Heideggerian inflected spirituality

Not only is one of the key terms in the title almost impossibly vague, but I’m going to deal here in possibly hopeless generalisations. I do so because, despite the massive caveat, I think there is a certain character to some contemporary Anglican theologians, reflecting the influence of Heidegger (more or less explicitly), that is preferable for the Christian theist to many other current options. I use the term spirituality because this is not just a matter of intellectual acrobatics but deeply bound up with the way people live, with personalities and sensitivities, with the ‘visceral register’ (William Connolly).

 

In Being and Time Heidegger suggests that from the very beginning of the western philosophical tradition seeing has been considered the main mode of understanding. Platonic philosophy aimed at contemplating the Forms, and this fed into Christian conceptions of contemplation and prayer. Aristotle considered contemplation the highest human activity, but, in contrast to Plato, seemed to have pictured it as a mental review of and rumination on ideas within the mind. Heidegger also remarks on the two contrasting postures or moods of ancient and modern philosophy as wonder (thaumazein) and doubt respectively. Heidegger makes various moves to get beyond the Cartesian doubt and detached gaze. His notion of truth as unconcealment and disclosure in some ways re-activates the ancient posture of wonder and receptivity before phenomena, but he cannot ignore modernity’s doubt. It seems to me that in Heidegger a receptivity to Being through disclosure, combined with a hermeneutical spiral and awareness of the thrownness of Dasein, combine both wonder and doubt, producing a tertium quid.

 

I’m not sure what to call this philosophical posture (I’ll drop the term ‘mood’ because it could be confused with Heidegger’s own use of it). I take it as attempting to be receptive and open to the disclosure of Being through the immanent world (in contrast to an invisible realm), whilst refusing certainty in the expectation of constant revision. In theological terms one could describe this through a mixture of negative theology, repentance as a regulating principle of theology, and a certain balance between transcendence and immanence. This posture seems common to Andrew Shanks, Rowan Williams and George Pattison. They share a certain reticence and reserve in the manner in which they handle metaphysical speculation. This does not mean they do not believe in, say, the resurrection or the communion of saints (answers will differ depending on who you ask), but that they do not overestimate the importance of such beliefs nor assume they can be held with certainty. Shanks takes directly from Heidegger the notion of truth as openness rather than truth as correctness, which downplays formulations of belief in favour of openness to shaking experience. Pattison, who has written extensively on Heidegger, authored Thinking about God in an age of technology, foregrounding the nature of the need to pose the question of God in as fruitful a way as possible. Hardly a rallying cry for the troops.

 

And there’s the rub. These theologians handle Christianity and theology with great sensitivity and sophistication, but precisely those virtues seem to make their version of Christianity difficult for many to follow. Even academics have remarked on their difficulty following some of Williams’ arguments. Perhaps, however, this is where vague terms such as spirituality or posture may help. Perhaps others may be able to share a posture even if they cannot follow the intellectual erudition. But this too seems unlikely. Perhaps this form of spirituality is only accessible to the highly educated, and perhaps it helps to be in a pluralist society (and politically liberal? and middle class?). There are other reasons for disagreement. Few have the stomach for such a reticent theism. Fundamentalists prefer certainty. Evangelicals seem to be more optimistic, more willing to stake a claim that God has done this or that, more likely to feel ‘assurance’. Radical Orthodox, avowedly Platonic-Christian, retains an edge of certainty too, and triumphalism in some forms. Others go the way of Christian atheism or a Cupitt style post-Christian-Buddhism. But for those not yet willing to abandon theism and averse to triumphalism and certainty, and with a different experience of faith (or lack of experiences!), these Anglican writers offer a viable alternative.

Papers from the Connolly conference

There was an excellent conference at Durham last week, the main speaker of which was William Connolly. I gave a short paper on Andrew Shanks’ civil religion which will be available there with all the others on the 28th of May. For those who just can’t wait, here’s my offering: Andrew Shanks’ Civil Religion PDF

Meditations on Redcrosse

Redcrosse is part St. George celebration (and so celebration of England) and part Anglican liturgy. It is a liturgical meditation on English identity and history based on Edmund Spenser’s (c.1552-99) The Faerie Queen and the mythology of St. George, the patron saint of England. It allows for public meditation on what England and Englishness are in a way designed to stimulate thought and counteract propaganda; in a way removed from any party political agendas or racism. It is not accidental that St. George is also the patron saint of Aragon, Catalonia, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Lithuania, Montenegro, Palestine, Portugal, Russia and Serbia [Ewan Fernie, Michael Symmons Roberts, Andrew Shanks and Jo Shapcott, Redcrosse liturgy, 3. All further references will be paranthetical in the text. The liturgy was celebrated at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, on 17/03/11 and at Manchester Cathedral on 08/08/11.]. Or that he is ‘honoured by Muslims, as ‘Al Khidr’, and by Jews, as ‘Eliyahu ha Navi’.’ (3) Nor is accidental that the giant Catalonian figures created for the liturgy have George as a black man in a football shirt. The symbolism is meant to reclaim Englishness from its associations with football hooliganism and to subvert racist nationalism. Its thoughtful nature, which includes significant amounts of apophatic theology (unusual in public liturgy), is meant to undermine the dangerous forms of religious nationalism that the secular modus vivendi so rightly wishes to contain and curtail. Any kind of linkage of national identity and religion could seem prima facie alarming, precisely because of the reactionary social conservatism or outright violence it can so often involve. So this is a risk, but a risk worth taking for at least three reasons. First, it is extremely unlikely in secular Britain 2011 that any form of Christian religious nationalism will gain sufficient social or political power to cause any actual violence. Second, to the extent that socially conservative Christian religious forces do gain political traction it is all the more important for there to be an alternative Christian voice speaking up for thoughtfulness and against propaganda. Third, the issues of religion, civic life and national identity cannot be separated and so must be thought about. How should religious people think of their national identity? And why shouldn’t this be addressed in religious liturgy?A good example of the anti-propaganda nature of the liturgy is the elaboration of Blake’s critique of the Establishment in the introduction: ‘The Church of England being part of the Establishment, he would have seen this event as taking place within such a [satanic] ‘mill’.’ (3) The liturgy’s introduction therefore explicitly invites critique of Christianity. It is, furthermore, a newly composed liturgy, which includes not just new poetry but new music and art. [The music was primarily jazz, the improvisational musical form par excellence, which, whether intended or not, symbolizes nicely the improvisational nature of any understanding of Christianity and civic identity. (For an interesting reflection on the relationship between jazz and the Christian notion of tradition see J. Kameron Carter’s comments here: http://jkameroncarter.com/?p=787. Accessed 09/05/11). Tim Garland, the composer, composed both new music and music that incorporated subtly altered hymn melodies and the liturgical phrases ‘Lord have mercy,’ and ‘Kyrie eleison’.] The Catalonian giants were built by homeless people working with a charity in the Cathedral itself, which symbolizes the liturgy’s focus on a passion for renewal in places of urban deprivation, its openness to other cultures, and its recognition of the rightful multivalency of St. George (and symbols in general). Writing new liturgies itself embodies a certain ethos and theology; in this case one that attempts to be open to the lessons of history (it is dialectical) and open to the involvement of people of other confessions (including atheists) as having something to teach the church. In short, writing new liturgies is a way of recognising that the church is not and has not always been right, that it needs to learn, and that the Christian task is not simply to repeat past behaviours and linguistic formulations but to take up the responsibility of creating new meanings and praxis.

Andrew Shanks has written in Civil Society, Civil Religion of the need for liturgy to be indigenous in the sense of working through those historical memories that are most live for a particular culture or nation. One of the ways Redcrosse tries to build on English history is by incorporating the elements of the forest, air, water and fire into its symbolism. The four elements could be seen to echo the Celtic Christianity that existed in Britain before it was replaced by the Roman form. This Celtic Christianity was more in touch with nature, understood as creation. Indeed, the forest section of the liturgy and its corresponding canticle could be seen as beginning to recuperate some of what was lost when Druidism, with its sacred groves, was marginalised by Christianity. Air (wind/breath/spirit/pneuma), water and fire all have Christian resonances as well, of course, whilst wood principally recalls the cross within the Christian imaginary. By having four elements, the authors are able to make a link between them (as perhaps encompassing all of life) with the four sections of the English flag. This in turn is connected to the red cross of the flag, which is taken to symbolize blood: ‘our own lifeblood, not earned but given us; and of God’s blood’ (15). This blood refers as well to St. George’s wounds in the fight with the dragon, based on one of Spenser’s wounded knights falling into a pool of water but thereby gaining the strength to fight on.

The use of Spenser’s poem enables a vital conceptual and political shift. ‘Spenser’s particular contribution…is to make St. George…a symbol of spiritual life as an unceasing, restless, troubled yet hopeful, quest for holiness’ (3). Following Spenser, the quest is a major theme of the liturgy, which is physically enacted in travelling around to the four elemental stations. Yet what is most significant, in my view, is the re-fashioning of holiness into a form of spirituality concerned with national and civic life, with the attempts to counter propaganda and ideology through thoughtfulness and an apophatic sensibility. Holiness has often been seen as an individual concern with an inward morality, and it is not surprising that ‘holiness churches’ have not always avoided sectarian tendencies. Redcrosse seeks to avoid this danger by understanding the question for holiness (which is in fact an important aspect of Jewish and Christian scripture) as a quest for maximum thoughtfulness and engagement with civic life.

The quality of writing was very high. The musical composition and performance (by Acoustic Triangle and the Choir of Royal Holloway College) was excellent. Redcrosse was a very affecting experience that I will continue to reflect on. I would appreciate comments as an aid to further reflection and conversation.

Anti-fundamentalist trinity?

According to Andrew Shanks the first person of the godhead is experienced most clearly in instances of serious cross-cultural hospitality; especially when that involves re-thinking our lives in the light of the encounter with the other person and culture. One example is the way in which the early church theologians tried to negotiate between their Greek and Jewish heritages. The second person is most clearly encountered in instances of building solidarity; especially with those with whom we do not normally associate (so across ‘confessional’ boundaries of all kinds). One example is the way the early church had to build solidarity amongst slaves and masters, Jews and Greeks, males and females. The third person is encountered most especially in those attempts to organize groups and institutions in a creative manner to meet new challenges and conditions. One example being the way the early church had to invent new forms and rules as it went along to express its ideas about how they should live together.

Shanks readily admits that one doesn’t need to be a believer in any sort of theism to regard these as virtues, so what does it mean to say that, not only are these virtues, but that in them we encounter three concrete instances of god? It means, he says, that the demands here are infinite. There can never be enough hospitality to others, or solidarity across boundaries, or improvement of institutions.

I think this is a fascinating and brilliant use of trinitarian theology. What strikes me is the way that it seems intrinsically anti-fundamentalist because it keeps itself open to others and the truths they have found both in vulnerable hospitality and in solidarity. This requires a certain kind of honesty, the kind that looks for truth more in self-critique than in self-assertion (as he says elsewhere). And so that self-critique can be applied to our institutions in order to improve them.

More from Bretherton

The first chapter is called ‘Faith-Based Organizations and the Emerging Shape of Church-State Relations’ and looks at how FBO’s and the state related in the UK in practice at the moment. The next chapter draws on the work of community organizer Alinsky to draw out an Augustinian political theology for such local work. The basic message of chapter 1 is that FBOs should be wary of working with the state in its current form because the state tends to co-opt FBOs by making them work on the state’s terms and in the state’s way so that it loses they may lose their distinctive nature as faith groups. This is not to say FBOs should never work with the state, only that they must be wary of the following dangers.

Terms like ‘faith community’ or FBO (and ‘social capital’) gloss over real and important differences in practices and beliefs between, often resulting in making everything subservient to some social policy goal (e.g. social cohesion). This may not respect or reflect the self-understanding of those groups. But the market model of provision encourages groups to compete with one another for resources, and therefore see one another as rivals, which works against social cohesion.

There is also the problem of ‘institutional isomorphism’ – one institution becoming like another. This may be forced (e.g. forbidding proselytising as a condition of funding), or mimetic (attempting to be like everyone else), or normative (e.g. through professionalization – end up having to have the same qualifications and procedures as others).

Bretherton critques the Rawlsian liberal settlement that limits religion to the private sphere for three main reasons. It seeks to avoid conflict over ultimate meaning; we are inhibited from hearing about people’s motivations in the public sphere and thus cannot really understand their motivations and so cannot get to know them; it  excludes non-verbal communication and different styles of argumentation (especially ‘greeting, rhetoric, and storytelling’ and ‘embodied witness and symbolic action’).

There follows a review of the theological politics of Hauerwas, RC teaching and the O’Donovans, with which Bretherton is in sympathy. Churches should work with the state on an ad hoc basis but what the church really has to offer the stat is ‘its ability to open new horizons, provide new languages of description, and embody alternative practices. This contribution is sustained by the worship life of the church’. The O’Donovans ‘see the church as the paradigmatic social body or good society.’ Political order should take its clues from the church.

Chapters 3 and 4 are a discussion of refugees and the sanctuary movement, and political consumerism, respectively. Both are equally excellent. A summary of guidelines for action is presented in the conclusion.

1) listen to scripture and neighbours to work out who is the neighbour to be loved and what common need to pursue

2) act locally first: that’s the primary arena

3) create relationships and associations rather than rely first on bureaucracy or law

4) the church’s life is sustained by worship

5) take seriously the ordinary patterns of life ‘as occasions for neighbor love and part of the penumbra of worship.’

6) not just pastoral or humanitarian intervention but trying to be structural

7) embody a ‘generative contradiction’ rather than just saying yes or no to the status quo

8) look to self-organization and mutual support before looking to state or market

All this seems like good advice and I would largely agree with where Bretherton is coming from theoretically too. But I do have a few questions and concerns.

Is the church really a paradigmatic society in practice? Maybe it is sometimes at the local level. Does it have a distinctive politics? Maybe sometimes if understood with a small ‘p’. But we should be wary of assuming any easy conversion from that to statecraft or social policy. Perhaps sometimes the church can suggest better practices than current policy (e.g. hospices, conflict resolution, restorative justice, Alinsky?), but one should accept that also the church is a moral force for bad too (contraception, homosexuality, patriarchy).

It’s not so much the positions here as the tone that concerns me. I know that Bretherton and the O’Donovans etc are fully aware the church is imperfect but I’m not sure that this always makes it through sufficiently into their theology. For instance, Andrew Shanks’ Civil Society, Civil Religion seems preferable on this point because he looks at how the church needs to change given its past failures and the current political culture (including civil society, propaganda, the ideals of freedom). Bretherton claims that ‘the link between Christianity and democracy is best understood as an exploratory and mutually disciplining partnership.’ This is a very interesting idea, but it is Shanks’ book that explores what that disciplining means for the church, not Bretherton. This is not a big criticism, it is merely a question of focus, but the two volumes are worth comparing in that respect. Shanks, for instance, thinks that new social movements are often morally superior groups to the church. It is hard to see the O’Donovans saying something like this, and I’m not sure Bretherton would either.

Another example: Bretherton suggests that the church is a ‘public constituted by its worship life but that as precisely this it is the free or truly public space in which civil society can be re-formed.’ Do we really want to say it is ‘the’ space for the renewal of civil society rather than ‘a’ space? To be fair, Bretherton does list a lot of examples of the church doing just that, but I’m just wary there’s a slight tinge of triumphalism here. But perhaps I’m being over-sensitive.

Shanks on Christianity and the church

As indicated in the previous post, Andrew Shanks also discusses the idea of the church containing within itself a trajectory that moves it beyond itself. He discusses this in his excellent book Civil Society, Civil Religion. He takes it from Hegel. By contrast with Altizer, for whom Christianity moves beyond the church and beyond a transcedent God; and by contrast with Zizek, for whom an atheist dialectical materialism must go through the ‘Christian experience’ and thereby claim Christianity and hope that the church dissolves, Shanks still thinks the church can exist legitimately, but only if it is reformed.

Shanks thinks that theology is a reflection on history and that one of the theologian’s tasks is to discern revelation within history. For Shanks, the history of the twentieth century has been revelation in a sense that relativizes the church’s claims to superiority, either of knowledge or of morality. In brief, the church is there to try to witness to and, so far as possible, embody a ‘shaking’ experience; but other religions do the same, each in their own way. What Christianity needs to learn then, is that the idea of there being no salvation outside the church is actually a form of church propaganda and ideology and needs to be dropped. The principle task of religious language is to try to put us in the way of shaking experiences. It is not to create a metaphysics that we can be certain is an accurate description of the world. Such truth-as-correctness is secondary to truth-as-openness to being shaken.  A good comparison would be with Heidegger’s concern in Being and Time to recover the encounter with Being that the tradition of ontology has covered over.

Openness to being shaken is the key because it helps generate solidarity with others across confessional bounds, and that is what is needed above all. Any number of philosophies or religions can help people achieve this. This is what ‘salvation’ is about, not holding certain beliefs. But such openness is needed in political culture as well as on the individual level, and this is where institutional religion comes in. Openness to shaking experiences is too effervescent to be relied upon as a political motivation, and so its memory needs to be retained through public liturgy, poetry that points us to shaking experiences that we try to appropriate for today. The church is there to do this, to contribute to the political culture of a locale and country, not to serve itself. The church must be kenotic or self-effacing, oriented beyond itself, and in this sense also is relativized. Of course there are other ways to sustain an openness to shakenness but religion is both widespread and has a strong grip on many people.

There are some parallels with Alinsky and (on some interpretations) Augustine. Alinsky advocated community organization that worked with the grain of existing communities and institutions, because that’s the only way to get things done most of the time. (I’ve taken this from Bretherton’s recent book to which I hope to return in a future post). In the end, Shanks is a theist and a reformer, not an atheist or revolutionary. He still values the church as having the potential to do good politically and culturally, so long as it is changed. The task is surely an uphill struggle and not guaranteed to succeed. But given the prevalence of religion and the unlikely scenario of its disappearance, such reform seems the only way to go. But pragmatism is not Shanks’ only reason for this strategy. He also thinks that solidarity between intellectuals and non-intellectuals helps to generate good conversation that is more likely to generate truth and shakenness than the solidarity of philosophers qua philosophers (which he calls ‘Gnosticism’).

Why apologetics is unChristian

Andrew Shanks makes the basic but important point that one of the central confusions in the Christian tradition is (and has always been) a tying of ‘salvation’ to doctrinal correctness rather than existential openness to truth. The latter is far more important in that being truly thoughtful keeps people open to conversation and to learning, prevents them from being bigoted, enables them to change their mind, and so forth. Yet Christianity has always insisted on one particular formation of metaphysics as necessary to salvation coupled with membership of the church. If one conceives of salvation abstractly, as post-mortem guarantees, then you can perhaps get away with this. But if you ask what difference salvation is meant to make here and now, quite clearly true thoughtfulness is what matters. It is entirely possible to be orthodoxly Christian and bigoted, homophobic, racist, sexist and so on. And it is clearly equally possible to be truly thoughtful and open and be atheist, Muslim, Hindu, or whatever.

Yet, notwisthstanding the sincerity and good intentions of those involved, apologetics seems to rest entirely on this mistake, and as such, runs completely counter to the gospel as I see it. There’s obviously nothing wrong with people becoming Christians if it contributes to their liberation and helps them liberate those around them. But it would be better for Christians to be interested in helping Muslims become more thoughtful Muslims, and atheists more thoughtful atheists, in conversations in which Christians were becoming more thoughtful Christians at the same time (rather than helping others be more thoughtful from a position of assumed superiority).

stuttering theological thoughts on Egypt et al

I haven’t said anything about the unrest in North Africa and Middle East because I’m under-qualified, knowing almost nothing about the politics or history until now. But I’ll try to at least hazard something theological about it (largely inspired by the (much underrated) work of Andrew Shanks I’ve been reading lately). Insofar as these movements and revolutions express the desire for greater freedom for individuals and political cultures I think we should see God in this, a potential moment of revelation in history, though it’s probably still too early to assess it properly. Insofar as there has been trans-confessional solidarity, between Muslims, Christians and secularists, this again is surely a sign of God, God at work perhaps. (The apparent spontaneity of of this solidarity only makes it more remarkable and impressive). Insofar as people are putting forward ideas for the concrete shape of a new political culture, and attempting to build a political culture more open to dissent, to individual freedom of action, of greater transparency in the function of law, and of a government subordinate to law, this surely we would also want to see as involving God.

I think we could go a step further and say that the surge for greater freedom is in some way especially connected to what Christians think of as the second ‘person’ of the trinity, because of the way it is tied up with the symbol of cross and resurrection, seeing this with Hegel as a universal affirmation of individuality. We could say that the trans-confessional solidarity generated here is especially connected to the first ‘person’, as the prime symbol (within Christian theology) of the universality of God, God as god of all people irrespective of doctrinal belief. And further, this trans-confessional solidarity, is it not an important moment of ‘salvation’ (to use the now much jaded language, but to use it hopefully to freshen it up a bit)? And if so doesn’t the very trans-confessional nature of this salvation point to the need to cut the link between salvation and metaphysical schemes? That is, it is not the doctrinal beliefs of the Muslims/secularists/Christians that matter so much as their willingness to join in solidarity and be open to hearing one another’s voices. And, finally, if they continue to do listen to one another, especially if they are enabled to contribute to a new constitution and the like, isn’t this (to use the traditional language again) a sign of the work of the Holy Spirit: building better institutions?

How has this helped? Yes, most of us are for freedom, etc, but doesn’t the linking of various aspects of these movements to various persons of the trinity just distract attention from more important matters such as political strategy for the people, etc? Probably it does, and probably theology, like philosophy, will only be able to assess it all after the fact, when the owl of Minerva has taken flight. I’m in no position to offer strategic advice to protesters. But this sort of thinking does serve one purpose, at least. In identifying these uprisings with the work of God and/or as a revelation of God (which is not by any means to say one should give democracy divine sanction!), one puts the priority very much with freedom, dissent, the value of individuality and good institutions (that are good partly because they can recognise and respect that individuality). And this at least is a contrast with those who value, above all, whatever keeps the current order in place. For instance, the way in which the US has been more concerned with its interests than supporting the various peoples. As understandable as that may be from a politician’s point of view it points up an important contrast between realpolitik and what I would regard as a proper religious attitude to the current events. (I’m also thinking a little bit of the tone of the Economist’s coverage last week (esp.) and this, though perhaps that is slightly unfair as an example). One recalls Hegel’s speculative statement of the identity of religion and state, i.e. we don’t yet know what either could be.

If theology is an interpretation of history we clearly don’t yet have the historical distance to do the theology with any modicum of assurance, but I think this is where I would begin.

The self-dissolving church?

One of the implications that could be drawn from the work of James Alison and Andrew Shanks (and also Theodore Jennings in Transforming atonement) is for the church to try to be a society or culture that is coherent and yet capable of maximum openness to disintegrative truth without disintegrating. To try to maintain a way of life and understanding that is as wise and truthful as it can see by its own lights, whilst being open to the possibility of other truths from other quarters. To try to be forgiving and open to all, universally inclusive. And yet in this way to be constantly on the verge of dissolving itself, because it is open to critique from others and from itself, open to changing its way of being depending on the influences it encounters. This would be an institutional embodiment of repentance and humility. Clearly extremely difficult. Shanks in fact thinks it is the most difficult form of society to create because it tries to hold together maximum space for and respect to dissidence with the coherency of a (malleable!) Sittlichkeit. I’m not sure any organization would want to claim to live up to this, and I’m not sure how far it’s even possible (how much patience do people have for the negative moment, bearing in mind this is a community open to those who will never read Hegel?!), and yet it seems to me to be a most worthy aim for a polity.

Shanks defines theology

Andrew Shanks, God and Modernity:

Philosophers, surely, may speak about God without being theologians, in discussing the intrinsic logic of theistic ideas; as may sociologists, psychologists, anthropologists or historians, in discussing the attitudes towards God of other people. Theology is different just because it implies a direct personal commitment, to God, on the part of the thinker. Which, in turn, then takes shape in and through a range of further commitments: social, cultural and political.

In the first instance, one might therefore say that to do theology is –at that particular level which is marked out by a discourse about God –to se about analysing the provenance, and the implications, of one’s own loyalties. Abstracting from the particularity of the actual social, cultural, (anti-?) political struggles which the loyalties in question serve to inform, theology attempts to provide a frame for those struggles, of the most universal validity.

Hence, it has three basic interconnected tasks:

(a)   to define a set of key loyalty-focusing concepts, as such;

(b)  to unfold those concepts into a set of paradigmatic narratives, for the interpretation of current struggles; and

(c)   to help shape a suitable strategy of ritual practice, understood as the worship of God, for the public appropriation of both concepts and narratives.