Climate change scepticism and worldview dissonance

A conversation I had the other day has been on my mind ever since.

It was with an old friend who I don’t see that often, but whose intelligence I’ve always respected, and who I’ve always regarded as being moderate – especially for a reformed evangelical – and considered. He’s always been interested in hearing my outlandish opinions. The surprise was the revelation that he was a climate change sceptic, and a passionate one.

It went deeper than that, actually – my new understanding of his worldview is that he regards the ‘climate change industry’ and ‘alarmism’ are part of a leftist strategy – if not conspiracy. I was surprised to hear ‘the left’ used so pejoratively by him as he expounded on the left’s agenda of curtailing economic growth, redistributing income, and enforcing political correctness. This left you talk about as the enemy, I said at one point – I’m sort of a part of that. Not completely, but my  instincts tend to go that way.

I left burdened and exhausted by worldview dissonance. How was I meant to weigh up his objections to the climate change consensus? I’d encountered them before, reading The Australian every weekend, but my friend has more of a background in science than I do. I felt disturbed considering the world through his eyes and seeing so many things I value and strive for as worse than useless, as what was wrong with the world.

I remain convinced that climate change is a real and present danger, that a simpler lifestyle and society are the answer to many of our problems and that unchecked capitalism is a dangerous and cruel thing. Yet I am chastened, and I now fear, just as I thought that the environment had gone mainstream in churches, that there may be a powerful conservative backlash, not even coming from  fundamentalists but from evangelicals.

Worldview dissonance is an everyday occurrence for me, taking as I do the minority view on so many issues. Why not on this one? How do we ever make up our mind on anything? Should we trust our own judgements, when there are usually wiser and more intelligent people with a different opinion? Welcome to pluralism, hazard of a postmodern society where there is no consensus. Humility required. And put a face to every contrary opinion; there’s probably someone you love who holds it.

Sectarianism and the Trail of Blood

There was a time in my life when I sought the continuity of truth in ‘the trail of blood,’ the communities who defined themselves against the established church. As I began to study the history of the church, I became particularly concerned when I discovered that “the trail of blood” generally included the gnostics of the early church who denied the incarnation and the Catharists of the medieval era who denied the Trinity and practiced communal marriage.
When I turned away from a sectarian view of the church to embrace the whole church with all of its triumphs and failures, I sensed a belongingness to this vast community of people. I also experienced a connectedness to history that broke the arrogance of my sectarian attitude and created a humility that allowed me to be defined by the church as the worldwide community of people to which I belonged. This means that I am able to affirm the whole church in all the various paradigms of history.
- Robert Webber, Ancient Future Faith. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1999. p.73.

I read this book when it came out twelve years ago, at a time when my faith was at a formative stage. Reacting against fundamentalism and responding to postmodernism, I’d just started reading theology and I was malleable. I was inspired and influenced by Webber’s book. It was before I’d read Yoder and while I was living with my grandfather, an ecumenically minded evangelical Anglican minister, who probably would have liked Webber very much. Reading Webber I came closer than I ever have in my life to becoming an Anglican.

Reading parts of it again now, it still resonates. This passage stuck out as I read, as you might imagine it would. I’m much less sectarian and much less ‘against’ the mainstream church(es) than a few years ago, say when I aligned myself with the housechurch movement. Working for a denomination has helped me with that, as has preparing some lectures this year introducing theology. I tried to enter sympathetically into a variety of perspectives, and it made me broader.

But still, what am I to do with Webber’s words here? Is to be an Anabaptist to align oneself with the ‘trail of blood’?

And how do we take ‘trail of blood’? Blood spilt or blood shed? Being persecuted and killed for your beliefs (by the mainstream church?) is nothing to be ashamed of, if I read the gospels correctly. Spilling blood for your beliefs – now that is a problem.

Can I have a more nuanced position than the alternatives Webber gives us here? Not every community that defines itself against the established church, but some? The ones that have good reason for distinction?

With his new attitude, could Webber still embrace the sectarian churches? Or are they now excluded from the vast church in all its connectedness through history?

I think the ‘trail of blood’ theory of churches is related to a Landmark Baptist view of church history – that there is a succession of persecuted true Christians culminating in the Baptists. I’m sure it is tied to some terrible fundamentalist ideas. But in a mild form, of at least acknowleding the idea of renewal throughout church history, it has some merit.

I bring the quote from Webber to you because it at once appeals to me and makes me bristle. Yes! And No!

Listening to a military chaplain

Yesterday at church a military chaplain spoke about his work and I’m still feeling upset.

The slideshow had photos of all the chaplains in army fatigues, and of soldiers they were ministering to posing with large guns. Then a photo of a group in army fatigues praying, presumably before going out to do their duty.

I tried to keep my mouth shut, but I spoke up during the talk when he brought Jesus into it, relating how he was giving a sermon to military chaplains during the Iraq War about how they needed to follow the way of Jesus – including, he said, loving your enemy! I don’t understand how you can be giving solace and support to an invading army and talking about loving your enemy.

I think from his perspective he sees chaplains as a restraining hand on soldiers, keeping them comforted and in good mental and spiritual health so they don’t commit war crimes or atrocities, so that in the heat of the moment they don’t shoot civilians.

But I think war crimes and civilian deaths are not an aberration but an inevitable consequence of giving people guns and trying to take over a country or even trying to ‘keep the peace’ by eliminating insurgency. (Try separating insurgents and civilians in Iraq or Afghanistan anyway.)
The chaplain was gracious, and let me ask a question at the end. I asked how, even standing in the just war tradition as he must, he can embed himself with a military force which is fighting wars which do not meet the just war criteria. (And, I wish I’d added, have killed one million people, between the Iraq and Afghanistan War, according to some estimates.)

He said that under the Geneva Convention he is a non-combatant.

I find this unconvincing; you’re in military uniform and you’re supporting troops, meeting their spiritual needs, and thus lending legitimacy to what they’re doing.

I think all disciples of Christ should refuse to co-operate with the military, in every country.

I hate making a show of myself these days  – but I couldn’t let this pass without comment.

I thought that I’d found a church which would be broadly pacifist in outlook. Someone told me that it is important to the church to hear different viewpoints, and hence have a military chaplain speaking. But support for the military gets heard at every church in Perth. I don’t know of pacifist churches in Perth, except the Quakers and perhaps Wembley Downs Church of Christ. And the Peace Tree Community, who are sort of a church. There should be at least a few churches in Perth where non-violence is a non-negotiable, where it’s seen as integral to discipleship. Where we don’t just politely say helping troops is a good ministry to have, but where we say that’s not what Jesus wants.

Leaving Home

Last week we said goodbye to our church of three years, Network Vineyard. It was a sad thing; I believe in church loyalty, and yet here I am leaving a church which isn’t bad and at which there are a lot of people I like.

Three years ago, at the disbanding of our Anabaptist fellowship, Nicole and I joined Network after going there to hear Ray Gingerich, a visiting Mennonite academic, speak. I thought that any church which invites a Mennonite academic to speak and is only a few kilometres from my house has to be good. What’s more, we had been hoping for a stronger experience of the Holy Spirit, and it was a charismatic church. We were also hoping to plant a new house church, and this was the sort of thing Network encouraged.

Planting a house church didn’t work out.  But we stuck around at Network, not happy, trying to make the most of it. It was my first go at a conventional church in quite a while. It’s in a wealthy area, and the profile of the church is busy professionals and busy parents with young children. This, of course, makes strong community very hard. I have little doubt it’s a problem facing most churches, especially amongst certain demographics. I don’t think you can have strong community if everyone’s busy. What can you do? You can try to critique the culture of busyness from the pulpit (which the pastor did) and in small groups; but it’s really hard to defy the spirit of busyness in our society, even if you want to, and most people don’t want to and wouldn’t see it as an aspect of discipleship. (I’m too busy myself, not in a career driven way, but with my jealously guarded time for writing, reading, thinking.)

I grew increasingly cynical toward charismatic-ness, at least to what I saw. I believe there is a strong witness in the New Testament to the outpouring of charismatic gifts on the body of Christ. But just because it’s meant to happen, doesn’t mean it IS happening, even when people stand up and say what they think God is saying to them. In 1 Corinthians 12-14 where Paul instructs the church at Corinth in orderly use of the charismatic gifts, he imagines a church where prophecies and tongues and all sorts of other things come to people. Network, to its credit, attempts to recreate this, with a space for anyone to stand up and say what God has been speaking to them through the worship. But for me, prophecy and the like finds its full meaning in a church which is a strong community. Prophecy means far more when you are involved in each other’s lives and are wrestling with things together. I think genuine prophecy is more likely to come in this situation too. Strong community should be foundational; then we should seek the showy gifts. As it was, I was asked what God was telling me through the worship (nothing – I didn’t connect to the worship in its style or substance) and I wasn’t asked what was going on in my discipleship during the whole week.

I have a theological belief in the diversity of the body, as I’ve written about on this blog, but I can’t live it when it comes to diversity of theology itself. Most evangelicals have such a different understanding of God, a different Jesus. I find it so hard when I feel I don’t have enough common ground to even have meaningful theological conversations. What is an Anabaptist to say to a YWAMer, a Zionist, a creationist? The last few years I’ve been too shaky in my faith to have robust conversation, and encountering so much diversity has only discouraged me. I think I’ve needed to be around similar-minded people to reinforce what I believe for a while. (And I’m saying this, if you can’t hear it, with a strong element of self-critique; I guess we all want reinforcement that we’re right. That’s why we have so many different types of churches. I wish there was one more, an Anabaptist one, in this city.)

There are a lot of people sincerely trying to follow Jesus at Network, and open to the Spirit. I hope they flourish; they’re doing things differently, and are willing to give things a go. I’ll miss them.

Mixed feelings on Saint Mary MacKillop

I’m not sure what to think about the canonisation of Mary MacKillop.

Despite the appropriation of various Catholic impulses by post-evangelicals – that herd of discontents which I might loosely be included among – I haven’t heard much taking up of devotion to the saints. I sympathise with the letters to the paper which dismiss the whole thing as rather medieval.

But then reading Henri Nouwen’s Genesee Diary, I at least realised that I had lightly dismissed something that meant a lot to spiritually mature people who I respect. Each saint’s day gave Nouwen an opportunity to reflect on the significance of that particular saint, their virtues and life story, and how he might draw lessons from it. Nothing wrong with that. I am acutely aware of the historical impoverishment of my Baptist upbringing, where there was no-one to admire, save those in the Bible (and perhaps the odd missionary). There was no-one to aspire after, no holy examples of a life well-lived. Because, it was insistently pointed out, we are all saints, those of us who are saved.

But this is true for me now too as an Anabaptist, much more so than in the contemporary Baptist tradition. Anabaptism expects us to be holy and set apart from the world, a peculiar people. If this caveat had been added to the idea of us being saints, maybe it all would have made more sense to me.

It is nice to think there might be saints interceding for us in heaven. The scriptural warrant for praying to them to do this seems slim to me. But praying to a saint – especially one with a picture – must be so much tangible than all this abstract Protestantism we are used to. ‘Pray to God, this being that you cannot picture, cannot see, and most of the time cannot hear.’

Resurrection and Renewal: Bigger and Better Than Going to Heaven When You Die

Here’s the text of that sermon I gave at  Network Vineyard Church on 12 July 2009.

1. Introduction

I want to talk about an area of faith where my whole way of thinking was turned upside down. And that’s about heaven. I’m anticipating three possible reactions – boredom, disagreement and excitement. I hope the excited group of people is the biggest one. If you already know everything I’m going to say, come see me and I’ll arrange for you to get your money back out of the offering. If you disagree with me because you have a strong contrary opinion, I understand, but have a think about it. But I’m thinking there are some of you here today who will be inspired to find new hope and meaning in your life and your understanding of what your faith is all about.

I spent the first nineteen years of my life with an unhealthy view of physical reality. I believed that God was going to destroy the Earth one day. I believed that my future state was to live as a soul floating around in heaven, with no physical body.

When you think that God is going to destroy his creation, plucking out as many souls as he can before he throws the Earth on the fire, you tend not to care as much about what happens here and now. The injustices that plague our world become unimportant. Doing good seems futile. Things can only get worse; why try to do good? Why care about the environment? About climate change? It’s only going to get worse; the whole earth’s going to be thrown out like a disposable cup. More than that, all of life feels a bit pointless. You’re waiting around for heaven, and the only useful thing you can do is evangelise.

When I was nineteen and studying theology at uni, at one stage I got overwhelmed. I had so many questions and challenges to what I’d thought in the past. Fortunately, there was a man named Ian who was a mentor to me. I rang him and he told me to come around. I didn’t have a car, so I had to catch a bus into the city and then one out to his place; it took nearly two hours. When I got there, I was ready to pounce on him with all my questions about the sources and authorship of Genesis and Deuteronomy and the history behind them. But instead, he asked me a question. I think the Holy Spirit inspired him to ask it, because on the face of it, it had nothing to do with my situation.

He asked me, ‘What happens after we die?’
I said, ‘We go to heaven.’
But then he asked, ‘What about after that?’
And when I looked at him like he was playing a trick on me, he told me two things.

First of all, that the Earth wasn’t being thrown in the bin, but was going to be redeemed and renewed.

Second of all, I wasn’t going to live as a disembodied soul in heaven forever, but at Christ’s return, I would be resurrected to live on the renewed Earth. Our resurrection bodies were to be more physical, more real than our current ones – not less. Heaven, he told me, was only a waiting place for something better.

Basically he told me that Christianity was bigger and better than going to heaven when I died.

Writing novels for the kingdom

Last night I presented a paper to the Newbigin Group on “Writing novels for the kingdom.” Below is the introduction; if you like the sound of it, you can download the PDF file.

It might be much more appropriate to go off and write a novel (and not a ‘Christian’ novel where half the characters are Christians and all the other half become Christians on the last page) but a novel which grips people with the structure of Christian thought, and with Christian motivation set deep into the heart and structure of the narrative, so that people would read that and resonate with it and realize that that story can be my story.
- N.T. Wright, “How can the Bible be authoritative?”

The kingdom novel is an elusive, mythical creature. We’re not even sure if we have any living specimens. We do have some prescriptions for what it should look like, and numerous rumours of sightings. At times, I’ve attempted to create one; in fact sometimes it’s what I’d like to do more than anything. But my story is just as much about my falling short of it, of stillbirths and my retreat from the attempt.

My paper has three sections – firstly, an overview of the idea of a Christian novel. Secondly, an account of my writing career from a faith perspective. Thirdly, an investigation of the framework of building for the kingdom suggested by Tom Wright in Surprised By Hope.

Download the whole paper: Writing novels for the kingdom

My big brown Strong’s Exhaustative Concordance, or how I think the Bible is being read badly

(I’m going to sound grumpy, but I’m not, I’ve just been thinking a lot about the use of the Bible.)

It concerns me how badly the Bible is used by most evangelicals.  Much of it stems from a failure to understand what sort of book(s) the Bible is.

When I was nine, an elder in my Baptist church gave me the tool I needed to become a preacher: a big brown leather copy of Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance. For those who don’t know it, it lists every occurrence of every word used in the King James Version.

The method of preaching I learned from listening to a lot of sermons as a kid was to get Strong’s out, look up the key word in question and find every occurrence of it – ‘hope’, for example. Once you’ve read all these verses – each verse being a unit of truth, a proposition about the topic – you would have gained a ‘biblical’ picture of the topic at hand.

If you wanted to be particularly clever, you threw in the ‘real meaning’ of the Greek or Hebrew word in question.

Billy Graham lends his approval to this form of Bible study in his book Billy Graham Talks To Teenagers; he urges them all to get a Naves Topical Bible; it’s much more convenient – it arranges the Bible by topic, instead of that pesky book by book arrangement that God saw fit to saddle us with.  ‘The object of this book is to bring together in cyclopedic form and under familiar headings all that the Bible teaches on particular subjects.’ (p. 23)

The way I hear the Bible used often by evangelicals today isn’t too different from this in its assumptions. The basic failure is a failure to even attempt to understand context. (The main difference from when I was kid is that amongst non-fundamentalists and non-Sydney Anglicans, you don’t have to worry about being particuarly ‘biblical’; a few verses thrown in are often enough.)

First of all there’s the belief that each verse is a unit of truth. Each verse is read as if it can be plucked out of its context in a particular book, in a particular story or in a particular letter, addressed to a particular place and time, and read as if it is a timeless truth for today.

Alas not many verses work like this, so evangelicals keep going back to their favourite verses – Romans 8:28; John 3:16 – the ones that can be understood to work in this way.

Secondly, preachers too often move between the Old Testament and the New Testament, plucking out verses without putting those passages into the overall framework of God’s narrative of salvation. (The Bible is treated as a flat book, equally ‘inspired’; a verse from the Old Testament is just as valuable as a verse from the New Testament and is speaking in the same way to us.)

Thirdly, there is rarely any attempt to understand the social and historical context of passages.  Looking at the work on Paul being done by the New Perspective scholars, including Reta Finger, I am more and more believing that without a good understanding of these contexts, readers will get the Bible terribly wrong despite the best of intentions.

Which brings me to one of my concerns with the house church movement, a movement I am associated with. In the push toward small, simple church, there is often an even greater disparaging of scholarship and of theology. In reacting against the travesty of the passive laity, the mistake is being made that anyone can do this, that we don’t need people who have studied theology to inform our learning. The result is shared ignorance, a failure to get past the misreadings of the Bible people already have, or the risk – present in every church – of going down a leader’s crazy path.

I don’t have an answer to some of the dilemmas posed here. If I’m sounding elitist, I guess I  am. I long for the fruits of careful and sometimes brilliant scholarship to affect our church. But the timelag is long and sometimes the interface just isn’t there.

I’d really like it if an emphasis on reading the Bible contextually wasn’t confined to the Sydney Anglicans.

The general blessedness of his life

I want to live with the grace and thankfulness of the Reverend Boughton in Marilynne Robinson’s novel Home:

The house embodied for him the general blessedness of his life, which was manifest, really indisputable. And which he never failed to acknowledge, especially when it stood over against particular sorrow. (p. 3)

This quote doesn’t get close enough to what I mean. You have to read a couple of pages, so he can come alive. I’m only in the early pages of the book, but Boughton has an indefeatable thankfulness to his manner; he’s a beautiful character who fleshes out the forgiving father in Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son. We need more fiction like this.

‘We need more money’

A reluctant visitor to a megachurch last night, the ‘financial giving’ talk made me feel queasy and miserable. I wanted to run out of there. I believe they have that every week, a talk to encourage everyone to give more money, to ‘sacrifice’ for the kingdom.

I guess you have to do that when you employ as many staff as they do. I know they do a lot of stuff in the community, but I am very uncomfortable with how corporate they are and how money orientated. One might call them ‘postpentecostal’ but the roots show.

It made me proud of my little church, Network Vineyard, where the pastor sometimes forgets to take up the offering and has to be reminded by the elder. Or he just leaves the flowerpot up the front and says to come up and give before you get a cup of tea. People actually give heaps of money at our church, but they don’t need to be exhorted to it weekly.