A Religious Spirituality

In one form or another, people seem hungry, thirsty for something, perhaps an encounter with something/someone perceived as transcendent. People often call this dimension of their lives “spiritual,” and in order to sate this aspect of their existence people search tirelessly for special experiences that they might deem those special experiences “spiritual.” These special experiences seem to be a mystery and a curiosity and an obsession in American churches.

My generation in particular seems to have grown disillusioned with institutional religion and seems to be on a hunt for something, something, something to supplant that tyrant called Christian religion, that empty institution of unspiritual routines. My generation speaks of authenticity and organic relationships and spirituality. We have grown sick of the clownish charades in majestic church buildings.

All this may be well and good, and indeed majestic buildings are unworthy substitutes for the sublimity of God’s presence. But with such words as “authenticity” and “organic,” have we paved roads for sloth and lethargy? We seem to believe that we have supplanted institutional religion for something more real. We seem to believe that we have found what we were looking for. We seem to believe that by rejecting institutional religion we have found the treasure of authentic spirituality. But are we a mob of individualistic milk drinkers believing ourselves to have grown up via so-called authentic experiences? Have we merely put sugar in our milk?

It would seem that we in this adolescent generation would do well to learn habits, granted we might be too lackadaisical for such things (in the name of authenticity!). We would likely do well to learn to bend a knee and bow a head, for we have forgotten reverence having grown narcissistic with our own individual “spirituality.” We would do well to learn the practices of the faith. We would do well to discover the profound reality of the Eucharist. Did we forget about Holy Communion when we supplanted institutional religion? If so, shame on us; it is our loss.

Are we a communion of saints or maundering particles each pretending to be unrelated and self-determinant? Have we fled the spires of institutional religion only to enter tents of capricious spiritual ecstasies? Have we grown nomadic? Have we grown isolated? We speak of community, but by that do we mean facebook?

We may never return to the spiraled cathedrals, or at least we may not return for a while. But in either case, we must not lose our faith. We must no lose completely the practices that we seem to have pretended are merely part of institutional religion. If we forget habit, if we reject routine, if we lose sight of the Eucharist, if we deem tradition an archaic relic of the dusty past all in the name of authenticity, we may find ourselves in a dark room without faith and with only a few tweets proclaiming the value of contemporary authenticity. God forbid that happen.

Talkin’ to Grandpa

When we’re kids, we often don’t appreciate the wisdom of our parents and consider our grandparents simply wrinkly versions of our parents. When we’re kids we’d be hard pressed to listen to their wisdom. Perhaps, tradition is like talkin’ to Grandpa. But he’s a dialogue partner we don’t appreciate until we’ve grown out of adolescence. It’s no surprise that we treat tradition like a tyrannical parent or wrinkly grandparent. “Tradition is how we got here, but it’s not where we’re going.”

When we begin to grow out of our youth, we begin see ourselves for what we are: shortsighted children. It’s then that we begin to appreciate the words of our parents and grandparents. It’s then that we might relinquish rashness and learn courage by retaining boldness but with admonition from those who have lived on the front line. Perhaps, we’ll even develop enough patient courage to sit down on that rocking chair next to Grandpa on the front porch and listen to his storied wisdom. It’s then that we might put our ears to the floor and listen to the wisdom of tradition, of things past in order to see where it is we are headed. It’s when we sit down and begin to listen, to question, and to speak carefully that we learn to converse with the past. And it’s when we learn to converse with the past that we learn to live in the present while crafting a future. It’s those years after adolescence that we begin to have a Copernican revolution. It’s then that we realize we are not the center and we might even need someone else. It’s then that we begin to realize the words of our parents and grandparents might just turn out to be wisdom. And it’s then that we begin to realize newer isn’t always better.

When we are children and are given a crayon, we scribble. But one day Grandpa comes along and teaches us to write the letters A, B, C. It may be a nuisance at first, but eventually, we learn to write A-Z. It’s exhilarating, so we write it again and again. Some time later, after we feel we’ve mastered A-Z, Mom comes along and tries to teach us C-A-T. She tells us that we can use C-A-T instead of drawing a fluffy animal every time, though fluffy animals are still fun to draw. Writing C-A-T is annoying at first, but we get the hang of it and it becomes fun. We learn D-O-G and S-T-O-P too. Then one day a steel nosed lady teaches us something called “grammar,” a terribly and exhaustibly superfluous practice. But after a while, we begin using it with ease, and the steel nosed lady even tells us that it’s okay to break the rules of grammar with sufficient reason. And her steel nose begins to seem less like steel. We learn to write sentences, paragraphs, essays, and speeches. The steel nose of grammar becomes more fluid, like the strokes of a paintbrush. Then one day we notice a grey hair popped up on our head. It’s then that we walk into a room, and there’s a little person scribbling on a piece of scrap paper. We walk up to the youngster and ask, “Would you like to learn to write your A, B, C’s?”

Our acquaintance with language may be similar to our acquaintance with Grandpa’s storied wisdom. At first, it seems tedious and annoying. We say we don’t need it; we feel that it's little more than rubbish. But after a while we learn its wealth and even pass it on. Perhaps, tradition is like Grandpa, a dialogue partner who teaches us a language. But it’s a language we don’t begin to appreciate until we’ve begun to learn it.

Squiggles on a Page

Historical events are similar to jots on a page. We can look at them. But if we do not know their meaning or significance, then it’s pointless to spend hours looking at them. Historical events are similar to untranslated letters on a page. When a historian writes a history, she translates those events, and with every translation interpretation is implicit. Actually, this seems to happen when any of us experience life. We translate experiences into languages we can understand, and in the process we do a large degree of interpretation. It goes without saying that there can be poor translations, poor interpretations of life. How then might we discern between an excellent and a weak translation? Continual scrutiny, dialogue, and argument within a community: tradition.

It’s often the case regarding history that we want to know what “actually happened.” We say we want snapshots or perhaps videos of particular historical events. However, that’s likely not what we always really need. It’s sometimes contested that the gospels, for example, are filtered events of some conjurers. The chronology is mashed and inconsistent, events are conflicting, and discourses involve an array of variability etc. Thus, we wish to know what “actually happened” regarding Jesus. However, I doubt we would be satisfied if we saw the pictures from what “actually happened,” just as I would be dissatisfied with my confusion if I looked down at some pages of Arabic not knowing what to make of it, not knowing the significance of the seemingly haphazard squiggles. I need more than those seemingly haphazard squiggles. I need to know their significance.

It’s an ironic thing that with the gospels we have what we need – i.e. an explanation of the significance of Jesus, yet we are dissatisfied because we say we actually don’t want the translated letters; we have grown accustom to saying that we want the untranslated letters that we can’t read. Personally, I would prefer to read those Arabic letters translated into a language I can understand; similarly, I would prefer for historical events to be translated by people who are aware of the significance of those events. But again, even if I were to have walked around with Jesus all those many years ago, I likely would not have understood what on earth I was witnessing (perhaps, see Philosophical Fragments).

Interpretation and the proper lenses to interpret historical events are needed. This, at least in part, seems to be the job of tradition, for it is within tradition that we consider those lenses with scrutiny, dialogue, and even argument. It is thereby within tradition that significance is discerned, and it was the traditions that gave shape to the gospels we have today that provide us with the significance of Jesus. Without those traditions, we would be staring cluelessly at squiggles on a page.

Burgers and Faith

Watch commercials on television for ten minutes: we in America are addicted to immediacy (I’m reminded of the aesthete in Either/Or vol. 1). And we want faith the same way we want our burgers and fries: now! Fast food is cheap, and you usually get what you pay for. We want a spiritual experience or conversion or sign from God right this instant. It seems then we easily forget or perhaps ignore that faith is learned. To learn the faith, we are to walk in the footsteps of those who have walked before us; we are to listen to their words and begin to see their conceptual world of language. Faith is a habituation, and fluency takes time. Being addicted to immediacy, do we Americans have the patience and perseverance required for faith?

On Story: our world

No matter your trade, station, vocation, or hobby, at one point or another you will likely come across the opportunity to tell a tale or two, be it about the size of the fish you didn’t catch or the distance of the marathon you didn’t run. We all tell a tale or two given the occasion.

Our lives are storied lives; we live stories, and we live within stories. Stories make for us a symbolic world within which we may reside. Given this, I think not of stories to read “before I die” but of stories to read in order that I might live richly. Some stories are like an entire house, while other stories are like the furniture inside a house. I tend to think of my own life as a story similar to the latter and the biblical story as a story similar to the former. My story resides within the biblical story. The biblical story then creates a symbolic world within which I may reside. Sitting in a single room of the house will not, of course, divulge all the happenings in the rest of the house. Discovering other rooms then is half the fun, and discovering other rooms in the house provides more symbols with which I might engage life.

Needless to say, the bible is not the only story. There are myriads of other stories. Whether we realize it or not, we are furnishing our houses with the stories we watch, hear, and read. If this is the case, then we will surely be careful what sort of stories we involve in our furnishings. I doubt if anyone desperately desires to put a mud puddle in the middle of the living room. However, some stories are not pleasant, but they are important. Therefore, I do not suggest that anyone should furnish the house with only pillows. We need more than pillows, lest we make for ourselves a padded room – and those are for crazy people. Also, it might be said that it is quite easy to decorate your house without spending so much as a bead of sweat and a dollar. But those who are unwilling to do the work may find themselves in a house without windows, a house resembling a coffin.

Regarding stories in such a manner, it is then less about reading particular stories “before you die” and more about reading particular stories in order that you might live with them. Whether we like it or not, we live storied lives, and the stories we invite into the house will most certainly set the trajectory for the sorts of lives we will live and the sorts of stories we tell.

Science and Religion

I won’t mince words. Scientists often practice the inscrutable luxury of critiquing religion, and religious folks often naively critique science. The two have been considered predominantly at odds with one another. On occasion a theologian will attempt to prove the bible scientifically, and a scientist will attempt to disprove the bible scientifically. A lot goes into this screaming match, and I will not seek to sort all this out in a blog mostly because I’m not qualified. But I will say a word or two.

It seems that science and religion are both telling stories about the world, but they seem to be telling their stories differently. If I were to read Crime and Punishment and then I became furious because it broke the rules of sonnet writing, would I be justified in my fury? Crime and Punishment doesn’t have fourteen lines, among others things. Similarly, if a batter in a baseball game hit the ball and on his way to first base he failed to dribble the ball, would he be guilty of breaking the rules of baseball? Novels and sonnets operate according to different rules. Baseball and basketball operate according to different rules. Perhaps, even science and religion operate according to different rules. It won’t do then for science to regard religion as illegitimate, just as it won’t do for Michael Jordan to critique Barry Bonds for not dribbling the baseball after he hit it out of the park. We might call these various practices “games,” and then we might say that these different games each have their own set of rules according to which these games operate. We might call these different games "language games," and with these language games we enact practices and tell stories.

I am not saying science and religion are incompatible. Are baseball and basketball incompatible? That question doesn’t make sense. Incompatibility isn't the issue. I know lots of sports fans who are fans of both baseball and basketball – though I might add Michael Jordan likely should’ve stayed away from playing baseball. However, what I am saying is that science and religion are telling different stories, and they are doing so with different languages, which require particular rules. Does it make sense to say that sonnets are incompatible with plays, if they are referring to the same events? We have grown accustom to speaking of religion and science as if it is proper to say they are incompatible with each other, but I suggest otherwise. I think this is an erroneous assumption. Shakespeare did not contradict himself by writing both sonnets and plays, nor did Dostoevsky contradict himself by writing essays and novels. It might be said, “But the bible says one thing about this event and science/historiography says another.” To that I must say, “Yes, and they are doing so according to different rules of story telling, just as a poem differs from a novel.” Let each continue to operate according to their rules, though it might not hurt for them to rub off on each other. After all, novelists would do well to learn a thing or two from poets, and the converse is true also. Incompatibility is not the issue, and we would do well to recondition ourselves regarding this assumption.

If I heard some seemingly bazaar utterances made by a member of a Luba tribe, it would be a misapprehension on my part to tell him, “No, that’s not how you say pickles and cheese!” If I were to do such a silly thing, I would be ignoring the rules according to which he is making those particular utterances; I would be ignoring the rules of his language game. So we may wish to translate his utterances into utterances according to rules with which I am familiar, but it must be noted that something will likely be lost in the translation process. We will not acquire a word for word translation. What then is to be done?

Just as a professor of literature needs to be acquainted with multiple languages, so too a systematic theologian needs to be acquainted with multiple languages, including the “language” of science. This should be the case not merely for a systematic theologian to travel the earth seeking to “prove the bible” but that with a richer understanding of the many languages of the world, which are imbedded in their respective cultures, a systematic theologian might practice a more robust theology, one which acknowledges the multiplicity of stories that are told according to varying language games. Scientists might also do the same, lest scientists and theologians continue to squawk at each other in completely different languages expecting the other to stop breaking all the rules of story telling. However, I should add that I am not suggesting that theologians pretend to learn the “language” of science and then practice it poorly, just as Michael Jordan likely should've stayed away from playing baseball. That would only exacerbate the dialogue. Theologians need to develop a fluency in other "languages." But if nothing else, dialogue partners need to make room for the other’s language and way of telling their stories without immediately considering it to be an illegitimate practice.