Diana Butler Bass2013-06-19T07:15:20-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=diana-butler-bassCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Diana Butler BassGood old fashioned elbow grease.On World Environment Day, Time to Retire St. Bonifacetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.33873042013-06-05T10:11:45-04:002013-06-05T10:17:47-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
June 5 also marks the Feast Day of St. Boniface (672-754), the patron saint of Germany, who is credited with establishing Christianity among ancient Germanic tribal peoples.
The most famous incident in St. Boniface's life happened around 723. Boniface arrived in the village of Geismar and began to preach the Christian Gospel at the base of Thor's Oak, the sacred tree of the Germans. To prove the superiority of the Christian God over Thor, Boniface took an axe to the tree beseeching Thor to strike him dead if he cut the holy oak. According to the legend, Thor failed to respond and Boniface felled the tree, aided by a great wind that, as if by miracle, blew the ancient oak over. The terrified pagans deserted Thor and embraced the Christian God. Boniface promptly took the sacred splinters and made a cross, and eventually used the rest of the wood to build a church where the tree once stood.
That World Environment Day and a feast day for an axe-wielding, tree-chopping Christian saint fall on the same date seems strangely -- and sadly -- ironic.
In his seminal 1967 article, "The Historical Roots of Our Ecological Crisis," UCLA professor Lynn White blamed Christianity for the global environmental crisis:
Especially in its Western form, Christianity is the most anthropocentric religion the world has seen. As early as the 2nd century both Tertullian and Saint Irenaeus of Lyons were insisting that when God shaped Adam he was foreshadowing the image of the incarnate Christ, the Second Adam. Man shares, in great measure, God's transcendence of nature. Christianity, in absolute contrast to ancient paganism and Asia's religions (except, perhaps, Zorastrianism), not only established a dualism of man and nature but also insisted that it is God's will that man exploit nature for his proper ends.
White's analysis shaped much of the conversation between Christianity and environmentalism over the last four decades -- an uneasy relationship if ever there has been one. Many environmentalists follow White, seeing Christianity as a major problem in the face of global climate change and environment crises. Indeed, studies show that theologically conservative Christians overwhelmingly reject global warming, animal rights, environmental activism and species protection.
Despite St. Boniface and his lasting influence of western culture, however, Christianity may not be completely lost to the global environmental movement. Indeed, even Lynn White pointed out that some strands of Christian tradition-most notably represented by St. Francis of Assisi, the nature-embracing saint-spoke to an "alternative Christian view of nature and man's relation to it." He proposed that St. Francis be the "patron saint of ecologists." In one of the most provocative passages in his paper, White said:
Both our present science and our present technology are so tinctured with orthodox Christian arrogance toward nature that no solution for our ecologic crisis can be expected from them alone. Since the roots of our trouble are so largely religious, the remedy must also be essentially religious, whether we call it that or not. We must rethink and re-feel our nature and destiny. The profoundly religious, but heretical, sense of the primitive Franciscans for the spiritual autonomy of all parts of nature may point a direction. I propose Francis as a patron saint for ecologists.
St. Francis is of course, a better-remembered and more beloved figure than St. Boniface. But,on this World Environment Day, I can't help but think that far too many Christians give lip service to Francis while still acting like Boniface. For the sake of all creation, I think we need to embrace Lynn White's 1967 suggestion: to stop cutting down sacred oaks in favor of following St. Francis, "the greatest radical in Christian history since Christ," who according to White, "tried to depose man from his monarchy over creation and set up a democracy of all God's creatures."
To White's proposal, I say: Amen. Time to retire St. Boniface and embody St. Francis' way instead.]]>The Radical History Of Mothers Daytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.32593262013-05-11T11:23:36-04:002013-05-12T09:52:47-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
Let's correct that impression by saying: Happy Radical Mother's Day.
In May 1907, Anna Jarvis, a member of a Methodist congregation in Grafton, West Virginia, passed out 500 white carnations in church to commemorate the life of her mother. One year later, the same Methodist church created a special service to honor mothers. Many progressive and liberal Christian organizations -- like the YMCA and the World Sunday School Association -- picked up the cause and lobbied Congress to make Mother's Day a national holiday. And, in 1914, Democratic President Woodrow Wilson made it official and signed Mother's Day into law. Thus began the modern celebration of Mother's Day in the United States.
For some years, radical Protestant women had been agitating for a national Mother's Day hoping that it would further a progressive political agenda that favored issues related to women's lives. In the late 19th century, Julia Ward Howe (better know for the "Battle Hymn of the Republic") expressed this hope in her 1870 prose-poem, "A Mother's Day Proclamation" calling women to pacifism and political resistance:
Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts! Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly...
"Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil
At the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace...
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, But of God -
Years later, Anna Jarvis intended the new holiday to honor all mothers beginning with her own -- Anna Reeves Jarvis, who had died in 1905. Although now largely forgotten, Anna Reeves Jarvis was a social activist and community organizer who shared the political views of other progressive women like Julia Ward Howe.
In 1858, Anna Reeves Jarvis organized poor women in Virginia into "Mothers' Work Day Clubs" to raise the issue of clean water and sanitation in relation to the lives of women and children. She also worked for universal access to medicine for the poor. Reeves Jarvis was also a pacifist who served both sides in the Civil War by working for camp sanitation and medical care for soldiers of the North and the South.
Although I've never seen it on a pastel flowered greeting card, Mother's Day honors a progressive feminist, inclusive, non-violent vision for world community -- born in the imagination of women who devoted themselves to God, not Caesar.
Happy Radical Mother's Day!]]>A National Day of Prayer and Reasontag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.32054272013-05-03T10:21:12-04:002013-05-03T10:28:23-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/National Day of Prayer. Since 1952, Congress has set aside the first Thursday in May as an annual observance for Americans to pray for the nation.
May 2 was also the National Day of Reason, a competing celebration of philosophy, reason and the separation of church and state. First declared by humanists in 2003, the Day of Reason has been garnering more attention each successive year.
One group argues that America needs prayer more than ever before; the other says that America is in dire need of reason. We've enrolled prayer and reason as weapons in the culture wars.
I'd like to offer a different proposal: How about a National Day for Prayer and Reason? Because there are plenty of Americans who do not want to separate the two.
Although there certainly exist irrational people of faith and atheists who think prayer is talking to an invisible friend, many more of us occupy a middle ground -- those who understand prayer as a way of participating in realities beyond the scope of mere rationality who, at the same time, understand reason as a reflection of divine beauty.
Thoughtful Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus share the same logical -- and even scientific -- understanding that the universe is more than matter, that what we know and experience through reason is a partial view of the great mystery and miracle of the cosmos. Prayer is not about asking heavenly blessings on earthly endeavors. Rather, in its best sense, prayer is joining into a stream of longing for a better world, for abundant life, for goodness, mercy and justice. Indeed, when Jesus directed his followers to pray, he pointed out that prayer was intended to make these desires visible. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as in heaven," is not a prayer to gain holy benefit for one's self. Instead, the words open human beings to the possibility that there is a way of life reflecting a universal desire for peace and justice. Prayer is both participation in and the embodiment of a kind of human community that goes beyond what we can immediately comprehend by our senses.
To recognize prayer as important is not to reject reason. Indeed, for many centuries, western religions recognized "the beauty of reason." During the Enlightenment, Christians and Jews acknowledged reason as a powerful, life-changing force. In the 17th century, European religion was moving out of a time when theological passions had resulted in schism, excommunications, exile, witch-hunts, inquisitions and war. Critical thought provided welcome relief from religious excess. Reason muted the fervor of theological hubris and wild spiritual speculation providing each person the capacity to think for him- or herself, to judge rightly, to make good choices. Reason sowed seeds of freedom and human rights. For many Enlightenment thinkers, reason did not oppose religion. Rather, reason softened religion's sharp edges by providing balance, harmony and order in a world ruled by a seemingly capricious God. Reason was beautiful.
It was also mystical. Literature is full of accounts of people transformed by words, ideas and books -- as a growing industry of popular novels taught both men and women that logic and literacy opened the way to full humanity. Priests and professors wore the same garb; the church and the college embraced a common mission. In early modern depictions of reason, angels accompanied reason, crowning it with laurels of wisdom and justice. Often personified as a god or goddess, reason bestowed divine gifts on humankind. Indeed, people were tempted to worship reason as she had opened for them a new way of understanding themselves and ordering society. Indeed, reason was divine.
In our time of foolish fundamentalisms and reactionary unbeliefs, the last thing America needs is competing proclamations of prayer versus reason. But we surely could use a day reminding us that together prayer and reason witness to the limits of what we know and the human capacity to keep pressing the boundaries of what we do. Indeed, a proclamation for a Day of Prayer and Reason might well begin with these words from the late astrophysicist Carl Sagan:
Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality. When we recognize our place in an immensity of light-years and in the passage of ages, when we grasp the intricacy, beauty, and subtlety of life, then that soaring feeling, that sense of elation and humility combined, is surely spiritual ... The notion that science and spirituality are somehow mutually exclusive does a disservice to both.
The first Thursday in May 2014: The First National Day of Prayer and Reason. Join me.]]>RIP: The Death of Protestant Politicstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31944822013-05-01T14:01:46-04:002013-05-01T16:41:28-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
Those obituary notices, however, are the only time the two were on the same page. In life, they were opposites in faith and politics. Howard Phillips, a layman, helped establish the new Christian Right. Bob Edgar, a United Methodist minister, was a liberal seminary president and former head of the National Council of Churches.
Reading the twinned death notices was a like reviewing a history of twentieth century Protestantism. Over the last century, conflict rent American Protestantism in two: Protestant fundamentalism found mostly in evangelical and non-denominational churches; Protestant liberalism preached and practiced primarily in mainline churches. Phillips, a fundamentalist, and Edgar, a liberal, represented and embodied these two parties in American religion. And their lives - as well as their passing - points to both the successes and the erosion of what was once the America's majority religious tradition.
In the last years of the 20th century, both fundamentalist and liberal Protestantism underwent huge transformations. A key player in the ascendency of political fundamentalism, Howard Phillips helped move conservative theology to the center of the Republican Party, forging links between economic and social conservatives. According to Julie Ingersoll, religious studies professor at University of North Florida and expert on the Religious Right, "It's hard to overstate Phillips' influence in the transformation of the more secular mid-century conservatism of Barry Goldwater and William F. Buckley into today's religiously-inflected conservatism." Although Phillips would later reject the Republicans to found the Constitution Party, his influence remains strong among various conservative political interest groups, Christian home-schooling movements, and Tea-Party evangelicals.
Robert "Bob" Edgar was not as historically lucky. By the time he came into national religious leadership, the mainline Protestant religious community was in decline. Although the institutions he inherited had once been significant players in both religion and politics, by the late 20th century they were plagued by membership loss and identity crises and burdened by unresponsive institutional bureaucracies. Amid the decline, however, Edgar spoke powerfully for Protestant social justice, served in Congress, saved an important seminary from closure, and injected new life into the National Council of Churches. His life and ministry demonstrated the best of his tradition, reminding Americans that liberal Protestantism, while numerically smaller than it once had been, still played a significant social role to defend the poor and marginalized
As leaders of their respective communities of conservative and liberal Protestants, Phillips and Edgar excelled. Whatever their theology and politics, however, and with whomever one happens to agree, they also were contributing - somewhat unwittingly - to the overall decline of American Protestantism.
In 1960, when Phillips and Edgar were young men, Protestants made up 66% of the population and were a strong religious majority in a nation of diverse faiths. By 2012, the percentage of Protestants in the United States slipped to 48%, making American Protestantism for the first time ever in the nation's history a minority faith (a large minority, to be sure, but still a minority). To be sure, the decline hit liberal mainline churches first. Since 1995, however, large declines have happened in both liberal and conservative Protestant churches. Although both fundamentalism and liberalism show some local strength, and the religious right demonstrates continued political influence, American Protestantism as a whole is becoming a shadow of its historic self.
So, where have all the Protestants gone? They are swelling the ranks of America's fastest growing religious group: the "nones," also called the "unaffiliateds." And why are they leaving church? According to a recent Pew survey, 67% of the "nones" report that they are angry that religious institutions are "too involved with politics." Evidently, a large number of Americans see religion as contributing to the nation's partisan divide instead of being part of the solution. For whatever meaningful work either Phillips or Edgar did, their legacies remain with us: a fractured and declining Protestant community, one with little patience for faith and partisanship, a theologically thinned understanding of politics, and increasing attention on institutional survival and personal piety rather than the common good.
I am a liberal, mainline Protestant and have always admired and largely agreed with Bob Edgar. And I have long criticized the Religious Right. But the odd coincidence of their passing gives pause, inviting reflection on the relationship between faith and politics in our society. What has this long century of Protestant conflict and division cost us a nation, whether one is a Protestant or not, in terms of our moral, ethical, and theological resources? Might there be a better way for Protestant politics in the future, a way that heals instead of wounds? Or, is this the final RIP to the old Protestant political culture? Whether one is a conservative or a liberal, a Protestant, Catholic, Jew or Muslim, Phillips' and Edgar's last gift may be to remind us that political power and devout faith are a potent and sometimes oft-putting blend. As the recent history of American Protestantism proves, when faith becomes the servant of partisan politics, even a great religious tradition can lose its soul.]]>The Future of Faithtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31481752013-04-24T13:15:10-04:002013-04-24T14:31:43-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
I replied, echoing Dr. McCoy from the original Star Trek, "I don't know. I'm a historian, not a soothsayer."
Strangely enough, people think that historians know the future and believe that past holds some insight to where we might be heading.
Last year, I finally gave in to the pressure of prognostication and tackled the question of the future of faith in my book, "Christianity After Religion." In it, I suggested that religious traditions -- most particularly Christianity -- are being reshaped through an intense global interest in spiritual experience and personal faith. As old structures of religious life erode, new patterns of faith are forming. These new patterns are changing the way people engage established religions, in everything from congregational life to theology to doing justice. Across the religious spectrum, many people have no language to describe their longings, using instead the term "spiritual" to indicate their frustration with the current state of religious institutions and their hopes for new connections of meaning, purpose, and faith. In the book, I offered a framework for understanding the transformation of faith around three basic questions: How do I believe? What should I do with my life? Whose am I?
Throughout, I explored past movements that remade religious life -- the Franciscan revolution, the Protestant Reformation, the Wesleyan revival and the three Great Awakenings of North America -- and concluded that the conflict, confusion and dismay around contemporary religion might not signal decline but a new awakening. Awakenings, however, do not arrive on chariots of fire from heaven. Indeed, for genuine reformation to occur, people of faith must work to make it so.
Over the last year, it has become increasingly clear that there are two significant cultural forces reshaping the religious future: 1) the rise of the "unaffiliateds," including atheists, agnostics, humanists, "spiritual but not religious" and post-theists; and 2) the rise of religious pluralism and immigrant faith in everyday life throughout the West.
The first group, the unaffiliated, is largely uninterested in conventional religion, embracing humanism, non-specific forms of spirituality, or post-institutional forms of community. Their concern with old-fashioned religious questions is waning, as is their commitment to religious structures of the past. They are, by all reports, angry at the admixture of religion and politics that has roiled American life over the last three decades, and prefer more inclusive, less dogmatic but more pragmatic politics.
The second, those from other world religions and immigrant faiths, are more -- rather than less -- convinced of the importance of religion in society. Minority religions are surging into the public square building new worship spaces, wearing distinctive dress and pressing for rights in public schools. As is often the case in American history, immigrants become more committed to God and the church upon arrival here as traditional faith provides avenues of comfort and security in a new world.
The American religious future will be made as Christians engage these emerging cultures in meaningful, life-giving ways. It would be possible to ignore humanists, atheists and the "spiritual-but-not-religious" and insult them as lazy, boring, individualistic or uncommitted; to call them a-moral. But what good would that do? Confirm the idea that Christians are narrow minded bigots, that's what. And others might -- as a person I recently encountered suggested -- want to limit the constitutional protections of religious freedom to only Christians and Jews. And what would that accomplish? A new crusade? Of course, we could always hunker down and wait for our children to get married and have families and return to church. Not going to happen. If history tells us anything, it would be that these are not good choices. Act in these ways and it will guarantee that that people will have less patience for religion rather than more.
Instead, I suggest that those who care about that their churches survive to the future try something new: Listen to the new voices, hear what is being said about conventional religiosity and church life, and change thoughtfully and wisely. Right now, the church does not need to convert the world. Rather, the world needs to convert the church. The unaffiliated, I suspect, would like to see a more humble form of faith from churches and denominations, an active, authentic way of life in line with biblical practices of hospitality, forgiveness, friendship, service and generosity. New immigrants, I am certain, would benefit from a display of the same! It is time for people of faith to be our very best, most creative, most open-minded, most neighborly selves, not otherwise.
What if the path toward awakening is simple? Embracing faith as if we really mean it, not worrying about institutional power or rich congregations, living out the teachings of Moses and Jesus, sharing with others, seeking to be at peace with all, loving our neighbors as ourselves?
Sometimes we say, "whatever the future holds," but perhaps we must believe, "the future is ours to make." History cannot tell us what the future will be, but maybe it can surely empower us to act.
On Thursday, April 25, HuffPost Religion blogger Diana Butler Bass and New York Times columnist Ross Douthat will engage in conversation about the "Future at Faith" at Yale Divinity School at 3 p.m. EDT. You can watch on Livestream.]]>Being With God, A Different Holy Weektag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29491332013-03-27T11:28:25-04:002013-05-27T05:12:01-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
In her long-ago fevered haze, Julian received a series of visions of Jesus, which she wrote down in a book entitled Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love, the first English-language book to be written by a woman. She became known throughout the land as a spiritual authority, and many made pilgrimage to Norwich seeking her spiritual insight and counsel.
The Eighth Revelation, the heart of the book, concerns the Passion and the Cross, focusing on Jesus' pain and suffering. "Is any pain like this?" she wondered, "...Of all pains that lead to salvation this is the most pain, to see thy Love suffer. How might any pain be more to me than to see Him that is all my life, all my bliss, and all my joy, suffer?"
Recounting the vision, she ruminated on Jesus' mother Mary's suffering, the one who suffered more than any other in his death; then expanding the circle to include "all His disciples and all His true lovers suffer pain" at this death. In this community of pain, forged by the suffering of Jesus, Julian articulated one of her great theological insights: "Here saw I a great ONEING betwixt Christ and us: for when He was in pain, we were in pain."
To Julian, the Cross was about ONEING--the complete unity of God with us and us with God; and not only us as humans, but as she relates from the vision, the ONEING of "all creatures that suffer pain, suffer with Him...and the firmament, the earth, failed in sorrow" and the planets, all the elements, and even the stars despaired at Christ's dying. The cosmic circle of grief, emanating from Jesus' Passion, reveals that Jesus not only suffered for us; but he suffered with us--his death occurred for the sake of "Kinship and Love" with all this was, is, and will be.
On many a Good Friday, I have sat in a darkened church, listening to readings and music, all focused on the first preposition of the Passion's equation: Jesus suffered for us, for sinners, for the world, for me. But only rarely have I heard spiritual reflection on the second preposition: Jesus suffered with us, with sinners, with the world, with me.
I am a writer. I choose prepositions carefully. There is a huge difference between for and with. For is a preposition of distance, a word that indicates exchange or favor, it implies function or purpose. I do something for you; you do something for me. Notice: someone does something on behalf of or in another's place. For is a contract. Jesus suffered for us--means that Jesus did something on our behalf, he acted on behalf of a purpose, in place of someone else. For always separates the actor and recipient, distancing a sacrificial Jesus from those for whom he died. At the Cross, Jesus is the subject; we are objects.
By way of contrast, with is a preposition of relationship, implying accompaniment, or moving in the same direction. Rather than something done for you, with makes you participate in the action or transaction. With is the preposition of empathy, of sympathy, of being on the same side, of close association, of companionship. "No, you needn't go for me; I'll go with you." With is about joining in, being together.
For or with? Contract or relationship? Exchange or participation? Quid pro quo or friendship?
Much of the world glories in the for: you work for a political party or a policy or a cause, you write or sign legal contracts, you exchange votes, you trade favors; if you aren't for something, well, then, you are against it. We inhabit the land of quid pro quo.
If we are honest, with is a hard preposition in a fractured and divided world. Are you only with those who share your party or cause? Can the spoken word be trusted as much as the signed contract? Do you expect something in exchange for your name, time, or expertise? Is life a matter of cutting deals? We willingly betray others for our side, for our story, for our advantage. We hide parts of ourselves from our neighbors, withhold the sorts of secrets that weave regular relationships for fear someone will use something against us. We judge others on what they can do for us. We are for many things. But we are skeptical of with--indeed, much of what we do in the world makes us ridicule, doubt, and even fear with. It is safer to remain at a distance, to stay away from with.
When we come to the Cross on Good Friday, we probably have some sense of what the Passion was for. Many believe that Jesus exchanged himself for our sins, he is the God who died for me. So I offer myself back -- I might get saved or baptized or confirmed or serve the church. As part of the contract, the legal bargain, I escape Hell and go to Heaven. In a way, this understanding of the Cross is not terribly remarkable. People sacrifice and die for something or someone nearly every day. Of course, it is particularly sobering-as in the case of soldiers--when someone sacrifices or dies for my freedom or safety. Indeed, thinking that Jesus died for salvation may give pause, cause us to raise a prayer of thanks, feel sadness or relief; but ultimately, the idea that someone dies for something is theologically and spiritually uncomplicated.
But what if the Cross is not primarily about dying for anything? What if Holy Week intends to draw us deeply into being with God? With is complicated, shocking, frightening. Good Friday plunges us into with. Have you sacrificed with others? Have you walked the way of death with someone? Felt the power of the suffering love? Do you know, in every fiber of your being, the ONEING of God in Julian's visions? Do you feel Jesus dying with his Mother, with his friends, with us, with all creatures, with the firmament, with the planets and the elements? Can you embrace the mystical insight that, at Calvary, Jesus' Mother, friends, US, all creatures, the firmament, the planets and all elements died there with him, too?
The Cross isn't a contract between God and sinners; the Cross is God's definitive expression of kinship and love--that everything, everywhere, through all time, is connected in and through pain and suffering. We are with Jesus on the Cross, not at a distance from it, standing by, watching safely from afar; those are our hands and feet nailed, our blood dripping, our voices crying out "We thirst." And Jesus on the Cross, naked and mocked, is with us all on every broken-heartened, betrayal-laden, blood-soaked day of human history. That is God's Passion; that is Jesus' Cross. And, in the tortured Christ, we find the hope to endure, a love for others and creation, the power to enact God's dream of love and justice for the whole world. We are with God. God is with us. This is why the Cross should cause us to tremble, tremble. We tremble at the fearsome with of God.
The theme of being with God at the Cross is also explored in Denise Levertov's poem, "On a Theme from Julian's Chapter XX."]]>Where Was God in Newtown?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.23247712012-12-18T15:53:08-05:002013-02-17T05:12:01-05:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
Although the murders prompted many questions regarding the existence of God, why God allows such things and the problem of evil, one question stands out sharply from the rest: Where was God on that dreadful morning?
Generally, the answers fall into one of two camps. The first, proposed by many clergy, insists that God was present in the horror. The second, pronounced most starkly by Gov. Mike Huckabee, says that God was not there, "banished" as it were, by human sin. There is a raging argument on Facebook and on religion, spirituality and theology blogs between those who insist that God is with us and those insisting God has left us. Is God the Immanuel ("God-with-us") of Advent or the Judging God of violent apocalypse?
Answer 1: God Was Present.
For believers, this is the most comforting answer, and one with considerable biblical and theological merit. God is everywhere at all times and in all places. No human action or activity can limit, exile or destroy the God's mercy. As the Bible says, "Nothing can separate us from the love of God" (Romans 8:38). Thus, God was in the tears and fears of the children, comforting and holding them even as they suffered and died. God was -- and is -- with the grieving parents. And, most especially, God was in the heroic actions of those who stood up to the shooter. God was present in the teachers, the principal, the police and the first responders. God is in all and through all. Even in the worst of events, God still shows purposeful love and accomplishes divine will.
Answer 2: God Was Absent.
Even for some theists, the idea that God was present in the Sandy Hook School raises profound difficulties. If God was there, why didn't God stop the shooter? Why did God stand idly by while 20 babies were killed? The notion that God was present makes God uncaring at best, a monster at worst. Who wants to worship such a God? God must not have been there because an all-powerful God would have done something. Therefore, God was was not at Sandy Hook. God was absent. Of course, this raises the uncomfortable question as to why God was not there. Thus, some Christians, like Mike Huckabee, claim God was absent on account of human sin. We rejected God, so God abandons us to that sin -- until we repent and return to God and accept Jesus Christ as savior.
Thus, the debate continues. The God-was-present people are horrified by Mike Huckabee's remarks; the God-was-absent people are calling for Americans to repent and welcome both God and guns back to public schools.
But what about the rest of us? Those who reject the dueling answers and who are genuinely wrestling with God over the tragedy at Newtown?
I do not think that God was present in that Sandy Hook classroom -- anymore than I think that God was an active presence in the bombing of innocent civilians in any war, in the flames of the World Trade Center towers on 9/11, with the genocide in Dafur, or at the gas chambers of Auschwitz. Yes, I am a theist. Yet, with the deep honesty, I can admit that intentional acts of human cruelty challenge theism to its core. I am convinced that we talk about God at such times because any good and loving theist needs to talk him- or herself back to belief when body counts mount. To have the tender and kind heart that theism insists is the character of faith places one in the philosophically awkward situation of wondering if theism itself might be based on a malevolent divinity instead of a loving one. Our atheist friends have a genuine point.
To say that I do not think God was present, however, is not to say that God was absent in the way that some Christians have depicted. God may not have been in the broken soul of the shooter, the bullets, the wailing and the fear, but human sin and evil do not cause God abandon our schools, towns, culture or world. Gov. Huckabee's attribution of God's absence on the separation of church and state is, frankly, ridiculous. To remove prayer and Bible reading from public school curriculum does not mean that God has forsaken schools or school children. God may have not been there, but God was not absent on account of Democrats, gay people or secularization.
A Different Possibility: God Was Hidden.
There is an odd verse in the Hebrew Scriptures, Isaiah 45:15, "Truly, you are a God who hides himself, O God of Israel, the Savior."
Throughout history, theologians have wrestled with the idea of a "hidden God" from this text. Based on it, and other biblical stories of temptation and darkness, there developed a long tradition from the ancient church to Thomas Aquinas through Martin Luther, passed on by the French philosopher Pascal, to Dietrich Bonhoeffer and to modern "Death of God" and process theologians that ruminate on God incomplete or inaccessible. As Jesus himself cried out at the Cross, "My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?" Indeed, Christian thinkers actually coined a Latin term for God's absence, Deus Absconditus.
When we think of an absent God, we might think of an AWOL deity, of a God who conveniently escapes complications with human sin and suffering. Yet, the very idea of "absconditus" emphasizes God's "away-ness," as if aspects of the Divine are purposefully not revealed in the world, kept at a far distance. What would the world be like if everyone, everywhere claimed to have full knowledge of God? If there is a God, is there some aspect of that God reserved from human understanding? What room is there in the human soul for the God unknown?
And that's my answer: God was beyond Newtown, the God of lament, of loss, of anguish, the God hidden away.
As answers go, the hidden God will not completely satisfy and can never get to questions of motive. Isn't that the point? Somewhere, deep in our souls, we know we cannot know. The hidden God, I think, is the only God that makes any sense of Newtown: One neither and both present and absent; One in the hands of rescuers but not the hands that wielded the guns; One in the midst of murdered but not the act of murder. This is the God who is in all places and nowhere.
St. Ephrem the Syrian (d. 373), revered by Eastern Orthodox Christians, described the hidden God thus:
Lord, Your symbols are everywhere,
yet You are hidden from everywhere.
Though Your symbol is on high,
yet height does not perceive that You are;
though Your symbol is in the depth,
it does not comprehend who You are;
though Your symbol is in the sea,
You are hidden from the sea;
though Your symbol is on dry land,
it is not aware what You are.
Blessed is the Hidden One shining out!
Perhaps we might add: "Your symbol is love; though human hearts break."
The God Hidden is oddly discomforting yet somehow touches some truth of human experience -- we do not know where God is in the midst of evil. This is the answer of agnostic theology, the doubter's prayer, a possibility for those of us who are less than sure. I do not think many pundits will be talking about Deus Absconditus in the coming days, but I suspect this God is the one weeping for the children of Newtown.]]>Fox News' War on Adventtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.22792772012-12-11T17:11:05-05:002013-02-10T05:12:02-05:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
With FOX News seeking to expose those who refuse to say "Merry Christmas" as secular collaborators to the War on Christmas, I confess that I am confused. FOX holds itself up as the network that stands by traditional values defending America and faith from heresies and infidelities of all sorts.
Did FOX get the wrong memo? According to ancient Christian tradition, "Christmas" is not the December shopping season in advance of Christmas Day; rather, it is Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the Twelve Days following that run until early January. During most of December, Christians observe Advent, a four-week season of reflection, preparation and waiting that precedes the yearly celebration of Jesus' birth. In many mainstream and liturgical (and even liberal and progressive) churches, no Christmas hymn will pass the lips of a serious churchgoer for another two weeks. If you wander into a local Lutheran, Episcopal or Roman Catholic parish, the congregation will still be chanting the ethereal tones of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" or "Watchman, Tell Us of the Night." There are no poinsettias, no Christmas pageants, no trees or holly, and no red and green altar linens. A few days ago, they might have preached about St. Nicholas -- but not Santa Claus. There are no twinkling lights or over-the-top Christmas displays. Just four candles in a simple wreath, two partially burned, two yet to be lit. The mood is somber as December moves toward deeper darkness, and the night lengthens. The world waits, and it is time to prepare for the arrival of God's kingdom. It is not Christmas. It is Advent.
During these weeks, churches are not merry. There is a muted sense of hope and expectation. Christians recollect God's ancient promise to Israel for a kingdom where lion and lamb will lie down together. The ministers preach from stark biblical texts about the poor and oppressed being lifted up while the rich and powerful are cast down, about society being leveled and oppression ceasing. Christians remember the Hebrew prophets and long for a Jewish Messiah to be born. The Sunday readings extol social and economic justice, and sermons are preached about the cruelty of ancient Rome and political repression. Hymns anticipate world peace and universal harmony. Churchgoers listen to the testimony of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, who speaks of God:
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
Does FOX News want us all to say "Merry Christmas" so we forget about Advent? These, after all, are the four weeks that the Christian tradition dedicates to God's vision of justice for the outcast and oppressed, not to celebrating the sound of ringing cash registers or Victorian America values.
Ancient Christian saints, theologians and evangelists would be horrified that those who claim to stand for tradition have forgotten the most important aspect of it. Jesus Christ was not born that human beings would spend December shopping or saying, "Merry Christmas." Jesus was born to confront the rulers of this world with the love and justice of the God of Abraham -- that Jesus, the same Jesus who preached the the poor and marginalized were blessed, is the King of kings and Lord of lords. All earthly powers pale before him, the humble born one who will die a political traitor to Rome.
Perhaps FOX thinks it might be best if Christians did not spend too much time contemplating a Savior who promised to overthrow the powers-that-be in favor of a kingdom where the poor are blessed and the last shall be first. That's probably bad for business and does not exactly fit with their favored political philosophy.
And maybe, just maybe, the real war of this season is the War on Advent.
HuffPost Religion invites you to share your Advent reflections, experiences, stories and photos with us. Send them to religion@huffingtonpost.com and check out our Advent journal.]]>Progressives, Advent, and the End of the Worldtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.22209522012-12-02T08:38:44-05:002013-02-01T05:12:01-05:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/ People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these tings begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near (Luke 21:25-28).
On the first Sunday of Advent, the traditional New Testament readings used in worship in mainline Protestant and Catholic churches do not direct our attention toward the joys of the first Christmas. No anticipation of the sweet infant mild, a beautiful young mother, angelic choirs, or a star-filled winter sky. Silent Night is absent from this scene. Instead, Advent 1 slaps us with the uncertainty and violence of human history--signs of dread, floods, earthquakes, and "distress among nations," that cause people to "faint with fear." Those awaiting Luke's lovely story of Jesus' birth will be disappointed; this is less Luke and more like the Apocalypse.
For many of us raised with Christian apocalyptic books like The Late Great Planet Earth or the Left Behind series, images of world's end are worrisome. Progressive Christians shy away from preaching from texts like these. Over the last thirty years, we've seen end-times fears manipulated into the powerful political movement of a Christian American Right--complete with its careless disregard for the planet, the poor, and peace. Those of us more attracted to the Jesus' teaching in the Beatitudes or his prophetic politics may find Luke's end-times vision a little hard to take. We've had too much experience with a callous form of faith that does not seek to redeem the world and only wishes to escape it.
Before what we know as end-times Christianity, however, nineteenth-century liberal Protestants believed that Advent was the most appropriate part of the liturgical year to consider the signs of the times, to consider what it meant to await the end. They appreciated the poetic interplay of the first coming of Jesus with the anticipation of the second coming of Christ. Were these two distinct events, separated in time? What, exactly, is an "end"? How is Christmas, the most beloved of Christian holy days related to the wild depictions of cosmic desolation? The quiet coming of the gentle Lamb Jesus and the mighty roar of the Christ-the-Lion? The book of Revelation even conflates the two: "See the Lion of the tribe of Judah...Then I saw a Lamb."
Part of the problem with end-times theology is that western people see time as a line. We think in terms of beginning, middle, and end. Thus, to consider the "end times" is to anticipate the end of the world-as-we-know it, such as a universal devastation on the scale of the Mayan calendar ending in 2012, when history will cease to be. But the biblical texts of Advent point in another, more mysterious direction--that time is not a line. Rather, time is held in the being of God. Indeed, time is timeless. Think about it for just a moment: What do the divisions past, present, and future really mean? When does the present slip to the past? When does the future arrive? When is the now of the present? Isn't time much more of a wonder, a spiritual or philosophical question, than a line?
If we enter the Advent journey with a different perspective on time, the apocalyptic texts speak afresh. Indeed, the words of the liturgical prayer weekly reminds us of the mystery of God's redemptive time: Jesus has come; Jesus comes; Jesus will come. This is the dance of time, grace-filled steps that enact God's vision that the end-times are all times; that all times are the end-times. In this spirit of times-enfolded-in-time, we walk through Advent. Jesus has been born, but we act as if we are still waiting. Christ will return, yet Christ has already come.
What words better describe our world than those of Luke? "People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world." These are not words of some far-off moment in time. They are words of NOW: Our cities and churches are full of people who are afraid--afraid of loss of their jobs, of income, of health care, of decency, of safety, of change, of pluralism, of... of ... of ... The list of fears is nearly endless. Yet--be honest--has there ever really been a time in human history when we've not been filled with such fears? Luke's words are also the words of all of yesterdays. We may imagine that the past was better, safer, cleaner, or more stable, but that is not the case. We are a fragile lot, we humans, and our history is roiled with fear--and the stupid things that we humans do when we are afraid. And sadly, enough, they are probably the words of many of humanity's tomorrows. Apocalyptic theology does not augur escape; rather, it provides a profoundly realistic view of history--a view that should plunge us more deeply into the shalom of God-in-the-world.
Jesus says, "When you see these things, do not cower in fear, for your transformation is drawing near." Advent teaches us that in the darkest places of human oppression, the pain of hunger, and political distress that God's reign is among us. "Do not be caught off-guard by the fear-filled tides of history," Jesus warned. "But be mindful, praying for strength, that you may escape the fears that roil the earth, and may stand with God" (Luke 21:36).
Advent note: HuffPost Religion invites you to share your Advent reflections, experiences, stories and photos with us. Send them to religion@huffingtonpost.com and check out our Advent journal.
]]>Can Christianity Be Saved? A Response to Ross Douthattag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16748072012-07-15T16:55:21-04:002012-09-14T05:12:02-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
Many of the criticisms were mean-spirited or partisan, continuing a decade-long internal debate about the Episcopal Church's future. However, New York Times columnist Ross Douthat broadened the discussion, moving beyond inside-baseball ecclesial politics to ask a larger question: "Can Liberal Christianity be Saved?"
The question is a good one, for the liberal Christian tradition is an important part of American culture, from dazzling literary and intellectual achievements to great social reform movements. Mr. Douthat recognizes these contributions and rightly praises this aspect of liberal Christianity as "an immensely positive force in our national life."
Despite this history, however, Mr. Douthat insists that any denomination committed to contemporary liberalism will ultimately collapse. According to him, the Episcopal Church and its allegedly trendy faith, a faith that varies from a more worthy form of classical liberalism, is facing imminent death.
His argument, however, is neither particularly original nor true. It follows a thesis first set out in a 1972 book, Why Conservative Churches Are Growing by Dean Kelley. Drawing on Kelley's argument, Douthat believes that in the 1960s liberal Christianity overly accommodated to the culture and loosened its ties to tradition. This rendered the church irrelevant and led to a membership hemorrhage. Over the years, critics of liberal churches used numerical decline not only as a sign of churchgoer dissatisfaction but of divine displeasure. To those who subscribe to Kelley's analysis, liberal Christianity long ago lost its soul--and the state of Protestant denominations is a theological morality tale confirmed by dwindling attendance.
That was 1972. Forty years later, in 2012, liberal churches are not the only ones declining. It is true that progressive religious bodies started to decline in the 1960s. However, conservative denominations are now experiencing the same. For example, the Southern Baptist Convention, one of America's most conservative churches, has for a dozen years struggled with membership loss and overall erosion in programming, staffing, and budgets. Many smaller conservative denominations, such as the Missouri Synod Lutherans, are under pressure by loss. The Roman Catholic Church, a body that has moved in markedly conservative directions and of which Mr. Douthat is a member, is straining as members leave in droves. By 2008, one in ten Americans considered him- or herself a former Roman Catholic. On the surface, Catholic membership numbers seem steady. But this is a function of Catholic immigration from Latin America. If one factors out immigrants, American Catholicism matches the membership decline of any liberal Protestant denomination. Decline is not exclusive to the Episcopal Church, nor to liberal denominations--it is a reality facing the whole of American Christianity.
Douthat points out that the Episcopal Church has declined 23% in the last decade, identifying the loss as a sign of its theological infidelity. In the last decade, however, as conservative denominations lost members, their leaders have not equated the loss with unfaithfulness. Instead, they refer to declines as demographic "blips," waning evangelism, or the impact of secular culture. Membership decline has no inherent theological meaning for either liberals or conservatives. Decline only means, as Gallup pointed out in a just-released survey, that Americans have lost confidence in all forms of institutional religion.
The real question is not "Can liberal Christianity be saved?" The real question is: Can Christianity be saved?
Liberal Christians experienced this decline sooner than their conservative kin, thus giving them a longer, more sustained opportunity to explore what faith might mean to twenty-first century people. Introspective liberal churchgoers returned to the core of the Christian vision: Jesus' command to "Love God and love your neighbor as yourself." As a result, a sort of neo-liberal Christianity has quietly taken root across the old Protestant denominations--a form of faith that cares for one's neighbor, the common good, and fosters equality, but is, at the same time, a transformative personal faith that is warm, experiential, generous, and thoughtful. This new expression of Christianity maintains the historic liberal passion for serving others but embraces Jesus' injunction that a vibrant love for God is the basis for a meaningful life. These Christians link spirituality with social justice as a path of peace and biblical faith.
Unexpectedly, liberal Christianity is--in some congregations at least--undergoing renewal. A grass-roots affair to be sure, sputtering along in local churches, prompted by good pastors doing hard work and theologians mostly unknown to the larger culture. Some local congregations are growing, having seriously re-engaged practices of theological reflection, hospitality, prayer, worship, doing justice, and Christian formation. A recent study from Hartford Institute for Religion Research discovered that liberal congregations actually display higher levels of spiritual vitality than do conservative ones, noting that these findings were "counter-intuitive" to the usual narrative of American church life.
There is more than a little historical irony in this. A quiet renewal is occurring, but the denominational structures have yet to adjust their institutions to the recovery of practical wisdom that is remaking local congregations. And the media continues to fixate on big pastors and big churches with conservative followings as the center-point of American religion, ignoring the passion and goodness of the old liberal tradition that is once again finding its heart. Yet, the accepted story of conservative growth and liberal decline is a twentieth century tale, at odds with what the surveys, data, and best research says what is happening now. Indeed, I think that the better story of contemporary Christianity is that of an awakening of a more open, more inclusive, more spiritually vital faith is roiling and I argue for that in my recent book, Christianity After Religion.
So, Mr. Douthat asks, "Can Liberal Christianity Be Saved?" But I wonder: Can Liberal Churches Save Christianity? The twenty-first century has yet to answer that, but I think we may be surprised.]]>A Resurrected Christianity? tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14101432012-04-07T16:47:14-04:002012-06-07T05:12:01-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/Newsweek cover story, "Forget the Church, Follow Jesus," Andrew Sullivan dissects the crisis of American Christianity--it has become hypocritical and irrelevant to millions. Organized religion is collapsing; atheism is rising. The wounded, lapsed, and doubting seek shelter in spirituality, away from the buildings and traditions that once housed faith.
None of this particularly surprised me, as I wrote several weeks ago about the end of church, here on Huffington Post. My gloomy assessment of American religious life was drawn from my new book, Christianity After Religion: The End of Church and the Birth of a New Spiritual Awakening, the first third of which covers the same ground as Sullivan. We come to the same conclusion: Christianity is flailing and failing. It needs to change--and fast.
Sullivan wonders what--if anything--might come next. He identifies a saint--Francis--as a model for renewal based on "humility, service, and sanctity." But he also likes a philosopher--Thomas Jefferson--as one who charted a reasonable and moral Christian path. Weaving together spirituality and reason, Sullivan holds out for a resurrected Christianity.
However, he does not know how this might happen: "I have no concrete idea how Christianity will wrestle free of its current crisis." He intuits that a new Christianity must arise, "not from the head or the gut, but from the soul." That faith will come through a "new questioning," by addressing concerns that initiate "radical spiritual change." But his questions remain somewhat vague, and his answers vaguer.
What Sullivan apparently does not know is that some Christians, from pews, pulpits, and classrooms are asking the right questions--and are working toward a spiritually renewed and intellectually credible Christianity. These new questioners make up what I call America's "exile" faith communities--the creative but often ignored Christians found in liberal mainline churches, emergent evangelical gatherings, and progressive Catholic circles. With growing awareness over the last two decades, they have been engaging this crisis, listening to the grassroots questions of American religious life, and constructing new patterns and practices of faith. For them, the questions are becoming clear--and some answers are emerging.
Three deceptively simple questions are at the heart of a spiritually vibrant Christianity--questions of believing, behaving, and belonging.
Religion always entails the "3B's" of believing, behaving, and belonging. Over the centuries, Christianity has engaged the 3B's in different ways, with different interrogators and emphases. For the last 300 years or so, the questions were asked as follows:
1) What do I believe? (What does my church say I should think about God?)
2) How should I behave? (What are the rules my church asks me to follow?)
3) Who am I? (What does it mean to be a faithful church member?)
But the questions have changed. Contemporary people care less about what to believe than how they might believe; less about rules for behavior than in what they should do with their lives; and less about church membership than in whose company they find themselves. The questions have become:
1) How do I believe? (How do I understand faith that seems to conflict with science and pluralism?)
2) What should I do? (How do my actions make a difference in the world?)
3) Whose am I? (How do my relationships shape my self-understanding?)
The foci of religion have not changed--believing, behaving, and belonging still matter. But the ways in which people engage each area have undergone a revolution.
As Sullivan rightly points out, political partisanship has exacerbated the crisis of Christianity. But the crisis is much deeper than politics. Much of institutional Christianity is mired in the concerns of the past, still asking what, how, and who when a new set of issues of how, what, and whose are challenging conventional conceptions of faith. The old faith formulations were externally based, questions that could be answered by appealing to a book, authority, creed, or code. The new spiritual longings are internally derived, questions of engagement, authenticity, meaning, and relationship. The old questions required submission and obedience; the new questions require the transformation of our souls.
Far too many churches are answering questions that few people are asking. This has left millions adrift, seeking answers to questions that religious institutions have largely failed to grasp.
But this may be changing. Around the edges of organized religion, the exile Christians have heard the questions and are trying to reform, reimagine, and reformulate their churches and traditions. They are birthing a heart-centered Christianity that is both spiritual and religious. They meet in homes, at coffeehouses, in bars--even in some congregations. They are lay and clergy, wise elders and idealistic hipsters. Some teach in colleges and seminaries. They even hold denominational positions. Not a few have been elected as bishops. The questions are rising from the grassroots up--and, in some cases, the questions are reaching a transformational tipping point.
The crisis is real. Like Andrew Sullivan, I feel its sad and frustrating urgency. But I also know the hope of possibility, for every crisis bears the promise of something new. Endings are also beginnings. Indeed, without death, resurrection is impossible. Imaginative, passionate, faith-filled people are enacting a new-old faith with Jesus and are working to change wearied churches. It is the season of resurrection, and resurrections always surprise.
]]>The End of Churchtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12849542012-02-18T07:50:54-05:002012-04-19T05:12:02-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
In recent decades, untold numbers of people have left the Roman Catholic Church. In a 2008 survey, Pew research found that one in 10 Americans now considers themselves an ex-Catholic. The situation is so dire that the church launched a PR campaign inviting Catholics to "come home," to woo back disgruntled members. There was a slight uptick in Catholic membership last year, mostly due to immigrant Catholics. There is no data indicating that Catholics are returning en masse and much anecdotal evidence suggesting that leaving-taking continues. Catholic leaders worry that once the new immigrants become fully part of American society they might leave, too.
The end of church, however, is not merely a Catholic problem. For decades, mainline Protestants have watched helplessly as their membership rolls dwindled, employing program after program to try to stop the decline. In the last 15 years, conservative Protestant denominations have witnessed significant erosions in membership, money and participation -- with some of the greatest drops in groups like the Southern Baptist Convention that once seemed impervious to decline. In a typical week, less than a quarter of Americans attend a religious service, down from the half of the population who were regular churchgoers a generation ago.
There are successful individual congregations -- Catholic or Protestant, mainline or evangelical, liberal or conservative, small or large -- everywhere. But the institutional structures of American religion -- denominations of all theological sorts -- are in a free-fall.
The religious market collapse has happened with astonishing speed. In 1999, when survey takers asked Americans "Do you consider yourself spiritual or religious," a solid majority of 54 percent responded that they were "religious but not spiritual." By 2009, only 9 percent of Americans responded that way. In 10 years, those willing to identify themselves primarily as "religious" plummeted by 45 percentage points.
In the last decade, the word "religion" has become equated with institutional or organized religion. Because of crises such as the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks and the Roman Catholic abuse scandal, Americans now define "religion" in almost exclusively negative terms. These larger events, especially when combined with increasing irrelevance of too much of organized religion, contributed to an overall decline in church membership, and an overall decline of the numbers of Christians, in the United States.
There may be hope, however, regarding the future of faith. Despite worry about the word, "religion," Americans are extremely warm toward "spiritual but not religious" (30 percent) and, even more interestingly (and perhaps paradoxically), the term "spiritual and religious" (48 percent). While "religion" means institutional religion, "spirituality" means an experience of faith. Large numbers of Americans are hankering for experiential faith whereby they can connect with God, the divine, or wonder as well as with their neighbors and that lead to a more profound sense of meaning in the world. Maybe Americans once called this "religion," but no more. Americans call it "spirituality."
Some Americans want to be spiritually left alone, without complications from organized religion. But nearly half of Americans appear to hope for a spiritual reformation -- or even revolution -- in their faith traditions and denominations. Congregations that exhibit a vibrant spiritual life embodying a living faith in practical ways succeeding, even in the religion bear market. These sorts of communities are models of what might be possible to renew wearied organizations. But the macro-structures of American faith -- denominations -- have yet to hear this message. They are still trying to fix institutional problems and flex political muscle instead of tending to the spiritual longings of regular Americans.
"Spiritual and religious" expresses a grassroots desire for new kinds of faith communities, where institutional structures do not inhibit or impede one's relationship with God or neighbor. Americans are searching for churches -- and temples, synagogues, and mosques -- that are not caught up in political intrigue, rigid rules and prohibitions, institutional maintenance, unresponsive authorities, and inflexible dogma but instead offer pathways of life-giving spiritual experience, connection, meaning, vocation, and doing justice in the world. Americans are not rejecting faith -- they are, however, rejecting self-serving religious institutions.
The end of conventional church isn't necessarily a bad thing. Christianity after religion, a faith renewed by the experience of God's spirit, is closer to what Jesus hoped for his followers than the scandalous division, politics, and enmity we have now. Will there still be Christianity after the end of institutional religion? Yes, there will be. But it is going to be different than what Americans have known, a faith responsive to the longings of those who are expecting more spiritual depth and greater ethical integrity rather than more conventional church. Indeed, I suspect that the end of church is only the beginning of a new Great Awakening.]]>God in Wisconsin: Scott Walker's "Obedience"tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8284052011-02-25T15:43:08-05:002011-05-25T18:35:25-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/religious leaders have weighed in on the dispute. Roman Catholic bishops came out on the side of the unions, urging the governor to protect worker's rights. Many mainline pastors, including Lutherans, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists, Congregationalists, and American Baptists have written letters, issued statements, and preached sermons supporting labor, unions, and collective bargaining. In Madison, interfaith prayers and proclamations have upheld and encouraged the teachers, police, firefighters, and other public employees in their resistance to the governor's plan to break their union.
This is an impressive religious group by any standards--particularly so in Wisconsin where traditional faith still plays an important role in the life of a large number of its citizens. Wisconsin is almost evenly split between the three largest American religious groups: 29% are Roman Catholics; 24% are evangelical Protestants; and 23% are mainline Protestants.
Yet none of these prayers or sermons has swayed Scott Walker. He has steadfastly stayed on his original course, unfazed by the full weight of Roman Catholic authority or the mainline social justice tradition pressing upon him and urging him toward compromise and change.
Scott Walker is neither Roman Catholic nor a mainline churchgoer. The son of a Baptist pastor, born in Colorado Springs, the heartland of the Religious Right, Walker is a member of Meadowbrook Church in Wauwatosa, a non-denominational evangelical church. Meadowbrook's statement of faith, a fairly typical boilerplate of conservative evangelical theology, includes beliefs in biblical inerrancy, sin, exclusive salvation through Christ, and eternal damnation.
In other words, Scott Walker does not give a rip about pronouncements by the Roman Catholic Church, any Lutheran, Episcopal, or Methodist bishop, or the Protestant social justice pastors. These religious authorities, steeped in centuries of theology and Christian ethics mean absolutely nothing in Scott Walker's world. His spiritual universe is that of 20th century fundamentalism, in its softer evangelical form, a vision that emphasizes "me and Jesus" and personal salvation.
Before he was elected governor, Walker shared his testimony with a group of Christian businessmen. In it, he said that his religious life was expressed in the words of an old hymn, "Trust and Obey." From childhood onward, Walker recounted how God specifically directed his life, how he had learned to trust that direction, and how he sought to obey Christ in all things and at all times. He related the biblical story of the apostle Peter in a boat, whom Jesus directed to walk on the water. At first, Peter followed Jesus and did, indeed, walk upon water. But Peter became fearful and sank. According to Walker, this is a parable of the whole Christian life. If you "fail to trust and obey," Walker said, "You sink." Doubt is not allowed. Only obedience.
This is the same sort of evangelical spirituality that shaped George W. Bush--and led to the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Once you know God's direction, no change is allowed. Doubt opens the door to failure. Obeying Christ's plan is the only option. In this theological universe, hard-headedness is a virtue, compromise is the work of the Devil, and anything that works to accomplish God's plan is considered ethically justifiable.
In other words, the Catholic bishops and mainline pastors--as well as the Quakers, Jews, Buddhists, and others--who have been trying to convince the governor to shift course are pretty well preaching in the wind. Other than David Koch (fake or otherwise), Walker is listening to One Person and One Person only: Jesus speaking directly to him. God, evidently, has directed him on his current path. Scott's just trusting and obeying. He bears no responsibility other than that.
Unlike the Roman Catholics and traditional Protestants who have spoken on behalf of the laborers, Walker has no spiritual "check" on him, no authority other than the ones he hears in his own head, and no moral culpability in this situation. He's the good Christian soldier, just following God's lead.
And this is why Scott Walker's religion is actually dangerous in the public square. Because it lacks the ability to compromise, it is profoundly anti-democratic. Many faith traditions actually possess deep spiritual resources that allow them to participate in pluralistic, democratic, and creative political change. But those sort of traditions tend emphasize the love of God and neighbor over strict obedience to an unyielding Father God. Despite anything Scott Walker might say, the confident dictum of the old hymn, "Trust and Obey" is not the best way to govern a state.
Read more: http://blog.beliefnet.com/christianityfortherestofus/#ixzz1F0NKlm6K]]>Gabby Opened Her Eyes and We Should Tootag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8091982011-01-14T19:11:01-05:002011-05-25T18:25:24-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/
When President Obama uttered these simple words, the crowd at the Tucson memorial service cheered wildly. "Gabby opened her eyes."
Four simple words. Four very spiritual words.
Congresswoman Giffords was shot at the beginning of the Christian season called Epiphany. This year, Epiphany lasts until March 8, the day before Ash Wednesday. The word, epiphany, means "manifestation," "revelation," or "unveiling." As it follows Christmas, it is the time of the year in which Christians consider how God has appeared to us, where God is seen, and how God is made manifest in the world. Epiphany, its primary symbol the star, is about seeing the light.
Ms. Giffords is, of course, Jewish. Although Epiphany is a Christian season, its roots are found in the Hebrew Bible. Abraham, Moses, Joshua and many of the prophets experienced "epiphanies," where God appeared to them. Indeed, the Jewish festival of Hanukah is an epiphany celebration -- the light of God is seen here on earth. Early Christians borrowed the word epiphaneia from the Greek version of the Jewish Scriptures where it referred to the visible presence of God in the world. Along with the star, the other symbol of Epiphany is the magi, the ancient wise men who were not Jews, who went on a journey to see the infant named Immanuel, or God-with-us. Indeed, the Christian season of Epiphany celebrates God made manifest to the whole world, that God was no longer a distant God or only the God of the ancient Israelites -- but that God is, indeed, visible to all who open their eyes.
Jews, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs: we are all searchers following stars, looking for the presence of God in the world. Opening our eyes is a sign of life, one of the first things tiny babies do when after they make their way into the world. But opening our eyes also symbolizes our common humanity -- the search for love, meeting the healing looks of family and friends, God's presence in others, the light that shines throughout the world, and finding goodness in all the places we find ourselves along the way.
The opposite is the case as well. Closing our eyes is a sign of the end, of death. And it is also a symbol of giving up, of not looking, of resignation. Shutting our eyes is akin to turning our souls away from God, our loved ones, our neighbors.
When we open our eyes, we will see light and beauty. We will see the caring faces of loved ones. But opening our eyes, we will also see suffering and pain and violence. We see the steady gaze of a loving spouse; we also see the sinister glare of a deranged shooter. Open eyes see both. And in all that we see, God's presence is somehow there. Comforting, healing: yes. But often seeing God is a call as well. A call to transform our world into God's vision for humankind. God made manifest in the world; we must manifest God in the world.
Gabby opened her eyes. May we also open ours and see the glory that shines round about us. And, when we open our eyes, may we not only cheer, but also be inspired, in the words of a traditional Epiphany prayer, "to contribute wisdom and good works for the benefit of the whole family." Amen.
Read more from Diana Butler Bass on beliefnet.]]>The Real Housewives of Proverbs 31tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.6681862010-08-05T07:02:00-04:002011-05-25T17:15:21-04:00Diana Butler Basshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/diana-butler-bass/The Real Housewives of D.C. (begins August 5). I took some comfort in the Washington Post's scathing advance review of it:
Every word of the title is wrong, except "the" and "of."
Real: What can that even mean anymore?
Housewives: Remember when that bordered on slur? The surgically taut eyes of certain Real Housewives must ache from wink-winking every time Bravo has them say the name of the show.
D.C.: Always the ultimate artificial no place ...
What woman in her right mind would submit to this charade?
Bravo's botox-injected shouting match that makes women look like idiots is coming to my town. In their defense, Bravo insists that the D.C. series will have more intellectual and political content, being socially relevant. But I doubt it. Bravo, which used to toy with cultural irony regarding materialism now cloys us with "real" Lindsey Lohans (sans the talent) and slightly better-educated Snookies as a way to boost the ratings.
I'm no snob when it comes to reality TV. I love Top Chef (also Bravo) and confess to have sobbed more than a few times while watching The Biggest Loser -- both of which actually have some moral content. What is the point of the Real Housewives? Is this pure escapism? Is it an alternative reality for recession-weary women? A mirror into middle-class aspirations? What women secretly wish to be?
Whatever it is intended to be (my tween daughter says that it is only supposed to be "funny"), the main problem with the Real Housewives franchise is that it depicts women using stereotypes in a way to entertain that, if inflicted on any racial or ethnic group, would give rise to legal action, boycotts, and public outcry. It pictures women as grown-up mean girls, the sort everyone hated in high school and who have now parleyed their cruel social climbing to the bigger stages of New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, and D.C. The shows denigrate women by implying that they get ahead by being materialistic gossips and marrying the right men. Even the criticism lends itself to demeaning women. Example? The mostly-liberal Washington Post likens the word "housewife" to a "slur" and asks what woman would "submit" to the being on such a show.
Excuse me, both Bravo and WaPo, but "housewife" is neither glam-reality nor a slur, especially in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. And women here are not the submissive type. Washington women toil at raising their children, work at home and in offices, run businesses and the federal government, volunteer at non-profits and serve in religious communities. The real women of D.C. spend their time caring for others, nurturing the next generation, and trying to make the world a better place. We sit in traffic jams and on corporate boards. We are creative, energetic, busy, and often overwhelmed. And, for what it is worth, we are too invested in working hard and doing good to spend even an hour watching a show that does not come close to the reality of our lives.
When I think of my D.C. housewife/mom friends and neighbors (who are politically and theologically liberal and conservative; who are Christians, Jews, Muslims, and secularists), I do not think of some faux-Hollywood glamour. Instead, they bring to mind the description of the good wife of Proverbs 31. Although this passage is often hijacked by conservative Christians to keep women "in their place," it is a surprisingly apt description of contemporary women -- and most especially, religious feminists. In the words of the writer of Proverbs, the "capable" wife "works with willing hands" and "rises while it is still night and provides food for her household." She is savvy, charitable, just, creative, strong, and dignified; and she "opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue." She "looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness."
The Real Housewives of Proverbs 31? It would be closer to reality than any of the Bravo celebri-wives, who make a mockery of the ancient wise words "Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." Could that be the actual point Bravo is trying to make? Maybe. But I suspect not.