Existential Christian Musings Part II

The other day in my reading I came across an argument that the Semitic languages, Hebrew and Arabic, are very much 'verb-oriented' and so tend to focus on action. The Indo-European languages, by contrast, and in particular Greek, are very 'noun-oriented', thereby focusing on the name-ability of life (yes, I just invented that word, no idea if it exists, sorry!).

The argument went on to point out that for this reason, words which were originally used to describe an actuality--christanoia, meaning those who seek to be like the Christ, and islam, meaning submission to God--began, through the subtle influence of language and how it shapes our thinking, to be used as nouns describing groups of people, rather than as verbs describing how certain people oriented themselves existentially.

I had no idea that languages had impacted evolution of thought about religion to such an extent, and more troubling, that language could have impacted our very experience of our life lived in faith, in such a way as to make it an entirely superficial ordeal. But consider the very real experience that many of us have had in encountering 'Christians' who in no way act like Christ, and 'Muslims' who show no interest in islam. The fact that we continue, untroubled, to use these words throughout the world in a way that designates identity groups rather than an inner posture shows the schism that we have come to take for granted in our thinking.

Some time back, the discussion touched on 'types' of faith. Marcus Borg, in his book The Heart of Christianity, describes four types of faith: assensus, where we give our mental assent to a proposition or doctrine (and he maintains this is the most common type of faith both within the church and without), fiducia, meaning a radical trust in God (not in statements about God, but in God), fidelitas , meaning faith as a fidelity to our relationship with God, the commitment of our deepest self, and visio, the way in which we see the whole picture as determined by our faith in God. This broadened vision of faith as needing to mean more than a mental 'assent' has been invaluable to me in my own understanding of why so much of what is commonly called 'faith' seems insufficient to many people in dealing with the reality of life.

Where Borg's book led me, but didn't follow through, (I was instead met by the likes of Emil Brunner and Paul Tillich) was down to the existential 'ground of being'. The place of original encounter with God. And at the ground of being is where the great theologians meet us with our own existential realities. With the truth of our desire to defy God, even escape God. These are not thoughts I would ever have lightly entertained. It had seemed to me that God was the answer to so many of my heart's questions, so why should I ever want to escape God? And yet, at some level, I came to see that I do. Emil Brunner writes of Man in Revolt, an entire tome on man's inherent predisposition to this effect. And Paul Tillich, in one of the most devastating sermons I have ever read, Escape from God, writes that "Man tries to escape God, and hates Him, because he cannot escape Him. The protest against God, the will that there be no God, and the flight to atheism are all genuine elements of profound religion."

I have come to believe, with the help of these profound men of faith, that this occurs at a profoundly existential level because at that level, or perhaps especially at that level, God is the undeniable Witness to our lives, whose presence is unchosen and yet inescapable. And at this, we falter. We want to have chosen God, rather than have Him to have chosen us. We are comfortable with a God who exists for us, rather than an 'us' or a 'me' who exists because of God. And in the world we live in, and perhaps even because of the language to which we are accultured, this sort of wrestling is almost never spoken of. We speak of a a loving God, a gracious God, and perhaps we debate about omniscience and omnipotence, but rarely do we allow ourselves to be brought to that place where we are forced to accept and truly experience that, ultimately, God is not ours to define. Compared to this realization, it would be more comforting, at times, to stand with the atheists and proclaim that God is a man-made invention, an 'opiate' of the people. Perhaps some have even argued that that is the more courageous route. But I am coming to see that faith takes a courage I never imagined. I would begin to argue, as Tillich did, that "the Man who has never tried to flee God has never experienced the God Who Is Really God". For to encounter that God is to at once realise the defeat of our own most cherished illusions about ourselves. To be quite blunt, this is an appalling state of affairs for the ego. It is no wonder that the instinct is to flee. And yet, to encounter 'That God Who Is Really God' is the beginning of the possibility of being reconciled to Him, and therefore to our deepest existential reality.

And it is here where Christianity shows something perhaps unexpected about God; that even as He created us and sees us clearly in our rebellious nature, He understands this rebellion better than we ourselves do and did the only thing He could do to reconcile us to Him without crushing our already appalled egos. Again, Paul Tillich leads us through the depths of our rebellion to the redemption of reconciliation and says the following:

"Yet when the Divine is rejected, It takes the rejection upon Itself. It accepts our crucifixion, our pushing away, the defence of ourselves against It. It accepts our refusal to accept, and thus conquers us. That is the centre of the mystery of the Christ. Let us try to imagine a Christ Who would not die, and Who would come in glory to impose upon us His power, His wisdom, His morality, and His piety. He would be able to break our resistance by His strength, by His wonderful government, by His infallible wisdom, and by His irresistible perfection. But He would not be able to win our hearts. He would bring a new law, and would impose it upon us by His all-powerful and all-perfect Personality. His power would break our freedom; His glory would overwhelm us like a burning, blinding sun; our very humanity would be swallowed up in His Divinity. One of Luther's most profound insights was that God made Himself small for us in Christ. In so doing, He left us our freedom and our humanity. He showed us His heart, so that our hearts could be won." (from He Who is the Christ, in the book The Shaking of the Foundations)

It is, indeed, the only way. No other action that I can conceive of would be able to speak so eloquently through our defenses, so tenderly honor our humanity, so greatly pierce our hearts. For it seems a certainty that the only thing that would be able to convince the frightened ego to let go of its resistance to the overwhelming reality of God would be the utter conviction that not only did God create us, but that He loves us, and that that Love which threatens at first to take away our 'lives' is a Love that will ultimately give us true life, unconquerable life, with the peace, joy and freedom we so deeply crave. The only way it would all come together is if we could overcome our fear because our love for God, in response to His great love for us, became greater than our fear. In Christ, God makes us this offer and this promise. Our existential choice, and God's blessing of us with free-will, is that it is we are free to accept it, or free to deny it (and to take the consequences that come with both choices). But we can not change it. The offer, promise, reality and Love of God will stand regardless.

Existential Christian (and a bit more on rabbits)

The other day I was chatting with a girlfriend about faith, and I was sharing with her that although I am very active in my church, and for many practical appearances may seem to be very 'religious', I still don't identify myself as a 'religious' sort of person. She asked me why, and as we talked it through I realised it's because for me, 'religious' still seems to focus more on the doctrines and rituals involved in faith, rather than a living experience of the reality of God, and trying to live one's life--however imperfectly--in awareness of that reality. Ah, she said. I get it. You're an existential Christian. I laughed. Yes, that's it, I thought, I suppose I'm an existential Christian.

Yesterday I happened to read Greg Boyd's latest blog post where he is beginning to wrestle with some of the apparent contradictions in God's nature as viewed in the Old Testament when contrasted to the nature of God as revealed through Jesus Christ in the New Testament. He starts the process by asking us what is at stake when we start to investigate the infallibility of the Bible. Rather than me going into it, I suggest you pop over to his site and read what he wrote, but I found it profoundly important to me because he touches (much more eloquently) on what I was trying to get at in my discussion with my friend.

I first came into a church about eight years ago in a Pentecostal setting, rather fundamentalist, and it scared the daylights out of me. I was 'born again' but fled after about two months--heartily hoping that no lasting damage had been done.

I rejected everything about that experience and everything about their theology. But oddly enough, something still had changed. I found that I could no longer watch those Easter movies where they show the crucifixion without tearing up. At odd moments, I heard the word 'Jesus' escape my lips, as a prayer rather than a curse. Occasionally, I would stop by a church, and I still thought about God a lot. I didn't pray. I didn't much read the Bible. I didn't seek to alter my life or behavior in any way. It didn't really occur to me that I should (or could). But still, some little seed had been planted that refused to go away. Some little crack of light came shining through into the darkness and I would turn to it when things were at their worst.

Then about three years ago, yet after another series of failed attempts to find happiness/satisfaction/meaning/belonging etc. in the right relationship/career/city etc. I decided to move home for a while. I started hanging out at the church a bit more often, and got involved with a small group of sorts. I was vehement in proclaiming myself as NOT a Christian for the simple reason that I had pretty much come to accept that there probably was a God, although I had no idea what that meant, but I was very very far from accepting that Jesus could be anything other than a prophet or wise man. It simply didn't make sense. At some level, I even found the suggestion that he be otherwise mildly offensive. In particular I found it offensive to my intellect--something I otherwise found to be my most reliable attribute. (How little I knew!) So I continued in my ways, turbulent as they were, seeking God increasingly but never allotting Jesus much thought.

Then one day, as happens, the bottom fell out. Personal circumstances converged, and I found myself on the brink of despair. My heart was losing hope, and while I'm not much one for talking about the devil too much, that little voice we all know and hate was beginning to gain ground. 'You are not worth anything' it stated. 'You will never have the things you hope for'. I protested. I tried to find something with which to counter that, but my heart had been broken and I knew it. That voice went for a touch down. 'That's because your heart is not worth anything'. I almost couldn't take it and in desperation I turned to God and asked, or more likely begged, 'God, isn't my heart worth anything to you?' And this I will never forget. Clear as a bell, I heard the words 'I died for your heart'.

I was appalled. Amazed, but appalled at the same time. Amazed, because in that instant I knew the extent to which I was loved, the extent to which I had been intentionally created to have the heart that I have. But I also knew that the only manifestation of God that could speak those words was Jesus. The words themselves claimed oneness with God, and yet the content of the words implied the incarnation.

Clearly I had to make a choice. I could continue to deny Jesus, but then I would also have to deny the immediate healing I had experienced (and total silencing of that nasty little voice). Or I could embrace the healing, but then I would have to be open to this 'Jesus person', whoever He might really have been.

That's when I started to really read the Bible. I started to seek out my own experience and longing in the Epistles, and found it reflected back at me over and over again. I started to read what Jesus had said, and found in there a truth so profound, so undeniable that I was amazed I hadn't seen it before. And yet that truth challenged so many of my assumptions, my ways of living and perceiving the world, my righteous reactions to the world, that it is also no wonder I had to be on my knees before I would listen to it.

And then I started to learn about this thing called 'theology'. I became, and still am, fascinated by how 'good' theology can point one toward this source of life and transformation (but can not replace it). And I also came to see just how much certain beliefs ('bad' theology) can take one away from this source of life, even though perhaps all the while talking a great deal about it.

I admit, I'm not entirely sure as to why I am sharing this all today. Something about Greg's post caused me to remember parts of my own journey, and to feel the urgency of discussing faith in God as something that is very very real. Of coming to know that God is very very real. So real that it can be frightening. And yet NOT confusing that reality with doctrinal proclamations which I believe were originally meant to have described a reality, but never meant to have replaced it. I am in no way trying to dismiss their value, nor to challenge anybody else's understanding. I just felt moved to share my own meandering journey, perhaps somewhat in gratitude for Greg being willing to 'go there' with the hard questions. I find it much easier to self-identify with a set of beliefs than I do to live in constant awareness of the reality of God. But what if the latter is what we were actually created for? What if so many people are disgusted with 'organized religion' precisely they feel it is about a set of beliefs that they can not subscribe to (intellectually anyway), rather than a reality that can, and will, meet them in their very life experiences if they let it?

When I look back on my own journey, I can see that the pivotal points were all about experience, and not really about belief. Belief helped, supported, buttressed, yes, and of course it could also hinder, but in and of itself, it was not the transforming agent. And yet in our world, in our society, we put more faith in belief, in mental assent, than we do in experience (after all, that is subjective and therefore not reliable in scientific inquiry). But I can not back down from the conviction that faith is, almost above all, transformative. And that the God who created every part of humankind, is the God who is relevant to every part of our lives--not just intellectually, not just individually, not just communally, but our life in it's entirety. And that that is the life He wants to transform into one of abundance.

As often, CS Lewis has already gone there. So I end with this quote of his from his essay 'Man or Rabbit' from God in the Dock: Essays On Theology and Ethics.

"Morality is indispensable: but the Divine Life, which gives itself to us and which calls us to be gods, intends for us something in which morality will be swallowed up. We are to be re-made. All the rabbit in us is to disappear—the worried, conscientious, ethical rabbit as well as the cowardly and sensual rabbit. We shall bleed and squeal as the handfuls of fur come out; and then, surprisingly, we shall find underneath it all a thing we have never yet imagined: a real Man, an ageless god, a son of God, strong, radiant, wise, beautiful, and drenched in joy."