Doubts and Loves

What is Left of Christianity

Richard Holloway

• Publisher: Canongate Canons
• Year: 2009
• Print ISBN: 9781841956411
• eBook ISBN: 9781847676764
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religion

In this passionate and heartfelt book, Richard Holloway interrogates the traditional ways of understanding the Bible. In doing so he demonstrates the power of the great Christian stories as they apply today, away from their sometimes antiquated settings, providing a blueprint which takes the core teachings of the Christian past and invigorates them with renewed power for today's world.

PART ONE

The Shaking of the Foundations

All changed, changed utterly
W.B. Yeats, ‘Easter 1916’

CHAPTER ONE

The End of Christianity

Some years ago I copied into my note book an aphorism from a Russian writer called V.V. Rozanov: ‘All religions will pass, but this will remain: simply sitting in a chair and looking in the distance.’ I would like to reverse Rozanov’s claim and suggest that religion will remain as long as we sit in that chair looking in the distance. Another way of expressing the same thought is to use the vocabulary of the German theologian Paul Tillich, who did his greatest work in the United States after the Second World War. Tillich said that, in addition to the ordinary matters that preoccupy us, our humanity asks deep questions about the meaning of life. He called this our ‘ultimate concern’ and the way we respond to it is what we call religion, even though that word has become exclusively associated in people’s minds with the supernatural answer to the question. Even if we reply that life has no final meaning, we are still offering that as an answer to our ultimate concern. In fact, this is the reply that is given by the scientist Richard Dawkins: ‘Nature is not cruel, only pitilessly indifferent. This is one of the hardest lessons for humans to learn. We cannot admit that things might be neither good nor evil, neither cruel nor kind, but simply callous – indifferent to all suffering, lacking all purpose.’1 This echoes something that Nietzsche wrote: ‘Becoming aims at nothing and achieves nothing.’2 These replies to the question repudiate the idea that there is any kind of supernatural meaning out there beyond us, but the idea of the ultimate meaninglessness of the universe is itself a response to our concern. Whether it is paradox or irony, the discovery of non-meaning or nihilism is itself a kind of meaning, if only because it means something to us, is something we ourselves read from the reality that confronts us. Just as interesting as the answers that Nietzsche and Dawkins give is the fact that they themselves are so passionately engaged in wrestling with the question. It is in the nature of humans to do this; in us, life has started to ask questions about itself. The religious quest is the deepest passion of our nature, because it is prompted by our ultimate concern. Unfortunately, like many aspects of our history, religion has been dominated by special interest groups who claimed that only their answers were true and that everyone else was in error. It is not surprising that this has happened: it is just another example of how the world ran itself for so long. Those in authority not only organised things to suit themselves, they interpreted things to suit themselves. It didn’t matter what the system was, as long as they called the shots.

The folly of subjecting the religious passion to the politics of power is that it cannot be controlled in this way and refuses to be subject to external direction. I suspect that this is what the writer and film-maker Dennis Potter meant when he said just before his death: ‘Religion to me has always been the wound not the bandage.’3 This is a particularly difficult statement for religious officials to live with, especially if they work for religions of salvation. By definition, religions of salvation are in the bandage business; they have come to heal our wounds. They do not sit alongside us in the chair looking in the distance, comparing points of view; they want to protect us from what we might discover for ourselves, by telling us what the official view is and how dangerous it will be for us if we do not accept it. Or, to mix the metaphor slightly, they want to sell us their special spectacles, which have been theologically tested by experts to give us maximum power for long-distance looking. Given the extraordinary energy and variety of the human species, none of this should surprise us, but buyers should always beware of sellers. By definition, sellers want to move their product, whether it is a Mercedes or a metaphysic. To punish the metaphor a little longer, in the culture of global capitalism everything has become a commodity, including religion. The most blatant exponents of religious consumerism are North American television evangelists, the best of whom are brilliant salespersons. But even the subtler and more traditional religions try to push their brands. None of this would particularly matter if it were a case of the rival systems inviting us to view reality from where they were sitting: ‘Come, try our view and see if you’d like to build your dwelling place at our bend in the river.’ Though something like that is beginning to happen today, in the past, religion, like everything else, was dealt with in an authoritarian way. We were told, for our own good, what to think and what to look at; and we were told, for our own good, what not to think and what not to look at. And because religious leaders believed they were dealing with momentous issues that determined eternal destinations, religions tended to be at war with each other. It is no accident that the vocabulary of religious vituperation is so gross, particularly in the Christian tradition and even more particularly in the long feud between Catholics and Protestants. We get riled with each other when it is difficult if not impossible to establish the truth in disputed areas. We don’t beat each other up over multiplication tables, but we get very agitated about religion and politics, because it is impossible to establish their incontrovertible truth.

The fascinating thing about our own day is that our attitude to these matters is beginning to change. If I can use the Rozanov metaphor one last time: today we positively revel in and celebrate the fact that there are almost as many chairs for distance-gazing as there are people to sit in them. Today there is no universally accepted answer to the question posed by our ultimate concern. The dominant characteristic of what is called post-modernity is the absence of agreement on the core meanings and values that undergird the human experience. Scholars call these underground streams of value and meaning ‘metanarratives’ and they tell us that the main characteristic of our society is its lack of agreement on how to understand and order human communities. In their language, we have no common metanarrative. We describe our society today as ‘multicultural’ and its values as ‘plural’. The leaders of most religious institutions deplore this situation, for fairly obvious reasons. They talk contemptuously of ‘pick and mix’ Christians or ‘cafeteria Catholics’ who take what they want from traditional religious systems and ignore what is not congenial. While unattractive, their dyspepsia is understandable. After all, if you are invested in the proclamation of a particular system of meaning and value, which you believe to be not one among many, but the only true and saving one, then you are bound to be disturbed by the new plural culture. Religious officials feel the way all monopolists feel when competition invades their market place: they resent it, precisely because it threatens their dominance. Another important characteristic of post-modernity, which is reflected in effective business ventures, is the flattening of hierarchies and the sharing of patterns of governance. Though still more honoured in theory than in practice, there is also a commitment to equal treatment for women and sexual and ethnic minorities. All of this is in marked contrast to life in traditional religious systems, such as Christianity.

Like an ancient galleon that has spent ages at sea, Christianity is encrusted with customs and attitudes acquired on its voyage through the centuries and it is making the tragic mistake of confusing the accidents of theological and cultural history with eternal truth. Callum G. Brown in his book, The Death of Christian Britain, claims that the single most important element in the free-fall in church attendance in Britain is the resistance in the churches to the feminist revolution.4 The classic sociological account of the decline of religious observance in Britain was what was called ‘secularisation theory’. The idea was that the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution gave birth to a new kind of consciousness that was inimical to religion and began the process of its dissolution. While there is clearly something in secularisation theory, Brown challenges many of its essential elements. One of the elements of the theory was that the Industrial Revolution alienated the working classes from Christianity. Brown dismisses that claim and shows that working class Britain was heavily involved in various forms of evangelical religion until fairly recently. The boom time in working class religiosity in Britain was the mid 1950s, of which the success of Billy Graham’s crusades in 1954 was more a symptom than a cause. What Brown calls the background discourse of this period was the evangelical economy of salvation and it was a highly gendered discourse.

This is where I find his narrative convincing, because it exactly mirrors my own theological experience. Traditional Christianity was based on very rigid gender roles. Women were subordinated to men as far as leadership went, but were viewed as spiritually superior to them and sent by God to restrain and civilise them. All of this was based on a particular reading of the Bible as well as on a particular stage of social evolution, and it still lies behind the nostalgia that characterises the debate about the family in Britain and the USA. When Christian feminists started challenging these stereotypes, traditionalists argued against them, claiming that changes in gender roles would undermine the whole biblical system and nothing would remain unchallenged. During the debate on the ordination of women, I remember arguing against the traditionalists on the grounds that they were exaggerating the effect that ordaining women would have. This was not a revolution, I argued, it was a tiny adjustment of the dial of history to accommodate changes in relationships between women and men. The ministry would not be affected by admitting women, it would only be widened slightly. Everything would go on as before, except that there would now be women wearing dog collars. We would get used to the change, as we did when women doctors arrived on the scene, and after a few months we would think nothing of it. Not so, argued the traditionalists: make this change and, in time, the whole edifice will fall. Historic Catholic Christianity is all of a piece, a minutely articulated whole; if you take one piece out of the structure, the whole thing will fall apart. If you question an element as central as this, you substitute human judgement for divinely revealed truth and the whole system will collapse like a stack of cards.

Though their motive was wrong, the prediction made by the traditionalists is gradually coming true, and it is one of the main elements in Brown’s revisionist theory of church decline. In a remarkably short period after 1963 the edifice started to crumble, except for a few defensive redoubts that still guard the old tradition with increasing desperation. What finished off Christianity in Britain, therefore, was not the slow creep of secularism, but the swift success of the women’s movement. That is Brown’s central claim. He is well aware of the way the experience of the United States appears to contradict his thesis, but his response is instructive:

The way of viewing religion and religious decline in Britain offered in this book should have wider applicability. It may help to explain the near contemporaneous secularisation of Norway, Sweden, Australia and perhaps New Zealand, and should help to account for the rapid secularisation of much of Catholic Europe since the 1970s. Critically, it may help to explain the North American anomaly. Throughout secularisation studies from the 1950s to the 1990s, the United States and Canada have seemed difficult to fit in the British model of religious decline. A supposedly obvious ‘secular’ society of the twentieth century has sustained high levels of churchgoing and church adherence. Debate on this has gripped American sociologists of religion for decades without apparent resolution. Perhaps the answer lies in seeing the same discursive challenge as Britain experienced emerging in North America in the 1960s, but then not triumphing. A discursive conflict is still under way in North America. The Moral Majority and the evangelical fight back has been sustained in public rhetoric in a way not seen in Europe. North American television nightly circulates the traditional evangelical narrative of conversionism … and a discursive battle has raged since the 1960s. Secular post-hippy culture of environmentalism, feminism and freedom for sexuality co-exists beside a still-vigorous evangelical rhetoric in which home and family, motherhood and apple pie, are sustaining the protocols of gendered religious identity. Piety and femininity are still actively enthralled to each other, holding secularisation in check. In Foucaldian terms, North America may be experiencing an overlap of epistemes (of modernity and post-modernity).5

The fundamental issue in this debate is not whether you or I prefer the traditional evangelical version of gender identity to the post-modern feminist interpretation, but whether it is right to claim the traditional version as exclusively Christian. We all have preferences in life and sometimes we are more comfortable with the way things were than with the way things are. Some people like to be old fashioned, some people like to be absolutely au courant. Sometimes we even twist back on ourselves and establish a retro-look, in which we give a contemporary spin to a previous model, whether in clothing or furnishing. Post-modernism is so plural it can even find a place for yesterday or for last century in its design. Society is full of interesting survivals of this sort, including groups who exist to promote the restoration of various European monarchies. In Scotland there are groups that plan for the return of the House of Stuart to a renewed Scottish monarchy. They gather from time to time in out-of-the-way buildings, dramatically swathed in coloured cloaks, to plan the return of the king from over the water, who, though a genetic descendant of the Stuarts, is probably an elderly Portuguese wine exporter. There is no harm in this. It’s all part of the heritage industry and our endearing nostalgia for extinct cultures and their artefacts. The big question for the churches is whether they are so identified with the values of a previous culture that they are incapable of adapting to its successor. The culture wars of North America, in which Christianity is identified not only with a particular version of gender relationships, but with a hatred of sexual minorities and contemporary human freedoms, is a prospect that dismays Christians who are at ease in the new culture of post-modernity. Of course, one can prefer a particular culture without being blind to its defects. Every way of ordering society has its shadow side, and post-modernity is no exception. The issue is not whether it is imperfect, but whether any other way of ordering society, including the one associated with religious conservatism, would be significantly better. The fundamental question is whether it is right for Christianity to identify previous cultural arrangements exclusively with the mind of God. Human experience would suggest that out-of-date systems are no more likely to be perfect than up-to-date systems. The fact is that up-to-date is where most of us are, for better or for worse, and there is a lot to be said for accepting rather than running from the situation in which we find ourselves.

We now see the human struggle to discover meaning and value as an enterprise that produces many approaches, many answers, and we believe that there is something of value in that very variety. Geneticists talk about the phenomenon of ‘hybrid-vigour’ when different races interbreed, and the same can be said of mixing cultures. More negatively, the presence of many systems is a good bulwark against the tendency to abuse that is found in societies where a single system dominates. Monopolies always become arrogant. The relativising effect of other accounts of the human adventure tempers the arrogance of single systems and moderates the endless contention in societies with two dominant systems. Voltaire understood this: ‘… if you have two religions in your land, the two will cut each other’s throats; but if you have thirty religions, they will dwell in peace’.6 Voltaire expresses the best ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Table of Contents
• Preface
• Part One: The Shaking Of The Foundations
• Part Two: Rebuilding The Ruins
• Chapter Five: Go Down Moses
• Chapter Six: Blaming Eve
• Chapter Seven: Heart Of Darkness
• Chapter Eight: Get Out Of Jail Free
• Chapter Nine: The Big Bang
• Chapter Ten: Putting It All Together
• Chapter Eleven: The Old Firm
• Part Three: What Is Left Of Christianity
• Chapter Twelve: The Outsider
• Chapter Thirteen: Unconquered Hope
• Chapter Fourteen: Rewinding The Past
• Chapter Fifteen: For Love Of The World
• Afterword
• Notes
• Select Bibliography
• Index
• Acknowledgements