I haven’t done a book review in a while, but I’ve been reading some good ones. Just yesterday, I finished Faith Without Certainty: Liberal Theology in the 21st Century (Skinner House: 2005) by Paul Rasor, a Unitarian Universalist minister and college professor who currently works as director of the Center for the Study of Religious Freedom.
Enemies and allies of liberal theology are similarly inclined to use the term ‘liberal’ as a synonymn for ‘other’. Until the last year or two, I myself was completely unaware of the historical depth contained within the joint traditions of Unitarianism and Universalism. Knowing only what I’d been told from my evangelical upbringing, I had always thought that Unitarian Universalists (UUs) were ‘loosey-goosey’ and ‘airy-fairy’ liberals who had respect for neither tradition nor truth and adopted an ‘anything goes’ policy in regard to morality and ethics. I would tell jokes like:
Q: What do you get when you cross a Jehovah’s Witness with a Unitarian Universalist?
A: Someone who comes knocking on your door for no apparent reason.
OK, I have to admit that I still chuckle at that one, even though I know it’s not true. UUs are deeply committed to their theology and ethics. If one knocks at your door, you can bet that it’s for a very good reason. What I discovered is that UUs (as well as other religious liberals) are committed to process over content. In other words, they’re more interested in how you live than what you believe. This is beautifully reflected in the UUA’s Seven Principles. I would love to go into greater detail about them here, but that will have to wait for another blog post. The UUA, while it represents the largest organized group of religious liberals, is not the only place where they hang out. There continue to be many of us who try to embody a similar flavor of religion within our respective communities. What matters is that we who identify ourselves with this label (‘liberal’) must be able to simultaneously hold and share a conscious awareness of who we are and what we stand for in a positive sense.
Given the myriad ways that the term ‘liberal’ gets thrown around without being defined, I’m grateful for Rasor’s concise and readable primer that actually digs into the real roots and trajectories of the liberal theological tradition.
If you don’t have time to read the entire book, the first two chapters after the introduction will familiarize you with what it is that religious liberals believe and how we came to embrace those values. Whether you’re out to support or criticize us, it’s important that you know what you’re getting into. Love or hate us for what we are, not what we’re not.
The remainder of the book lays out some of the challenges and frontiers that liberal theology is currently facing in its ongoing development. With the arrival of the postmodern era, liberal religion (as a decidedly modern phenomenon) is reevaluating many of its core commitments (in much the same way that evangelical Christians (another modern movement) are also doing via the ‘Emergent Church’ movement). Hard and fast categories, such as rugged individualism and universal human experience, are being questioned in the light of community, culture, and language.
Rasor is highly critical of his own liberal tradition in relation to issues of race and social class. Despite its value of diversity, liberal religion continues to exist as a predominantly white and middle-class movement. While his criticisms are honest and accurate, I wish that he had spent more time with them. He mentions social Darwinism and the rise of manifest destiny in America, but he says nothing of Eugenics or the Holocaust, both of which were fueled in part by liberal theology. These massive moral failures demonstrate that no one group, however utopian their ideals, is above the human tendency toward self-justified violence and oppression. My primary criticism of Rasor’s book is that it seems to minimize and/or ignore these most prominent failures of liberal religion.
On the other hand, I was highly impressed by Rasor’s distinction between liberal and liberation theologies. These two categories are often associated with one another in the common mind, mainly because of shared emphases on social justice. However, as Rasor observes, they arise from different historical sources, make use of different methods, and emerge with very different values and convictions. Liberation theologians tend to hold scripture and tradition much more closely, even as they criticize and reinterpret them. Not all theological liberals are liberation theologians (and vice versa). One need only look at the sermons of Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador to see his deep commitment to the historical orthodoxy of Roman Catholicism. If anything, I came away from Rasor’s book with an awareness that the construction of a theology that is simultaneously liberal and liberationist would prove to be a most difficult task. Indeed, evangelicals would probably have an easier time of it, given the place they grant to the Bible in their theological systems.
All in all, I highly enjoyed Rasor’s book during my two weeks of vacation. I expect that I will keep it on my shelf and refer to it often as a concise introduction to what religious liberals actually believe.
Fred Rogers can hardly be called an “unsung” hero, but there are few who appreciate how deep were the roots of his wisdom and spirit. He was one of my predecessors in the Presbyterian ministry. He, more publicly than any other Presbyterian in recent memory, embodied the Reformed tradition’s commitments to worldly spirituality and the sacredness of all life. Shortly after his ordination, Mr. Rogers realized that he hated preaching, so he pursued his ministry in the TV studio rather than the church. His message was never explicitly religious, but he communicated the kind of universal spiritual values that continue to shape multiple generations of children. I’m proud to be his posthumous colleague in the Presbyterian Church.
Here’s a wonderfully autotuned video produced by PBS:
For the next two weeks, I’ll be taking my first vacation in two years. I’ll try to keep the new posts and updates coming as frequently as possible, but alas, one is not always within mooching distance of a decent wireless connection.
I’ll be in NC for most of that time: first in the Charlotte area, then Durham, hopefully a brief excursion to Boone, and a trip to the beach. While I’m in the Triangle, you will probably be able to find me any time at the Bojangles on 15-501 or sitting on the floor of the religion section at The Bookshop on Franklin Street. Give a holla.
Another sermon from my wife, Rev. Sarah Schmidt-Lee. I’m hoping that not too many of my congregants will read this, since she’s really a much much better preacher than I am. I don’t want them to know what they’re missing!
A small girl, maybe a toddler, maybe a preschooler, stands still watching a group of older girls. Their bright laughter and whispers drew her attention and she is enamored. She begins moving a little closer to the big girls, hoping they will notice her. She smiles when they laugh—wants to be in on the joke. Her mother watches from a few feet away, proud that her daughter is taking initiative, making new friends.
Finally the older girls begin to notice their small observer. At least one of the girls is kind–whispers to her friends how cute the little girl is. But a couple of the oldest girls take a quick glance and then turn their shoulders, ignoring the small girl and blocking her out of the circle. The small girl stands, watching, for a few more minutes and then gets tired…
Much like the underwater Jesus picture I posted yesterday, this is just another lovely image that I found somewhere online. I don’t remember where, which means it was probably Facebook.
What you see behind the church is what I like to call “the best view in the galaxy”. You’re looking out across the galactic core of the milky way. This is our neighborhood. It is the slightly larger speck of dust within which the speck of dust that the speck of dust that we specks of dust inhabit revolves around rests.
I’ll leave you to unpack that sentence at your leisure.
I also really like the church in the foreground. Something about it resonates with where I am in relation to my own spirituality right now. About a year ago, I made a conscious decision to start verbalizing a shift that had been slowly happening for almost a decade. The traditional metaphysics of orthodox evangelicalism have ceased functioning as part of my internal theological process.
These days, I consider myself a “recovering evangelical”. Not because all evangelicalism is evil, but because I can’t handle it responsibly. I know of many evangelicals who manage to live intelligent, compassionate, and healthy lives within that tradition. For whatever reason, I could not.
In it’s place, I’ve adopted the label “liberal Christian”. Some might also justifiably call me a “progressive Christian”, but I prefer the “liberal”. I’ve written about that choice of words elsewhere on this blog. I love my church, as well as the Bible, and the symbols & rituals of Christianity. Jesus continues to be a ubiquitous and central presence in my life, although I’m still figuring out how to articulate exactly what that means to me.
What I like about the above picture is its composition. The church sits in the foreground but off to the side. The big picture is the galaxy itself, of which the church is a part. In the same way, the Christian tradition continues to be a part of my big picture. It’s a big part, a dominant part, and the part in which I live, but it’s still just a part.
I’ve recently come to accept a series of possibilities that would have scared the hell out of me only a few years ago: There may come a day when Christianity ceases to be a living religion on this planet, a day when the human species goes extinct, a day when this planet is no longer capable of supporting organic life, and yet another day when the sun itself goes dark.
Jesus once told his disciples, “You see all these, do you not? Truly I tell you, not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” He was speaking of the great Jewish temple in Jerusalem. His disciples thought that the temple and the nation of Israel were eternal institutions that would outlive history itself. God would never allow these things to be destroyed. Alas, the disciples were wrong. I can hear Jesus uttering these same words in relation to my congregation, my denomination, my country, my religion, my planet, my solar system, and my galaxy, ad infinitum.
“You see all these, do you not? Truly I tell you, not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”
Some parts last longer than others, but everything is is only a part of everything, and it’s all mortal. This wisdom of Jesus empowered his followers with the faith they needed to survive the razing of their ancestral home. They were ready for the Diaspora because they believed that, come what may, God would never be thrown down.
These days, I’m settling into a deeper trust that, even though my best ideas about God (including the word itself) will one day pass out of existence, the reality to which that word refers never will.
Today, the first Sunday after Pentecost, is Trinity Sunday: the holiday in our church calendar when we’re supposed to talk about the Trinity. Trinity is our name for the traditional Christian idea that we worship one God in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God is three. God is one. That’s the textbook Sunday school answer. Are you confused yet? Is your head hurting? Good.
I had lunch this week with my friend, Mother Linda Logan, the priest at Trinity Episcopal Church, and she joked that Trinity Sunday is typically the Sunday when most clergy try to schedule their vacations. Who can blame them? The idea of the Trinity is so bizarre and abstract, it’s hard to preach about in a way that feels relevant to everyday life. Alas, I seem to have miscalculated this year because my vacation doesn’t start until next week. Don’t worry though, I’ve given it some serious thought this week and I think I’ve found a way to spice it up.
You see, people didn’t always think of the Trinity as an academic theological concept. There was a time when people would literally start riots in the streets about it. They said that, during the early 4th century, you couldn’t even ask a baker about the price of bread without getting into an argument about theology.
The debate got so heated that the Roman emperor, Constantine (himself only a recent convert to Christianity), convened a conference of bishops at his lake house in a town called Nicaea. They argued back and forth ad nauseum until the emperor decided that enough was enough and promptly put his foot down in favor of the position that we now refer to as the Trinity. Shortly thereafter, the Nicene Creed was adopted as a trophy for those who had won the debate. Needless to say, it’s not a very noble beginning for this idea that most orthodox theologians now regard as central to the Christian religion.
Obviously, you won’t find the Trinity mentioned anywhere in our scripture readings for today (because it hadn’t been invented yet). The idea of the Trinity, as such, does not appear anywhere in the Bible. Nevertheless, most Christians for the last 1,700 years have kept the Trinity as their main idea about who God is and how God works. Something about the mystery in this incomprehensible puzzle has compelled Christians to hold onto the Trinity for almost two millennia.
Mystery is a troubling word for folks in the modern era. We’re not so good at mystery. Modern people much prefer concrete facts and figures. We like being able to find the answers and solve the problems. To the modern mind, then, the Trinity is infuriating. By its very definition, it can’t be figured out.
Ever since the Enlightenment in the 18th century, our species has learned how look farther and deeper into the nature of the universe than our ancestors ever dreamed of. We have accomplished feats of strength and intelligence that boggle the imagination. Looking through his telescope at the moons of Jupiter, could Galileo ever have imagined that we would one day send spacecraft to see them up close? Yet, in spite of all our achievements, human beings have also managed to discover new ways to systematically inflict death and destruction on each other with ruthless efficiency. Hitler’s holocaust, two world wars, and the nuclear arms race have opened our eyes to that reality. Reason has not purged the animal from our collective being as we had hoped. Indeed, if it weren’t for the baffling presence of mystery, our species would have given up hope long ago.
Thankfully, there remains something within our subconscious minds that spurs us on toward an encounter with that which is unknown and unknowable. We get the sense that, in the darkness of ignorance and uncertainty, we are not alone. Our scripture readings from this morning, while they mention nothing of the Trinity, have quite a bit to tell us about mystery. In each passage, someone comes face-to-face with the infinite mystery of the divine and is permanently transformed by it.
In the first reading, the Jewish prophet Isaiah has an ecstatic vision of God’s glory. The prophet tells his readers how his senses were overwhelmed,
I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.” The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called, and the house filled with smoke.
I love the dramatic imagery in this story. It reminds me of a similar passage in a classic Indian poem called the Bhagavad Gita or “Song of the Lord”. In this poem, a prince named Arjuna is having a philosophical chat with his chariot driver named Krishna. Slowly, it dawns on the prince that there is more to this chariot driver than meets the eye. Krishna, it turns out, is actually a divine messenger who was sent to teach the prince eternal wisdom. At one point in the story, Krishna allows Prince Arjuna to see his true form:
with many mouths and eyes, and many visions of marvel, with numerous divine ornaments, and holding divine weapons. Wearing divine garlands and apparel, anointed with celestial perfumes and ointments, full of all wonders, the limitless God with faces on all sides. If the splendor of thousands of suns were to blaze forth all at once in the sky, even that would not resemble the splendor of that exalted being. Arjuna saw the entire universe, divided in many ways, but standing as One in the body of Krishna, the God of gods. Then Arjuna, filled with wonder and his hairs standing on end, bowed his head to the Lord and prayed with folded hands. (Bhagavad Gita 11.10-14)
I love how similar these visionary experiences are, even though they come from very different cultures and religions. In both stories, human beings are left standing in awe before the eternal mystery. In Isaiah’s story, the one that Christians are more familiar with, even the angels cover their eyes and sing, “Holy, holy, holy”. That word, holy, is one that we use in church a lot. People use it outside of church too, sometimes combined with an expletive, in order to express amazement. No one is more famous for doing this than Burt Ward, who played Batman’s sidekick Robin in the 1960s TV series. Robin had all kinds of unique exclamations: “Holy Hallelujah, Batman! Holy Fruit Salad, Batman! Holy Uncanny Photographic Mental Processes!” Holy was Robin’s catchphrase. Given the startling nature of what Isaiah and Arjuna were experiencing in their respective visions, I can just imagine Robin standing beside them, shouting, “Holy, holy, holy, Batman!” But, in Isaiah’s case, it was the angels who were saying it.
The word holy, as we tend to use it, typically means sacred or blessed. However, on a more general level, it literally means special or different. Something is holy when it is other than what one would expect. Therefore, it is entirely appropriate for Robin to use it as an exclamation when he is caught off guard (which seems to happen a lot). In the Isaiah passage, it seems that even the angels are amazed at the appearance of God’s glory in the temple. They repeat “holy” three times as a way of communicating ultimate emphasis: it’s not just holy, it’s not just holy holy, it’s holyholy holy! Special, special, special! Different, different, different! Amazing, amazing, amazing! If we’re not caught off-guard by God’s presence like Isaiah, if we aren’t filled with wonder with our hairs standing on end like Arjuna’s, then we’re not really paying attention.
In our New Testament reading this morning, Jesus intentionally confuses a religious scholar named Nicodemus. The latter comes to Jesus in private with an honest question: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” And what does Jesus do? Does he take this opportunity to clarify himself and maybe even start a theology class? No, he alienates Nicodemus and leaves him with even more questions than he started with. Beginning with a cryptic statement, “You must be born from above” (or “born again” as some translations say), Jesus finishes with an outright insult: “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?” The philosopher in me feels indignant on Nicodemus’ behalf! Can’t Jesus see that this is an honest and intelligent person who is simply trying to make sense of things in his own mind? But rational understanding is not what Jesus is after in his conversation with Nicodemus.
Instead, Jesus seems to be giving Nicodemus a koan. For those who are unfamiliar with that term, a koan is a Zen Buddhist riddle that cannot be solved by rational thinking. Zen masters will often give their students a koan to fuel the students’ meditation and spur them toward enlightenment. The most famous Zen koan is one we’ve probably all heard before: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” If you immediately started thinking about your hand just now, then you don’t get it. When it comes to the koan, if you can answer the question, then you haven’t answered the question. Why? Because the question is the answer. The question itself is the point of the exercise. Let it take you beyond the realm of what you think of as normal reason. Sit with it a while. Let it free your mind and expand your consciousness. Only then will you be able to appreciate the mystery.
Neither Isaiah nor Nicodemus knew anything of the Trinity. That wasn’t yet part of their culture or religion. The Trinity is a human idea that tries to express the mystery of God as we have experienced it. Like a Zen koan, the Trinity is a riddle that cannot be solved by rational thinking. But if we sit with it and meditate on the mystery, we might just find ourselves in the state of holy confusion that some might call enlightened.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says to Arjuna, “You are not able to see Me with your physical eye; therefore, I give you the divine eye to see My majestic power and glory.” With that “divine eye”, it says that the prince “saw the entire universe, divided in many ways, but standing as One in the body of Krishna, the God of gods.” This is not all that far off from Isaiah’s vision, wherein the prophet realized that “the whole earth is full of [God’s] glory.”
If you’re confused about the Trinity, that’s a good thing. It means that you’re paying attention. Confusion is the first step on the path toward a free and enlightened mind.
I see confusion as a virtue at this point in the modern age where absolute certainty has become an idol. We find ourselves these days surrounded by the cacophonous voices of politicians and advertisers, all of whom claim to possess the secret that will bring peace, security, and a successful end to our “pursuit of happiness”. Vote for this candidate! Buy that product! That’s the key to lasting joy!
In this environment, even religion and spirituality themselves become products for consumption. Fundamentalist preachers and cult leaders assure us that, if you simply sign on their dotted line and accept their dogmas without question, you too can secure your place in heaven for eternity. In spite of their claims to possess “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth” as revealed in ancient times, the fundamentalist commitments to absolute certainty and biblical literalism are very recent and modern ideas. They only came about during the last one hundred years or so as a reaction to developments in science and philosophy that led some to question and/or reinterpret parts of their faith. Their fear is understandable, but we don’t have to look hard to find the dark side of that kind of religion. The September 11th attacks and the Jonestown massacre, where almost a thousand people died after willingly drinking cyanide-laced Kool-Aid at their pastor’s insistence, demonstrate what can happen when religious fanaticism goes unquestioned.
Under circumstances such as these, confusion is a virtue that provides us with humility and reverence for the mystery of it all. The spiritually enlightened mind is one that can comfortably say, “I don’t know!” Zen masters call this “beginner’s mind”. Taoist sages call it “the uncarved block”. Jesus called it “faith like a child”.
When it comes to the koan of the Trinity, there is no answer because the question is the answer. The question leads us to confusion, confusion leads us to humility, humility leads us to reverence, and reverence leads us into a deeper experience of that great eternal mystery wherein we begin to see “the entire universe, divided in many ways, but standing as One” and “the whole earth… full of [God’s] glory.” Only then can we truly join with prophets, angels, and saints from every tribe, tongue, people, and nation under heaven who forever sing: Holy, holy, holy! Amazing, amazing, amazing!
