Those Poor Professors of Theology. What Can They Be Thinking?

            I’ve been thinking about professors of Systematic Theology sitting in their seminary offices lately. What do they think they’re doing?

            I’m not trying to be funny. I’m not trying to suggest that whatever they’re doing, it’s silly. I just wonder.

            There are a few obvious candidate answers. Theology professors will teach the History of Theology—as they see it, of course, with lots of judgments thrown in. Just choosing what history you’re going to talk about requires such judgments. I’m not blaming them. I did it too.

            Theology profs will also want to teach from out of his or her own tradition—likely the seminary’s tradition, too. It might be Barthianism or Fundamentalism or Mormonism. The tradition will come with lots of presuppositions, a certain worldview, and perhaps even an ethnic or class culture. Every tradition is a rich resource for the judgments mentioned above. Again, no theology prof can avoid this, though hopefully they always pass on their tradition with a lot of soul searching.

            Theology profs will probably say that they also want to teach their students to think . . . somehow. I’m not sure which word fits best after “think.” Probably something like “rationally.”

           

John Suk teaching Hermeneutics at
Asian Theological Seminary, c. 2005

Teaching students to think rationally isn’t as critical as it first might seem. Most probably can do so pretty well already, even if they haven’t applied the skill to theology. But rationality gets more complicated if the point of teaching is to pass on a tradition. That’s because unless we’re talking about something that’s truly weird (Jesus was a Hindu mystic) most competing doctrines in different traditions are at least internally coherent. Both Unitarianism and Trinitarianism are rational, for example. “Rational” doesn’t mean, after all, “proven.” To think rationally means that, given certain presuppositions, there is a way to make sense of these doctrines; they are internally coherent.

            In fact, it strikes me that one’s presuppositions, worldview, parents’ expectations, and favorite place to go to church will have a greater impact on both the theology professor and his or her students than the goal of rationality. All these doctrines are rational, after all. Most theology professors then, are probably much more interested in convincing their students (either through careful argument or any of a dozen or so other rhetorical strategies) that the presuppositions the professor holds are absolutely right.

            Except that, if this is the case, are we really doing theology? Or, are we teaching the true presuppositions as somebody or some tradition sees them?

            I remember early on, in seminary, hearing some lectures by one professor on how theology was a “science.” That is, theology was subject to strict methodological rules. It’s object was the examination of scripture (and a tiny bit of creation) in order to theorize about true faith.

            Years later, I read some philosophy of science books. In them I encountered discussions about science’s “craft values.” That is, to be a good scientist, you will theorize in a manner that meets the approval of other scientists. A good scientific theory, for example, needs to be rational (of course), meaning internally and externally consistent. But also simple. Heuristic. It should have unifying power. And it must be falsifiable. Which no theologian truly believes about his or her take on things. If it is a science, rather than a parade of presuppositions, theology is a strange one, for sure.

            I mean, even if the odd theologian claims it, most theology doesn’t go for Occum’s razor. Inerrancy? Very complicated, once you read scriptures, or even just compare the gospels. Trinity? Persons (?) divided, but substances not? Original sin? Honestly, when there isn’t an original Adam and Eve to lean on anymore, this is a doctrine only Rube Goldberg could love.

            No, I don’t think theology is a science. And for most theologians thinking about their next lecture, I’d guess that many are really thinking indoctrination, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. They are thinking about how to pass on a tradition for the sake of maintaining it. To do otherwise, at least in most denominational seminaries, is to face a trial or maybe just be fired.

            In view of this sort of analysis, in the past I’ve suggested that we ought to make theology a playground. Theology ought to be experienced as a holy pastime rather than serious indoctrination. I know that this won’t do much for denominational distinctives, or upholding your sect’s idea of the true facts.

            But upon reflection, I also realize that calling theology a playground isn’t enough. So I’d like to offer some “rules,” for this playground—craft values for having fun with theology rather than doing mere indoctrination.

            So, first, good theology should probably be aesthetically compelling. It should be beautiful. And I don’t mean merely the beauty of something that is internally coherent. I mean it should be good poetry, or art. Theology ought to paint a picture that is worth a thousand “facts.” This quality, in fact, is what makes the work of painters like Van Gogh, or writers such as Marilyn Robinson such good theology.

            Good theology should be creative. If humans—whether in myth or history—were created by God as image bearers, surely human reflections on God should be, in turn,  creative, too. Theology should find new answers to the old questions of the problem of evil, or the nature of Jesus’ presence at the eucharist, or when to get baptized; new answers that break down old barriers and offer new insight or encouragement or joy. Another way of putting this is that every few years or so, good theology should lead to some major paradigm change when it comes to creedal or confessional conundrums.

            Good theology must be meditative. It ought to allow the thinker or the reader or the doer of the theology to step back from the rat race of the parsonage or faculty or student life and engage in seeking God seeking us, instead.

            Good theology should make identifying presuppositions a game, like Finding Waldo. Look, we know they are there in the writing and the teaching. Let’s name them! All! Ironically, it usually takes not only a hard look but also a childlike naivety to identify many presuppositions. Doing so, however, means that they won’t likely get a chance to be as  coercive as an emperor without clothes.

            Good theology should not be primarily thought of as trying to say systematically what the Bible says enigmatically. When it comes to the Trinity, we needed poetry but got a formula based on now-discredited Greek philosophical theories that has about as much connection to the original texts as Derridian deconstruction does.

            Good theology should focus more on ethics rooted in the summary of the law than in hotly debated disagreements about the Bible’s enigmas. If Old Testament Pharisees were too enamoured of the tithe, then the modern Christian academy is too enamoured of propositions.

            A good theologian has a full heart that needs to find expression in the words he or she speaks, rather than in ancient creeds or confessions that must be parsed correctly to be understood today.

            Look, it can’t be easy to be a professor of Systematic Theology. And thinking of theology as a playground rather than an arena is only a partial solution to the theologian’s problems. But theology is fun. Even if that’s just the beginning of the rest of the story.

Ten or Eleven Gentle Suggestions for Church Members

            Sundays at Lawrence Park Community Church (LPCC) are fun. People come early for a cup of coffee, and stay long after worship for another. Kids run up and down the halls. Worship services are marked by great music. On the whole, they’re also theologically challenging, and creative. We take Paul’s suggestion that we should rejoice always seriously, but know there is a place for lament too.

LPCC's Motto

            So this morning, I sat down and asked myself what are the personal qualities or practices members of LPCC bring to the table that help to positively shape the church—besides their unique beliefs and personal piety? I made a list of ten such practices and turned them into gentle suggestions. Take your pick. And remember, I’ve thought of these things because mostly, at LPCC, people do them!

ONE: Come early for coffee and stay late for coffee and refreshments. At root, churches are communities. Communities are healthy, in part, to the degree that people feel they really know each other and belong. So building personal relationships among church members is crucial. Besides coffee time, everything from meditation classes to Bible studies, from choir practices to committee meetings are also opportunities to build community. Sign up!

TWO: Besides staying for coffee, keep an eye out for strangers. Remember, the Old Testament tells us to love our neighbours only twice, but it tells us to love the stranger something like thirty-six times. Few things will attract new members so much as a warm welcome that stretches into their third, fourth and fifth visits. Remember that every time you look deeply into a stranger’s eyes, you’re looking at your own soul.

THREE: When you’re visiting with church members, and the conversation happens to touch on another church member, remember that we aim to build people up rather than tear them down. If there are serious issues involving other church members that need to be resolved, you should probably go talk to them rather than another member.

FOUR: Let the minister know about pastoral needs or other expectations. Ministers don’t read minds. We don’t know if you’ve had a troubling diagnosis, a spiritual concern, or something else you may want to discuss. Still, we’re always happy to sit down and talk. It’s one of the main things we decided to do with our lives. So call.

FIVE: Learn the names of as many kids as you can, and when you see them, say, “hi.” Make a game of it. See how well you can do. Church is a family. Kids need to feel a part of that. How will they feel a part of that if when they walk down the halls no one calls them by name?

SIX: Make at least one long-term volunteer commitment. I’m always amazed by how much needs to be done at church—from getting coffee ready to buying communion supplies, from singing to administering to attending youth retreats to collecting coats. The list is endless in both length and variety. So sign up for something, anything. Then, whether your commitment is a large one or small, make sure we can depend on it.

SEVEN: If you are on a committee that has serious responsibilities—the church council perhaps, or the Flower Guild, resign if you don’t have time. There are other opportunities that will work with your schedule, so why frustrate both yourself and fellow committee members?

EIGHT: Sing. I’ve been in churches where people mostly listen to the choir, and in churches that lift the roof up off the walls even for hymns they hardly know. Few things make church seem exactly like church than every voice joining in. I know that not all of us have the voice of angels (I certainly don’t). But it’s about letting what lives in your heart out through your lips. Church isn’t a reality show like American Idol. No one is judging you.

NINE: Contribute generously. Not only of your time, but your resources. Do it through PAR, or through automatic withdrawals from your account. Make sure the church is a beneficiary in your will. I still like the idea of tithing toward your charities as a guideline. If the poor Hebrews could do it, why can’t we rich Westerners? We have so much to be grateful for, we ought to figure out how to be grateful in concrete ways. Consider giving a third or a half of your tithe to your church, and the rest to other worthy causes. Of course, none of this applies to people who really can’t afford to tithe!

TEN: Tithe your complaints, too. There is another area where tithing is a great idea. Complaints. Your complaints about what is going on at church should never amount to more than a tithe of your compliments about what is going on in church. By the way, sharing thoughtful suggestions with the pastor or a council member about the preaching, or the music, or the finances of a church is not complaining. It is participating in the life of the church.

ELEVEN: Attend annual meetings. Even if you don’t have time to contribute as a volunteer, and even if you don’t have financial gifts to be generous with, participation at congregational events is crucial. Inform yourself about church priorities, congregational health, and the plans of the church’s leadership. Offer constructive input. Not only does this build a sense of shared responsibility and community, it will bring important viewpoints that might not otherwise have been considered into play.

            I’m sure I’ve managed, at best, to touch on some of my pet peeves, and that most church leaders—whether lay or ministerial—have their own list. But at a minimum, these suggestions will make for a good discussion starter. What items might you add? Or subtract?

Ten Commandments For Preachers (not related to the sermon!)

            When parishioners gather, after church, for some roast preacher, it isn’t always the sermon that gets jabs. And there’s more to being the preacher on Sundays than bringing an exegetically smart, creative sermon to the pulpit. So I’ve put together, here, a list of ten commandments for preachers. None have to do with the sermon. The list is meant to compliment my column from a few weeks ago, “Ten Commandments for Worship Leaders.”

One: On Sundays the wise preacher’s work starts long before worship, and ends long after. Get to church early to greet volunteers, musicians, early comers, kids on their way to nursery, and so on. Stay late to say “thanks for coming,” and “good-bye,” to as many as you can. It’s amazing how many pastoral hints you’ll pick up on. And if church is about community, the pastor’s job is to be a leader in trying to create and model it.

Two: Tell children’s sermons. If church is a family affair, and if the little children are supposed to come to Jesus, and if we are supposed to learn how to receive the kingdom from the child in our

midst—well, they should be in our midst. You’re their pastor too. You get to learn names. Telling children’s sermons humanizes you not only in their eyes, but in the entire congregation’s eyes. You live the reality of church as the family of God. People will laugh at the wise things they unexpectedly say. So get down to their level, eyeball to eyeball. Keep it really short. Don’t talk down to them but talk with them. Laugh.

Three: Remember that announcements made before or during the service, while they may be a challenge to integrate, are another critical part of building community. Depending on how you handle announcements it can sound like there are never enough volunteers, or like you’re glad for the many you have. You can make it seem like nothing of importance is going on, or like the church is bubbling with activity. Whether it is in marriage or a corporation, communication and how it is handled can have a huge impact on morale. So use announcements to show the humane, the exciting, and the empathetic side of your church community.

Four: Smile. I once directed a high school production of Oedipus. Afterwards, Oedipus came to me in tears, wondering why I thought she had failed (yes, this Oedipus was a woman). The thing is, she had not failed. But I was so serious in my demeanour, so critically observant in my role as a director, that even as I sat in the front row for the whole play, I forgot to smile. I nearly ruined the show. Pastors—smile! Don’t be goofy. Don’t avoid other emotions. Don’t try to be a nothing but a cheerleader. But when you have the chance, when the occasion is right, smile. People catch on that whatever else church is, it can often be a happy place, as it should be most of the time.

Five: A bit of self-deprecating humour goes a long way to making people feel at home. Whether in the announcement time, or a sermon, or as I shake hands with people on the way out, making fun of yourself just a bit makes you accessible and real. Nothing signals underlying problems in a church more quickly than a pastor who isn’t laughing at himself once in a while.

Six: Don’t strive for perfection. Or, another way of putting it might be, don’t take yourself and your every move so seriously that you can’t be as human as anyone else in your audience. God knows, I try to dress the part, I try to remember to polish my shoes, and I try to lay my tie straight on my shirt. But like Jennifer Lawrence, I’ve tripped on the steps up to the pulpit. I’ve forgotten lines and misplaced sermon notes. And while I don’t want to play the part of a dufus, I’ve often fallen into the role for a few minutes here and there. When I do, I try to relax, apologize if necessary, and do a bit better next time.

Seven: Every Sunday, try to find someone to thank, publically. It isn’t that there is ever a shortage of people worthy of thanks. But it is human nature to create shortages of appreciation.

Eight: Apologize. Not more than is necessary. But if you miss a hymn, or if the janitor forgets to put water in the baptismal font and you have to send someone out for it, or if you forget the name of your council chair during announcement time—stop for a moment. Note the mistake. Apologize. Smile (see number 3, above), and move on.

Nine: Listen to your own sermons once in a while. You’ll be surprised by what you learn. I drop the end of my sentences sometimes. I use too many “ums.” I can correct these things, with a little effort and if I’m willing to engage in a bit of self-criticism.

Ten: Listening to your own services is also a helpful way for preachers to get some idea of how badly they’ve fallen into the bane of church, the preacher’s drawl. In a way, such drawls are unavoidable—we all have our own style of speaking, our own accent. But if having a style is unavoidable, the best thing you can do is work on making it unpredictable, lively, and engaging. Speak as if to equals (they are, after all). Don’t drone on in a monotone—listen to how the best radio announcers vary tone, loudness, timbre, and speed. Let some emotion in. Important for preaching, but doubly so for prayers.

            I’m sure readers can add their own ten or twenty commands to the list. Perhaps it would be better to call them all suggestions--less presumptuous.  But I’d love to hear more suggestions, especially from those in the best place to offer them--pew sitters. And maybe, one day, I'll write a list of ten commandments for sermon time.

Is God Disappearing? And Is that All Bad?

I think it is fair to say that God has mostly disappeared. And maybe that isn’t all bad.

I was struck by this thought while listening to a new song by Portugal. The Man (Yes, no period. The punctuation is odd). It’s entitled “Modern Jesus.” As I listened the first time, I expected the song to offer up some sort of humanistic alternative to faith but I was struck by the fact that that band didn’t even try. After a rather maudlin swipe at preachers, (“we may be liars preaching to choirs”), all they have is, “the only faith we have is faith in us” and “who cares if hell awaits? We’ve been drinking at heaven’s gate.”

Well, I guess it isn’t so surprising that a group of young men with (as far as I know) no formal education other than some college and no serious history with church or synagogue or mosque doesn’t have anything deep to say about faith, hope, doubt, or God. But their song got me to thinking and so I googled “atheism” and “songs,” and discovered that atheism has just about as many hymns as Christian Contemporary Music does. It’s a popular meme. Religion apparently still has plenty value for those who want a can to kick.

But it goes to show that atheism is a definitely a thing. There’s the music. On the more scholarly front, we have the new atheists like Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins, doing a reprise of themes from Time Magazine’s 1965 “Is God Dead,” cover. Nearly a quarter of Canadians (slightly lower in the States) won’t list a religious affiliation when asked, and I’m guessing many more are practical atheists—baptized Catholic or United or something like that, and happy for the church’s help when it comes to weddings and funerals, but mostly, they never, ever think of religion.

CNN is also taking note. It ran an interesting article about an atheist family entitled “The Friendly Atheists Next Door.” It’s good because the article tries hard not to caricature the people it highlights. They’re good citizens. Really nice. But don’t believe in God.

All this hits a bit close to home for me for a couple of reasons. I have personally struggled hard—and sometimes still do—with faith. I’m not sold on God, even though I know and understand most of the philosophic and theistic arguments for God’s existence. The only reason I can offer for hanging in there (besides being a pastor) is that it seems to me that God won’t let me go, which is as close as I can get to saying I have a personal relationship with God. So I try to make the best of it—while remaining honest, and seeking, and trying to sort out what in scripture (or other inspired writing) will help my parishioners live a good life, and why. I’m glad to be in a congregation that wants this sort of approach.

While I’m on my church, I can’t help but be aware of the fact that the previous pastor was a post-theist. Not for his entire run, but the last few years. He was done with a sovereign God keeping watch on how everything turned out according to his divine purpose. That, in turn, attracted a few new members who were curious—or convicted—about this approach to Christianity. It’s a complicated story, but the bottom line is that when I preach, I do so knowing that there are people sitting in the pews who, while they understand I am a theist, are thoughtfully critical about a lot of my preaching. When I preach, I constantly need to keep these people—and their agnosticism or atheism—in mind. You may want to know why they go to church at all—but they have their reasons and maybe that’s a column for another time. But they are welcome, involved, and interesting.

All of this reminded me of a book I read a few years ago, and have since dug up. It’s by Richard Elliott Friedman, and entitled, The Disappearance of God: A Divine Mystery. This Jewish author notes that in the Old Testament, the nature of God’s presence slowly diminishes from beginning to end. He walks and talks with Adam and Eve. By the time of Noah, and the patriarchs, he only makes special appearances, often veiled in fire or confused as encounters with angels. Moses gets to see a burning bush and the back of God, and all the people see a pillar of fire and cloud, and they don’t want to see more. When Miriam and Aaron ask if God has only spoken through Moses, God answers from a column of smoke and says that in the future he will make himself known to prophets in visions. The last persons the Bible says God “revealed” himself to are Samuel and Solomon. The last great public miracle happens on Mount Carmel when Elijah calls down fire from heaven. Excepting Daniel—problematic on many accounts—for the rest it is all visions and dreams.

In the New Testament God reveals himself in human flesh so ambiguously, so mysteriously, that many who met Jesus, even among his disciples, did not believe he was God. It took the church several hundred years to come to a consensus decision that he was. And as a Unitarian with some Trinitarian tendencies (Check it out here), I’m not sure what I can say about the nature of Jesus’ revelation.

What do we make of the disappearance of God as a progressive diminution in scripture and/or as a cultural reality for us, at least in the West? Well, maybe this—one of the arguments that Friedman also makes. God wants us to grow up.

That is, perhaps God chooses to hide him or herself or itself so that we as humans will own a morality and a destiny that fits with being mature children of God. After all, it is “precisely when humans are closest to God that they rebel most blatantly” (101). Adam and Eve, as well as the Israelites in the desert, not to mention Solomon, all come to mind. For all their walks with God, Abraham and Sarah both laughed at God’s promises. Moses didn’t get to enter the Promised Land. “I shall hide my face from them. I shall see what their end will be,” God explains. And Isaiah adds, “Indeed, you are a God who hides himself.” 

Why does God hide himself? Maybe Friedman is right. God’s desire—as the Biblical writers understood it, was ultimately that humans should grow up. “Gradually from Genesis to Ezra and Esther, there is a transition from divine to human responsibility for life on earth. The story begins in Genesis with God in complete control of the creation, but by the end humans have arrived at a stage at which, in all apparent ways, they have responsibility for the fate of their world” (30).

So maybe it isn’t such a bad thing that God is disappearing. But then, at the same time, a big responsibility too. It involves, whether you go to church or not, a commitment to doing more than drinking at heaven’s gate, here and now.

The Meaning of Life. I Think.

Having changed my mind about the old certainties my faith and church handed down to me, I wonder more than ever about the meaning of life. I have some ideas. In fact, I’m writing a book. I may call it The Meaning of Life (I Think). The title is tongue-in-cheek. It will increase curiosity while dampening expectations.

Many people—sometimes whole societies—get the answer to the question, “What is the meaning of life,” dead wrong. I certainly think that I have, in the past. We do so because we cannot escape the prejudices of our time or the loyalties we were schooled in.

It’s a common problem, not unique to us. Take Pieter Schuil, for example. Pieter is a first cousin of mine, four generations back, on my mother’s side. I know about Pieter because I have a copy of his diary.

Pieter Schuil c. 1899

Pieter immigrated to South Africa as a single young man in 1898. In his diary he hints that he emigrated out of a sense of religious duty. The Boers had been recruiting Christian School teachers in the Netherlands. Pieter writes as if he was answering a divine call. But—given the way he describes what he saw and did in South Africa—there is also something of the Romantic wanderer in Pieter. It is possible that he rationalized this wanderlust with a fine religious argument. It is hard to tell.

But Pieter also loved literature. His favourite poet was Heinrich Heine. He wrote his diary with feeling and sensitivity. After reading it—stories about his steamer trip to South Africa; of riding a mail cart to Rustenburg with a secret policeman as his companion; of getting caught in a raging thunderstorm, at night, on the veld—after reading his diary I found I really liked my distant cousin. Even more, I saw something of myself in Pieter: romantic, a writer, religious, introverted, a bit of a dreamer. Someone who wanted to get just far enough away from his roots to find true meaning on his own.

It was a valiant effort on Pieter’s part, but he failed, I think. He was drafted into the Anglo-Boer war. He mostly served as secretary for his commanding officer. When his commando—his guerrilla unit—went off to fight, his fellow soldiers usually made him hang back, to watch the horses. That’s what he was doing when the English overran his position. They claimed that Pieter then lowered his Mauser rifle, with a white flag of surrender attached to it, and blasted away. He and his fellow Boer soldiers denied it. He was court-martialled that night and shot by a firing squad the next morning, October 2, 1901. The novel and the poems he had written before the war, and buried for safekeeping, have never been recovered. A suburb of modern Rustenburg sits over his old schoolhouse.

Pieter’s execution was tragic. So too the disappearance of his life’s work. But the tragedy was actually far worse. I discovered, reading his diary, that Pieter was also a deeply racist person whose attitude mirrored the systemic racism of his Boer compatriots, his church, and all of his wider society—including English South Africa. He fought to establish a Republic where Africans would be treated as sub-human.

Pieter consistently uses the racist term “Kaffir,” or sometimes “Kaffir Boy.” It means “person without religion,” and so, more properly, “someone less than human,” or “a soulless person.” It was a term that allowed Pieter and other whites to deal with Africans as if they were animals rather than people. He describes the Zulu as “uncivilized” and “notorious for their bloodlust.” He condemns the English for arming Africans, because this shows far too much trust and respect.

Pieter also willingly, if not enthusiastically, fought in an unjust war. Granted, the judgment of history is that the war was especially unjust on the English side. They invaded two independent Boer republics mostly because gold had been discovered in them. The English habitually conquered nations and territory for the glory of the Crown and private economic benefit. That is the whole idea behind Imperialism.

History’s judgement on the Anglo-Boer War is also deeply coloured by the fact that the English used it as the occasion to invent modern concentration camps. During the course of the war, tens of thousands of Africans and Boers, the latter mostly women and children, died in them amid absolutely appalling conditions.

But beside the petty geopolitical concerns of England and the small Republics, both the Boers and the English fought their war without any regard for their African neighbours. It was a white man’s war that brought ruin, death, hunger, and disaster upon all the Africans it touched, in large measure because neither the Boers nor the English seemed to believe that Africans were fully human.

Boers shot Africans in the employ of the English forces as a matter of course, like dogs. The English rounded up Africans who worked on Boer farms and threw them into concentration camps. And when, at war’s end, the issue of reparations for devastated Boer farmers was discussed, nothing was forthcoming for the Africans who suffered as badly—or worse--than anyone else. During the final peace negotiations, the Boers even managed to exclude Africans and coloureds from receiving the franchise at the end of the war. Voting rights were based on wealth and property, so very few Africans even in the English Cape Colony had the wherewithal to vote, and even fewer would have been able to do so in the old Boer Republics. But still, it was another case of showing complete disdain Boers like Pieter had for Africans, their humanity, and their rights.

And as he sought to make something of his life, wrote his diary and poetry and novel, none of this seems to have dawned on Pieter. He was used by all the prejudices of his age and tribe. For all of his other qualities, he lived and died for causes that we today recognize as badly mistaken, unjust, and even evil.

I liked Pieter, as he spoke to me across the years; but I was horrified too. How could such an intelligent, sensitive, Bible-believing idealist be so wrong about almost everything?

Well, he was merely a child of his time and place, some will say. And yes, of course, that’s true. And perhaps it even helps us empathize with Pieter a little bit, forgive him even, for his racism and miscalculations about what was most important in life.

But there’s the rub, too. We’re all children of our time. Perhaps the single most difficult task for anyone who really wants to explore what life is all about is to figure out how to set our time and place aside, so that we can see things as they are.

It is almost impossible to do so. How do we set aside the entitlement, for example, that allows us to consume earth’s resources, raise its temperature, eat well while millions go hungry, and so on? How do we set aside our own racist, or patriotic, or faith-based presuppositions long enough to recognize them, let alone weigh them?

When our great grandchildren learn how we built our suburban mansions, fought overseas wars with pilotless drones, ate meat, treated First Nations, coddled the banks and big corporations, fished the sea empty, frittered out time away playing games on TV or shopping, and argued about original sin in our cozy churches—will our great grandchildren think we understood the meaning of life?

Living in a specific time and place is like sleeping under a heavy blanket in a bedroom where the window has been left open in February. I used to have to do that, because my parents thought it was healthy. So, I pulled the blanket tight around me, and even buried my head under it. In fact, I found that sleeping in this warm cocoon was actually a real joy.

That’s how it is for most of us, even today, when it comes to finding meaning for our lives. We usually sleep through it unawares, dreaming fractured dreams, bundled in our churches and tribes, hopeful that nothing will disrupt our reverie.

Not very helpful when it comes to truly understanding what life is really all about. And probably one of the biggest challenges I face if I’m ever going to get started on my book, The Meaning of Life (I Think).

  

John Suk's Interview of Karen Armstrong

I interviewed Karen Armstrong, author of Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence, about this her latest book. Ms. Armstrong was gracious and fascinating, both. She is also, of course the author of many more books that have been bestsellers. The History of God is my personal favourite.

I did the interview last November, and it is published in the United Church Observer. You can find it here: Fields of Blood Interview