  That is, many Easter services relish in the suffering of Jesus, presenting the entire event as if the suffering makes it somehow more advantageous, acceptable to God, and meaningful.  And, many Christian theologies operate out of the assumption that Jesus died in place of everyone else.  To put it bluntly, these theologies suggest that God needed a body, either Jesus’ or ours; and Jesus supplied that body so that God would not have to kill us.  In this post, I’ll just take a moment to discuss the setting in which ideas about Jesus being a sacrifice arose, and challenge the above misconceptions.  This will, hopefully, prepare the way for a different understanding of the sacrifice of Jesus.

Jewish Priests Were Great Butchers

To begin, its important to understand that, in Judaism, sacrifice was never about causing the sacrificial animal to suffer.  The way some talk about religious sacrifice, one might get the picture that the goal of the sacrifice was to torture the sacrificial animal (or Jesus) as long and as horrifically as possible, and that this suffering somehow sweetened the deal.  But, in Judaism, the officials in charge of sacrifices were great butchers; they knew how to kill a sacrificial animal quickly and with as little pain as possible.  They were not accustomed to beating sacrifices mercilessly, stabbing them in painful but nonfatal places, or any of that.  They sacrificed because, in their religious system, it had to be done; but they did not “revel” in the slaughter.  So, sacrifice in the story of Jesus is not about suffering, and the fact that the Roman executioners flogged and abused Jesus does not contribute in the least to his identity as the sacrificial lamb.  Reveling in the suffering of Jesus, as film, popular literature, and sermons are fond of doing, is an act of emotional manipulation intended to elicit a certain response.  It has nothing to do with Judaic sacrifice (which is the framework through which early Christians would have interpreted the death of Jesus).[1]

When Any Body Will Do

Another problematic interpretation that is often cast back upon the situation of Jesus’ death is what is commonly known as the “substitutionary” atonement.  Simply put, this is the belief that Jesus’ death occurred in place of the believer’s own death.  Underlying this belief is the idea that our sins make us deserving of death, and that God demands blood as repayment.  However, being a “kind and loving” God, this God is willing to take the life of another in place of our own.  Such an interpretation would surely have been foreign to both Jesus and his audience, as first-century Judaism did not conceive of sacrifice in terms of substitution.  To quote Borg and Crossan,

Offerers never thought that the animal was dying in their place; that they deserved to be killed in punishment for their sin, but that God would accept the slain animal as substitutionary atonement or vicarious satisfaction.

Unfortunately, subsequent Christian theologians have made this concept of substitution the near-exclusive manner of interpreting the death of Jesus.  But to both Jesus and his early followers, their religious system would not have given them this sort of interpretation, either of their animal sacrifices nor of Jesus’ own death.[2]

In fact, I would warrant that Jesus’ teachings actually contradict this ideology.  For Jesus, his death was not conceived of (at least in the Markan Jesus) as being a “once for all” sacrifice which exempted the believer from taking this last journey (the journey to the cross) with Jesus.  As we shall address in a later post, the call of Jesus’ discipleship was precisely a call to follow him to the cross.  His death was not a free pass so that Jesus-followers would not have to die; death was, instead, the expected result of the form of discipleship he invited his followers to undertake.

What Sacrifice Really Meant

So, sacrifice in Judaism was never about either suffering or substitution.  They would have taken sacrifice for granted–as a way of life, so to speak–but with a vastly different manner of interpreting that “given.”  Instead of being about the pain of the animal or the death offered in place of one’s own, their primary framework for understanding sacrifice was through their conception of the way one creates, maintains, and restores good relationship (both with each other and with the Divine).  And for these ancient cultures, the way to ensure good relationship with their neighbors and with their Deity was through the gift and the meal.  To ensure proper relationship with God/gods, the people could offer a gift, or they could share a (symbolic) meal.

As a gift, the sacrifice was completely burned up, totally destroyed as far as the offerer was concerned, so that it would only be accessible by the Deity.  The smoke and smell rising from the burnt offering “transferred” the gift to the realm of the God/gods.  And as a meal, the animal’s blood was poured onto the altar as God’s portion, and then the meat of the animal was returned to the offerer as a divine meal to be shared with God.  God received the blood, and then “invited” the offerer (through the returning of the meat) to dine with God.[3]

This understanding–sacrifice as gift and meal–was the primary means by which Jesus and his audience would have interpreted sacrifice.  This does not mean, of course, that the New Testament or Jesus would have been unable to conceive of his sacrifice in other terms (substitutionary terms).  However, it should cause one to pause before insisting that “substitutionary atonement” is the way, and the only way, in which Jesus and his followers would have thought about his death.  Indeed, I have trouble believing that substitution was even a way in which the historical Jesus would have understood his own role in the kingdom of God.

————————————————————————————————————–

[1] Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: The Day-by-Day Account of Jesus’s Final Week, eBook, (New York: HarperCollins, 2006), loc. 97.

[2] Borg and Crossan, loc. 97.

[3] Borg and Crossan, loc. 94-99.  The point Borg and Crossan seek to make is that Jesus’ actions in the Temple have nothing to do with a rejection of blood sacrifice.  It was commonplace in his day, a necessary aspect of his religion. 

The Meaning(s) of Easter, Part 2: A Den of Robbers

In the Markan narrative, the second day of Holy Week contains two stories about Jesus:  the first is one of the most troublesome (and one I never liked), and the second is one of my favorite narratives.  The former is the story of Jesus’ cursing of a fruitless fig tree, and the latter is the poorly named “cleansing of the Temple.”  Briefly, it seems advantageous to recount these stories.

A Petulant Tantrum? (Mark 11.12-14)

A fig tree, or so says the file name.

After Jesus’ demonstrative entry into Jerusalem the former day, he and his disciples retire to Bethany for the night.  The following morning, as they are heading back into Jerusalem (as we will see, to the Temple), Jesus becomes hungry.  Seeing a fig tree “in leaf” he hurries over to it.  However, upon reaching it, he finds that it has no fruit.  The Gospel writer tells us specifically why this is so:  there is no fruit because “it was not the season for figs.”  Now, despite the fact that it was not the season for figs, and despite the fact that Jesus would have known that it was not the season for figs, he does something that at first glance seems only to be a messianic tantrum.  He curses the fig tree to never bear fruit again.  (And, the next day, his disciples confirm that his curse worked; the fig tree withers to its very roots).

This is one of my least favorite passages about Jesus because it seems to cast him in a very negative light.  He reminds the careless reader (that is, one who has not done any real “homework” on Markan literature) of a petulant and selfish child.  Jesus is hungry, he finds a fig tree, and then when the fig tree has no fruit (because it is not the season for its fruit), he becomes overly dramatic, throws a little tantrum, and curses the tree to die.  He wants figs, dammit!  And if he cannot have those, then he is going to teach that tree a lesson!  As we will see later, such a literal reading is flawed because this story really has nothing to do with figs and fig trees.

Jesus, the Badass (Mark 15-19)

Before we get to the explanation of this first story, however, it is necessary to give a cursory glance at one of my favorite Jesus stories.  After leaving the fig tree, Jesus and his followers head straight to the Temple.  There, he begins driving out the money changers, the merchants, the animal sellers; he also flips tables and generally acts like a total badass.  He prevents anyone from carrying any sort of merchandise through the temple courts, and begins teaching those who are around him.  In a line that has been misunderstood, misused, and generally adored, Jesus says:

Is it not written: “‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’?  But you have made it a ‘den of robbers.'”(11.17)

(Obviously, he’s quoting scripture; that is why the verse, translated into English, is such a mess of quotation marks).  Well, his actions and his words do not please the religious authorities, so they try to figure out a way to kill him.  They cannot, of course, because the “whole crowd was amazed at his teaching.”  Remember that:  the whole crowd is on Jesus’ side.

A Symbolic Action to Explain a Real One

At first glance, these stories seem unrelated.  In fact, until reading the insights of biblical scholars much more accomplished and informed than I, it never occurred to me that these two events were supposed to be linked.  However, that is exactly the case.  The cursing of the fig tree and Jesus’ actions in the Temple are a pair of stories that are intentionally written to interpret one another (this is one of Mark’s common framing techniques in his Gospel; he writes about seemingly unconnected events and expects his audience to connect them).  In this case, Mark writes of a seemingly childish Jesus’ interaction with a fig tree and then expects his readers to gather meaning from this event to explain what follows (the Temple activity).  And then, after it all, he concludes with a return to the first event to add a little more meaning (in Mark 11.20-25, we find just such a return, as the disciples find the withered fig tree the next day).[1]

Mark begins his framework with a story about a fig tree, which intentionally emphasizes two contradictory points, those being:

1. It is not the season for figs.
2. Jesus is hungry and wants figs.

According to Borg and Crossan, these contradictory elements should clue the reader in that what is happening here is symbolic, rather of historical.  (As a historical narrative, it is about a somewhat dense and abusive Jesus; but as symbol, it is a rather scathing critique of fruitless religion).  And what is happening?  Jesus comes to the fig tree expecting something, finds it a failure and destroys it.  This framing tells us that what comes next is not a symbolic “cleansing of the Temple,” but rather a symbolic destruction of the Temple.  For Jesus comes to the Temple expecting to find “fruit” (just as he had come to the fig tree) and instead finds a ‘den of robbers.’  So, like the fig tree, he “destroys” the Temple for its lack of fruit.  The one story interprets the other.[2]

The Problem with the Temple

Throughout the centuries, many have mistakenly interpreted Jesus’ actions in the Temple as a condemnation of Judaism, animal sacrifice, the priesthood, the Jews–pretty much anything they could think of.  But this was not an action intended to condemn Judaism, the priesthood as a whole, the Temple, animal sacrifice, or the Jewish people.  The situation was very complex (so I will again invite you to read Borg and Crossan’s book for more information, as cited below), but what Jesus was railing against is a corrupt ruling high-priesthood (who were “in the pockets” of Rome), and the Temple as the seat for Roman power in Judea.  Jesus was standing against the corruption that had taken root in the most holy site of Jewish faith; and Jesus could very much stand against the abuses of the system without also condemning the meaning of the system itself.  That is, Jesus was against what was going wrong in the Temple; he was not against the Temple itself (or Judaism, or the priesthood, etc).[3]

Misunderstanding “Den of Robbers”

Without mention of justice, we're not talking about the same Jesus.

Many have also taken Jesus’ quotation about the “house of prayer” becoming a “den of robbers,” without much thought, to mean that the money changers and animal sellers were robbing people blind in the Temple.  But this phrase, ‘den of robbers’ (which comes from Jeremiah 7) clearly refers to something else. In the Jeremiah passage, the ‘den of robbers’ is not the place where robbers do their robbing; instead, it is the place where robbers go once they have finished robbing, in order to find sanctuary, a hiding place, a getaway. The ‘den of robbers,’ for both Jeremiah and Jesus, is the refuge to which robbers go once they have finished their injustice.[4]

This usage of Jeremiah by Jesus recalls a theme of Jeremiah: the people are guilty of committing injustice in their daily lives, and then running to the Temple for worship.  They foolishly believe that their daily injustices outside of the Temple are cleansed or overshadowed by their pious worship within the Temple.  They have substituted worship for justice, and this makes them “robbers.”  The Temple is the place where these robbers run to feel safe; but both Jeremiah’s prophetic words in ch. 26 and Jesus’ symbolic action in Mark make it clear:  your hideaway is not safe; it will be destroyed if you do not practice justice and worship, or even justice over worship.[5] This is the message that Jesus brings to the Temple in his activity.  It is not some vague condemnation of the priesthood, sacrifices, the Temple itself, or Judaism as a whole.  It is a critique of religion that ignores justice but still believes that its worship is efficacious.

So, here again in his Temple activities (and the symbolic fig tree narrative), Jesus condemns both the Roman domination system (and all domination systems, which practice oppression, exploitation, and injustice), and religious collaboration with it.  Jerusalem, the Temple, and God’s people were to be people of justice; and any religious system that used worship as a substitute for justice would not have a place in the kingdom of God.[6]  This is the meaning (or at least, a significant part of the meaning) behind the activites of Jesus in the second day of Holy Week.

See, I told you there was a lot more to this Easter stuff than messianic prophecies and religious dogma.

———————————————————————————————————————

[1] Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: The Day-by-Day Account of Jesus’s Final Week, eBook, (New York: HarperCollins, 2006), loc. 86.

[2] Borg and Crossan, loc. 91-2.

[3] Borg and Crossan, loc. 92-3, 105, 110.

[4] Borg and Crossan, loc. 113.

[5] Borg and Crossan, loc. 113-7.

[6] Borg and Crossan, loc. 134.

The Meaning(s) of Easter, Part 1: A Political Demonstration

A Journey Through Holy Week

Holy Week, and particularly the weekend that concludes it, is perhaps the most significant occasion in the life of the Christian community.  Christmas may have its songs, pageants, and infantile savior; but Easter contains the vitality and power, the heart of the Christian story.  The events of Holy Week entice the emotional reverence of the Christian more than any other holiday.  It is also Holy Week, as reported in the Gospels, that provides us with some of the most meaningful, powerful, and evocative teachings and symbolic actions of Jesus.  Unfortunately, this wealth of meaning has often been misunderstood, if not completely ignored, in favor of an Easter fixated around death and resurrection.

There is much more to Easter than the crucifixion and empty tomb.  Now, I realize that for some atheists, even mentioning Jesus’ name in a positive way is an act of betrayal to the cause.  But, even as a secularist I find the actions and teachings of Jesus (which inevitably brought about his execution as a traitor to Rome) to be revolutionary, important, and worth talking about.  So it is that I mark Holy Week with a series of posts about the forgotten, misunderstood, and under-emphasized content of the final week of Jesus’ life.[1]

Though I may not accept the resurrection as a historical reality, nor believe in Jesus as the Son of God, I nevertheless find his life and teaching to be compelling and transformative.  This is my attempt, as a secularist no less, to walk with Jesus on his final journey through the streets of Jerusalem–to see as he sees, to understand the world through his eyes, and to hear something of the ideas and beliefs which filled his life with passion and purpose.  Welcome to Holy Week.

Two Processions

Palm Sunday marks the beginning of the compelling narratives and teachings of Holy Week.  On this day, almost two-thousand years ago (according to the chronology of Mark, which is almost surely liturgical rather than historical), two processions entered Jerusalem.  From the east, Jesus and his followers were entering the city from the Mount of Olives.  From the West, Pontius Pilate and his troop of Roman soldiers were marching with the glory of Rome.

It does not seem so political in stained glass. But it was.

It was Passover, and as always, Rome was reinforcing Jerusalem in case of rebellion.  Passover was always a tense time, with high tempers.  The Judeans gathered en masse in the city for one of their most significant celebrations, and some were hoping to cast off the burden of foreign rule.  And Rome was preparing, year after year, to stomp out any uprisings with the unrelenting hand of the empire.  So it was that Pontius Pilate came to the city, to station himself and his small army near the Temple mount, just in case.  They came with banners flying the symbols of Rome, and shields glinting in the sun.  To the Judeans, they represented oppression, the travesty of the promised land being ruled by a foreign empire that did not worship Yahweh. They were power, military might, violence; a force ready and willing, sometimes with violent brutality, to suppress the Judean hope for independence.

On the other side of the city, Jesus was fully aware of Pilate and his soldiers’ arrogant march through the holy city.  Some fail to see the connection between Jesus’ “triumphal entry” and the march of Pilate (likely because few outside of academia have heard about the typical Roman behavior during Passover); but Jesus was not unaware of the situation.  And his entry into the city was an intentional counter to the actions of the Roman authority.  Jesus enters humbly, seated upon a donkey–a counter-symbol to the abusive power and violent pride of Roman rule.  He entered to the sound of celebration and praises to God.  Pilate entered as the symbol of an oppressive government; Jesus enters in a nonviolent act of resistance to that oppression.[2]

Standing Against Domination

Though Christian theology and popular faith often remain rather silent about Jesus’ political message, one should make no mistake:  Jesus was extremely political.  Specifically, Jesus spoke often and extremely critically of the most common form of social system in his time (known as the pre-industrial agrarian domination system).  His actions on Palm Sunday mark the beginning of an indictment against this system which will remain a constant feature of his last week.  Indeed, it is this conflict, between Jesus and Rome (and all such oppressive government types), which would lead to Jesus’ crucifixion as a revolutionary.

Now, to understand why Jesus stood against domination systems, it is important to understand the three common features of all such societal types. The three common features are:

1. Political oppression.  In such a society, the many are ruled by the few elite.  There is no “voice of the people,” only the dictates of the powerful minority.
2. Economic exploitation.  Most of the wealth is centralized in a small percentage of the population.  Through land ownership, taxation, and indentured servitude, the few were able to gather into their coffers the bulk of the society’s money.
3. Religious legitimation.  Religious language assures everyone that this “domination system” is the way that things are supposed to be.  It is, in other words, ordained by God.  Such religious legitimation helps keep the oppressed in their place, as rebellion would mean an assault on God/gods’ will.[3]

Just such a social system had taken root in Israel, and it was centered in Jerusalem (and in the Temple itself, actually).  Rome ruled in conjunction with the religious authorities, and those in power were absolutely powerful and incredibly wealthy. Though Rome ruled with military might, the religious leaders worked in close cooperation with the foreign rulers.  It was this situation which brought out the brunt of Jesus’ passion and anger.  Pilate marches as a preventive to rebellion; Jesus “marches” as a demonstration against domination.

Palm Sunday, Jesus Sets the Tone

Thus, here on Palm Sunday, we begin our particularly political journey with Jesus.  A journey which starts with a counter-procession aimed directly at the ruling elite, and one which will bring Jesus and his followers into direct confrontation with the violent and unmerciful domination system.  It is a road marked with demonstration, nonviolent resistance, and ultimately death (and for the Christian, resurrection).

Such an understanding of Palm Sunday may seem foreign, since most common interpretive frameworks emphasize the “Son of David” and messianic/religious tones of the event; but a responsible biblical reader should recognize that these events were also a planned political demonstration.  Specifically, Jesus’ counter-procession offered an alternative vision of what society should be.  Rome offered violence, oppression, and military might; Jesus offered the kingdom of God.[4]

Despite comments by some who want to marginalize Jesus to the merely religious sphere, it is undeniable that Jesus’ actions during Holy Week, beginning here on Palm Sunday, were a scathing critique against all systems which seek to hold oppressive power, practice economic exploitation, and attempt to justify themselves through a variety of religious and secular ideologies.  Palm Sunday, it seems, means much more than peasants celebrating a heaven-focused messiah.

————————————————————————————————-

[1] It should be noted that I do not agree wholeheartedly with everything Jesus taught.  Even more so, I agree with very little of what the church has done with this religious figure since his death.  So, as a warning:  my attempt to give audience to Jesus during Holy Week does not preclude my ability to offer criticism of the theological and historical problems with the Easter myth.  I am not a Christian, so I have no hesitation expressing my disagreement with the theological mess that, even for Christians, often obscures completely the historical teachings of Jesus.  I will try to be fair and charitable with my criticism, but it is very likely that some of my comments will offend some readers.

[2] Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: The Day-by-Day Account of Jesus’s Final Week, eBook, (New York: HarperCollins, 2006), loc. 17-20.  Any reader interested in more information about the final week of Jesus’ life should definitely read The Last Week, by Borg and Crossan.

[3] Borg and Crossan, loc. 29-31.

[4] Borg and Crossan, loc. 23-4.

Shut Up, Glenn!

Recently, Glenn Beck decided to offer a bit of “advice” to his listeners concerning their faith communities and social justice.  Here’s a clip:

Social justice is code for communism.  And those institutions that seek to achieve more social justice (i.e. help the poor, seek to combat those systems which keep people in poverty, etc) are simply trying to convert America into the new Communist Russia.  In fact, social justice is actually a perversion of the Gospel.

Say, what?!  Perhaps you should read a Gospel, Mr. Beck.  You do not have to read them all, Glenn, because that would sort of break your routine of making sure you know nothing about the topics you speak on.  But you could at least read one and get some idea of what Jesus was about.

The Real “Good News”

The reason I bring up Glenn Beck’s idiotic ramblings is because, even as an atheist it strikes me as particularly absurd and misguided.  I might be able to get on board if you claimed that the God of the Bible is an immoral monster, or that Atonement soteriology is beyond absurd, or that the Bible is a collection of ahistorical myths.  Most of those things, I agree, do make for pretty bad churches.  But to claim that it is social justice which makes a particular church bad–now that is absolutely ridiculous.

I hold no love for Christianity.  But I have nothing but admiration for those forms of Christianity which insist upon social justice as the central priority of the movement (and its founder).  There are some remarkably good things happening in the world because some Christians have taken seriously the call of Jesus to be with the poor, to care for the poor, and to challenge those systems and institutions which perpetuate the cycle of oppression and poverty.  Glenn Beck thinks that these are the bad churches?  What inanity will flow from his mouth next?

We may disagree about whether Christianity is true or not.  And, in virtually every other aspect (morally, cosmologically, etc), I may think that Christianity is a mess of contradictions, prejudices, and outdated antiquities.  But the emphasis on solidarity with the poor that some (certainly not all) Christianities display is one aspect that even I can agree is worth practicing.

I may not have many nice things to say about the church or the theology that it crafted over the centuries.  And I may not agree with the Christian that Jesus is “the way, the truth, and the life.”  But what I can say is that the Christian message (and pursuit) of social and economic justice is something that even an atheist can agree with.  I am not a Christian, but I would gladly stand behind Jesus in his pursuit of a better world for the “least of these.”

Social justice is not “code” for communism.  It is the best of American identity, Christian faith, and human empathy.  So, just this once… shut up, Glenn.

The Atheist Pastors, Part 1: Fear

Recently, American philosopher Daniel Dennett and clinical social worker Linda LaScola published an article on the “problem” of clergy who do not believe.  (That is, people who remain in a pastoral role despite the fact that they do not believe in the central tenets of Christianity, the existence of God, etc).  The study itself can be found here, with panel discussion and further inquiry here.

I find the issue of pastoral disbelief to be a fascinating topic, mainly because I, myself, could once have been classified as an atheist pastor.  From September through December of 2008, I was employed by a church, preached sermons, led worship, and carried on Bible studies despite the fact that I was a self-proclaimed atheist (though my proclamation of this was rather secretive, only shared with a few close friends).

I encourage you to read the article yourself as I will not regurgitate the content of it here.  However, I will parrot one of the questions that Dennett and LaScola sought to answer:  Why?  Why do they continue to pastor even after their beliefs have vanished?

Why We Remain

As the interviews indicate, there are many reasons why those who do not share the overall theological or cosmological worldview of the Christian religion would nevertheless choose to remain a leader in the church. The feeling that their work, despite being somewhat hypocritical, is nevertheless meaningful and positive is a strong incentive to remain.  There is a strong social aspect, as pastors are typically fairly isolated from the non-believing community–that is, their closest friends are in the church.  Also, the work and dedication necessary to make it through undergraduate and seminary education seems wasted if one were to leave.  And, I know this is particularly true of me, there are simply not many meaningful careers available to the seminary educated student who does not desire work in a faith-based institution.  (I work at Kmart, for crying out loud; and this is in no way meaningful work that utilizes the skills and knowledge I gained in my higher learning endeavors).  There is a deep sense that everything the pastor has worked for over his life is simply abandoned, forsaken, and wasted by separating from the pastoral role.  Thus, it is a tough choice to leave; and it seems like a better alternative to remain and pretend.

However, I think the main reason why disbelieving clergy remain, and one shared by all five interviewees (and myself) is fear.

Fear, the Greatest Hindrance to Honesty

I cannot speak for the interviewees, but I believe their extensive quotes within the study speak clearly enough.  So, rather than repeat what they were afraid of, I will relay why I was afraid to leave the pastoral role.

1.  Fear of failure.

Those who have been inculcated into the church commonly share a mentality in which belief is the ultimate success and virtue, and disbelief is failure, surrender, or cowardice.  There is an unspoken agreement among many people of faith that they are better than the unbeliever because they have faith–they are closer to the truth, their morality is (at the very least) granted to them by the Divine Judge, etc.  Certainly, this was the view that my time in church cultivated within me.  Though often couched in terms of compassion (“It’s so sad that they do not have God to lean on.  They must be miserable”) and concern (“Lord, be with Mark.  The Devil has deluded him so that he cannot even see you’re real”), the underlying assumption is that those without faith are unhappy, in desperate need of help, deceived or deluded by evil itself, and are persons to be pitied.

These ideas saturate Christian missiology, with the assumption that bringing faith to people somehow rescues them from their horrible existence in non-belief.  And I found that, despite the fact that I did not believe in God at all, these ideas still held me powerfully.  I felt as if admitting what I was to anyone but myself (and a few open-minded friends) would be tantamount to admitting that I was a failure.  That I did not have that special quality that allowed believers to hold on to faith.  No one wants to feel like a failure, and so it is often easier to simply pretend and continue to receive the support and acclaim of people who think your faith is what makes you special.

2.  Fear of disappointing others.

Tied directly to this personal need to feel special or successful, there is a pressure to keep faking it so that no one gets hurt.  Obviously, such a lie (if ever discovered) will likely cause more hurt than would initial honesty, but most people would rather put off pain as long as possible.  When people tell you, “Your faith is so inspiring to me” or “Your faith makes me want to get into this God-stuff,” it is incredibly difficult to respond, “Well, my faith is all bullshit.”  Fear of disappointing others by admitting what one really thinks about Christianity is not an easy fear to overcome.  There is this looming sense that your faith (or non-faith) will have direct consequences upon those you minister to.  And whether this turns out to be egotism (I must be important!) or not, it is nevertheless an inhibition to honesty.

For me, the only person I did not want to disappoint was the head pastor, my close friend.  He had invested so much into me, had supported me from the start, and had always been willing to go to bat for me when my latest program was met with hostility that it seemed like the ultimate betrayal to tell him, “I quit.”  I was afraid that my unbelief would be interpreted as a message that all his work was in vain.  I thought it more compassionate to lie to everyone else than risk hurting him.  And so, for a long time, that’s exactly what I did.

3.  Fear of abandonment by family and social networks.

When I initially started expressing openly the questions I had, and the things I had learned in seminary, I was faced with censure, opposition, and open hostility.  Though I doubt many of them would admit it (perhaps they do not even know that this is how they were perceived), many of my Christian friends reacted against me with such open animosity that I could not help but feel villainous.  My initial experiments with “coming out” (except in a few cases, and I thank those individuals for their openness and candor) were not pleasant.  I lost a lot of friends who I had once considered to be as close as family.  And, though I am not blameless, I do feel that many of these good Christian people chose their devotion to God (and to a certain doctrinal perspective) over compassion for their fellow human being.  So, in my mind, being open about my atheism became tied directly to abandonment by my social network.

Still, it was not the loss of friends which frightened me most.  I could make new friends.  But what prevented me from leaving the church and being openly atheist was the thought, “What if my family reacts the way my friends did?”  What if my loss of faith had the same alienating affect on those who I count on most for support–my parents, my brother?  It was, for me, the third fear which, for a long time, left me feeling trapped.  Even when I felt confident that I could handle the stresses of feeling like a failure and of disappointing the head pastor and those in the church I cared very much for, I still could not convince myself that the risk of losing my family was worth it.

Eventually, the anguish of living a lie proved to be too much to bear.  I had to get out because the play-acting (the sermons and worship and prayers) left me feeling drained, isolated, and terribly depressed.  Emotionally and intellectually, I reached the point of saying, “This is ridiculous.  I cannot continue to pretend that this is who I am; it is ripping me apart, and it is making me miserable.”  And so, I walked head-long into my fears, uncertain whether they would turn out to be justified, and quit the church.

I quit, but others have much more to lose than I.  There are noble reasons to stay, and there are also horrible risks to leaving.  Others may be ready to throw stones, to claim that these pastors are liars, hypocrites, and the downfall of “true” Christianity.  But for me, I have nothing but empathy for their situation.  And I will not fault them for their choices, even if they never leave the pastorate.

A “Spiritual” Biography, as Interpreted Through Blogs

It has certainly been an interesting couple of years.  Since the close of 2008, my “spiritual life” (for lack of a better, more convenient term) has transitioned from liberal Christian pastor to militant anti-theist rabble-rouser, to quasi-mystical secularist with deep interest in redefining faith (particularly Christian faith), to interreligious sojourner-Buddhist.  And now, some year and a half after my initial deconversion (which was the real catalyst for all the turmoil and change), I find myself again standing on the side of disbelief.  What is one to make of such a tumultuous journey?!

Religious.

If I may offer my interpretation of the road my life has taken:  I believe the journey, which can be traced through various blogs (from Red Radar Alert > Unfound Places (UP), Part 1 > The City Sleeps > In Our Shoes > UP, Part 2), reveals the dissolution of a seemingly coherent religious worldview when faced with what I would term “overwhelming” contradictory evidence, and the subsequent rebuilding of a life, post-faith.  That is, my theistic worldview came face to face with biblical, psychological, philosophical, and scientific evidence which seemed to directly undermine its primary teachings, and in the process a choice was necessarily made.  Now, certainly, I could have simply shut my eyes to the findings of evolutionary biology, physics, secular philosophy, and astronomy and continued to pretend that my Christian faith made perfect logical sense.  However, such would seem to me to be intellectually dishonest at best.  So, I did what I had to do:  with the intellectuality of my religious worldview substantially compromised, and with my own emotional ties to the faith dissolved as well, I cast off from myself all the religion that had nurtured me as a child and young adult.

I did so with great pain and regret, by the way.  Certainly, I wished that God and Jesus and the whole lot of Christian theology were true (well, maybe not the whole lot).  But I could no longer maintain those positions and maintain what I considered to be intellectual integrity.  Thus, I began my UP, Part 1 phase–the angry anti-theist.  In this phase, I was the newly deconverted, the bitter atheist hungry for revenge!  Religion had failed me, and I was not going to let it get away with such cruelty!

Stepping beyond God.

Needless to say, the contents of my writing during this period were of a decidedly adversarial (perhaps even caustic) format.  I had it out for theism, particularly the Christian faith.  During this period, one can no doubt find traces of the (tired) atheist arguments which still abound in popular media (and among forum trolls).  This is not to suggest that such arguments are not persuasive to me (obviously they are, since I consider myself an atheist); but it is to say that my thoughts during this period were ever-bent toward toppling the system(s) of religion.  And working behind the scenes, unknown to me of course, were deeply psychological and emotional wounds that needed resolution.  To put it frankly, I was that atheist who did not believe in God, but hated him none-the-less!  (My sincerest apologies to all you atheists for whom this is not true, but who nevertheless have to face such a ridiculous charge because of people like me).

Despite the sense of liberation freedom from religion provided me, I was bitter, and my bitterness trapped me in feelings of depression and meaninglessness.  Once I became aware of my bitterness, my anger with “God” (which was so kindly pointed out to me by my good friend, Scott), I began down a different road.  The road toward healing, of these “psycho-motional” wounds, led me to reconsider my reasons for aligning myself with atheism.  And I found that those reasons, though definitely spurred on by the intellectual arguments against theism, were driven mainly by anger.  God had hurt, even failed me; and so I would seek to hurt in return.  Such an awakening to my own childish response brought me to a second question:  was there some form of spirituality that I could ascribe to?  And thus was born The City Sleeps.

Creating faith.

Mainly under the influence of thinkers such as Rebecca Ann Parker, Rita Nakashima Brock, Mystical Seeker, and especially John Shelby Spong, The City Sleeps was my brief but, I think, intensely fruitful experiment with mysticism and the re-creation of faith.  In it, I began to weave together the tendencies of that religious boy of my youth with the somewhat jaded and cynical secularist I had become.  And I found that, yes, I could ascribe to something of a “spiritual/mystical” life (though stripped of its supernatural, interventionist, and literalist religious conventions).  Looking back, I realize that I was playing fast-and-loose with language, using the word “God” for something that, in most peoples’ minds, had nothing to do with God.  But, in the process, I recovered a sense of wholeness, a sense of wonder and awe, and a sense of the transcendent qualities of life.  In no way can I say that I was any sort of religious “believer” at the time, but I can assert that I was not a strict atheist.  Certainly, I was nothing of the anti-theist that I had been.

Once I had moved into the mystical and separated myself somewhat from the Christian orthodoxy of my previous religious experience, I found that I was absolutely enthralled with religion.  Not so much with the strict practice, mythology, or explanatory functions of religion, but with religion as a social construct–as a human institution.  To put it frankly, I liked studying religion!  And with no faith commitments of my own, I found that it was high time I began experiencing something of the content that non-Christian religions had to offer.  And so I came to the, I thought, radical idea that birthed In Our Shoes.  Why couldn’t I, a non-theist with a deep interest in religion but no formal commitments to one, seek to walk in the shoes of the “other?”  Why not become a Buddhist for a while, or a Hindu, or a Muslim?  Just three short months ago, I publicly undertook this journey of faith(s), and declared myself a Buddhist.

And now we’ve returned to our old atheist stomping grounds, UP.  My being here, writing again, should be indicative to you that (yet) another transition has occurred.  It was in the course of my explorations at In Our Shoes that I began to recognize that something fundamental about my temperament and outlook had changed over these past eighteen months.  The religious answers no longer held much sway over me.  (Indeed, the religious questions, too, had lost some of their importance).  Not only this, but I found that my curiosity about the universe (and myself) seemed better satisfied by the pursuits of the natural sciences–physics, biology, astronomy–than by the myths and moral instructions of religion.  I was still interested in religion, to be sure; but it had lost for me that sense of wonder and inspiration that had once drawn me to it.  Something had truly broken during my time in exile (mainly, my ability to accept ancient teachings as relevant universal truths).  And, with some sense of finality and calm (and humor), I told my partner, “Well, it seems likely that I really am just an atheist after all.”  (By the way, I still intend to carry on with In Our Shoes because I find it to be an interesting exercise, and I still think that its goal of cultivating deeper empathy for those of varying faiths is a worthy one).

Religion: It's not for me.

So what can be said of my journey from faith to disbelief to (modified) faith to (modified) disbelief?  Nothing, perhaps, except that it has been transformative.  I had been a Christian because it was all that I knew–from my parents, my culture, and my social network–and because it was emotionally helpful for me to be so.  Once those bonds had weakened (the first from experiencing the world as “my own person,” and the second from experiences which led me to conclude that my watchful God was not so watchful), I turned a bitter, tear-streaked face toward anti-theism.  With time, I was able to move beyond my fear and pain and embrace a healthier view of spirituality, and a more generous appraisal of religion.  And now, I have made peace with the fact that religion, for all that it may benefit, is likely untrue and is almost certainly not for me (whatever the truthiness of religion may prove to be).

I have reawakened, as it were, to the fact that I am no longer a religious person, and have no desire to be such.  I am an atheist, and I think that the universe is a magnificent, mystical, awe-inspiring place to be, even without God.  I am amazed at the beauty I see around me, and I want to spend my life studying this great mystery we find ourselves in, without appealing to the convenient but untested “God-did-it” philosophy.

Perhaps this pendulum will swing again one day.  But whatever may come, I can rest assured that my writings as a theist, an anti-theist, a mystic, a Buddhist, and an atheist will one day resurface to ensure that no one, religious or secular, takes me seriously.

The universe awaits, my friends!

And They Shall Read, 2010

In continuation of the theme from last year (which quickly became the only updated page on this site), I will renew my self-challenge to increase my annual reading.  Last year, the goal was an unreasonable fifty books, of which I only managed thirty.  Yet, this provided me with something of a gauge by which to set this year’s goal.

Of course, by now (some three months into the year), I find myself already far, far behind my intended literary intake.  My goal for 2010 is to read some forty texts.  Let’s see how we do:

1.  “Blood of Elves” by Andrzej Sapkowski

2.  “The Varieties of Scientific Experience” by Carl Sagan

3.  “The Last Week” by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan

4.  “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter” by Seth Graham-Smith

5.  “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy

6.  “Man’s Search for Meaning” by Viktor Frankl

7.  “A Plausible God” by Mitchell Silver

8.  “The Legend of Drizzt, Book 1:  Homeland” by R. A. Salvatore

9.  “The Legend of Drizzt, Book 2:  Exile” by R. A. Salvatore