I always enjoy speculating about future possibilities because it opens up avenues of thought which wouldn't otherwise arise. Several years back, when my husband and I were attending a very large family church with a strong community focus, we were asked to consider what would happen if the church ceased to exist as a formal structure. This was an exercise undertaken by all the cell groups simultaneously in order to get a sense of where the community's strengths and weaknesses lay.
First off, people acknowledged that friendships had developed in the cell groups which weren't dependent on the structure of the church to survive. This was true. In fact,many of these friendships have endured long after we and others left that congregation. To my mind, the building of friendships was and is the most valuable part of the cell group model.
Other aspects of church life, such as worship, teaching, evangelism and care for the sick, promised to do less well if the formal structure of the institution were removed. Granted, this may have had something to do with the style of services at the time. Worship was led by a slick band of talented musicians and vocalists with the aid of hi-tech equipment. Teaching and preaching was conducted from a platform with microphones, speakers and projected images. Evangelism happened in well-organised teams with printed materials such as invitations to a specific outreach event. Care for the sick was co-ordinated from a central office which employed social workers and counsellors and ran a roster for volunteers. All round, it was a very well-oiled operation which sought to involve every member of the congregation at one level or another. The only trouble was, the high degree of management tended to suppress individual initiative so that members became reliant on the system instead of upon their own vision and enthusiasm.
Certainly, large-scale ventures in the church, such as the Sunday school, youth group, pre-school and Christian academy, would have to revise their reason for being and redesign their constitution if the church ceased to exist. While it was clear that centres for learning and leadership development were essential, it was debatable whether they would be viable without a congregation next door. One of the chief reasons for running these bodies was to expose children to the gospel early on so that they would make the church their home. In addition, many of the staff taught for less than they would earn at another private school because they viewed their work there as a vocation. Were the church to close down, both pupils and staff would likely drift away.
All of these points were of interest to me but what concerned me more was the traditional roles that the church had played in peoples' lives over the centuries. The church was historically the place where rites of passage were conducted. Babies were presented to the congregation and welcomed. Adolescents were introduced to the fundamentals of Christian culture; the way to salvation and the importance of loving one's neighbour. Young adults were joined in matrimony. High days and holidays were celebrated. The distressed and dying were ministered to. Families who had lost loved ones were supported in their grief. Given the importance of marking these great life events, what would happen to Christians if the structure of the church was no longer there to cater for them? Would the milestones of life simply be ignored? Would people of faith turn to secular companies to mark special occasions? Or would something else happen - something borne out of necessity and the inventiveness that comes with creative expression?
It should be held in mind that all rites of passage, all rituals and ceremonies, were once creative expressions of a group of needy individuals. Even the sacrament of Holy Communion which remembers Christ's death on the cross and the forgiveness of sins derived from a simple meal in an upper room on the night Jesus was betrayed. If we sprinkle a baby's head with water, it is because someone long ago set a precedent which carried deep significance for a group of people. Likewise, if a father walks his daughter up an aisle and leaves her at the side of her husband-to-be, it is because that act was once initiated by someone with a dramatic imagination who wanted to vividly depict the alteration of family relationships in front of the whole community.
If such rituals and ceremonies were designed in the past, surely they can be designed again? Indeed, surely many of them ought to be designed again in light of the changing nature of society. The fact is, communities are not what they used to be. Having spent many years in a small town where the church provided a focal point for worship, work and play, I am struck by how different it is in the city where the church is but one of many organisations demanding attendance, loyalty and input. If we only get to a church-related event twice a month, we are not unusual. Yet our desire for connection has not changed. It just takes place in different ways.
Though that conversation at our home cell was long ago, I continue to grapple with the question of what would happen to us and others if the church were to no longer exist. I believe it would be a terrible loss if we were simply to shrug our shoulders and find refuge in other existing structures. What is required is a commitment to truth, to finding out what our hearts really desire and coming up with a way to service our need. Our faith and love do not have to be sacrificed along with familiar forms of fellowship. The world is full of opportunity if we but consider our options with an open mind.
Monday, 20 May 2013
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
Trying To Find A Perspective On The Church
Lately I have been thinking a lot about the emerging church. Emergence is a trend that seems to be taking place across the board in all sorts of churches, ranging from the very fundamental to the extremely liberal, which makes it difficult to define. Yet more and more, we are hearing the term "emerging church", especially on the internet where trends seem to be most evident.
From what I have managed to glean so far, there are three main kinds of emergence taking place within the church. All appear to be a response to the rapid changes taking place in our culture, what with enhanced communication, globalisation, environmental awareness, economic insecurity and unprecedented advances in science. In the first instance, churches are adapting their traditional forms of worship to resemble twenty-first century culture, resulting in a more contemporary look and feel while retaining their basic structure and message. In the second instance, churches are dramatically revising their structure, going for a more egalitarian composition as well as greater utilisation of web-based communication, though their message remains recognisably orthodox. In the third instance, churches are altering both their structure and their message, letting go of traditional forms which are seen to inhibit spiritual growth and societal relationships, and charting a new course for Christianity into a different sort of future.
As someone who has been exposed to all three streams of emergence, I find it hard to be objective about any one of them. The problem is that one can never judge change from within it. Only hindsight can offer a clear perspective, and nobody has the luxury of that right now. We can only speculate on what the outcomes of each of the streams will be. Even then, it is impossible to tell what we are missing in terms of subtle internal forces and unpredictable external factors.
It is a little like the evolution of a species from one form into an as yet undetermined other form. It is often the anomalies which lead the way into a new era. However, at the time when a number of different anomalies are in existence, it is anyone's guess which of them will survive to become the dominant new species. Yes, a certain feature looks like an advantage, but subjected to certain climatic conditions, it may turn out to be a dud. On the other hand, a form that appears to be weak may develop certain unseen attributes and turn out to be the more successful over time.
In this decade of radical adjustment, it cannot be said whether updating the style of services will be sufficient, nor whether abandoning the long-standing hierarchy of religious institutions will be too much. Perhaps the church needs to remain familiar in order to give people a sense of security, or perhaps it needs to reinterpret the very stuff of its doctrine to keep up with the demand for relevance. Nothing can be anticipated with any confidence because nothing can be guaranteed. Indeed, the only thing that can be said for sure is that people will find ways of meeting their own needs and, given the very different needs of people at any one time, they will cling to what works for them until they can cling no more.
This explains the tremendous range of expressions found in the church today. It is not a case of ongoing fragmentation so much as ongoing differentiation. Spiritual hunger drives people to congregate in clusters of like-minded people who will support each other in their quest for meaning. The more driven these congregations are, the more vigorously they will develop their own unique characteristics and evolve into possible versions of the future church.
I think this is exciting but it is also sobering. If we are indeed in a period of emergence, then it stands to reason that many forms of church which are vital and strong today may well be obsolete tomorrow, which could mean that millions of present-day church-goers will find themselves homeless. Not that there is any remedy for this now, since who is to say which of these forms will stay afloat after others have sunk? The only thing we can do is be aware of the potential for widespread alienation and make sure we stay open-minded enough to switch streams if the need should arise.
From what I have managed to glean so far, there are three main kinds of emergence taking place within the church. All appear to be a response to the rapid changes taking place in our culture, what with enhanced communication, globalisation, environmental awareness, economic insecurity and unprecedented advances in science. In the first instance, churches are adapting their traditional forms of worship to resemble twenty-first century culture, resulting in a more contemporary look and feel while retaining their basic structure and message. In the second instance, churches are dramatically revising their structure, going for a more egalitarian composition as well as greater utilisation of web-based communication, though their message remains recognisably orthodox. In the third instance, churches are altering both their structure and their message, letting go of traditional forms which are seen to inhibit spiritual growth and societal relationships, and charting a new course for Christianity into a different sort of future.
As someone who has been exposed to all three streams of emergence, I find it hard to be objective about any one of them. The problem is that one can never judge change from within it. Only hindsight can offer a clear perspective, and nobody has the luxury of that right now. We can only speculate on what the outcomes of each of the streams will be. Even then, it is impossible to tell what we are missing in terms of subtle internal forces and unpredictable external factors.
It is a little like the evolution of a species from one form into an as yet undetermined other form. It is often the anomalies which lead the way into a new era. However, at the time when a number of different anomalies are in existence, it is anyone's guess which of them will survive to become the dominant new species. Yes, a certain feature looks like an advantage, but subjected to certain climatic conditions, it may turn out to be a dud. On the other hand, a form that appears to be weak may develop certain unseen attributes and turn out to be the more successful over time.
In this decade of radical adjustment, it cannot be said whether updating the style of services will be sufficient, nor whether abandoning the long-standing hierarchy of religious institutions will be too much. Perhaps the church needs to remain familiar in order to give people a sense of security, or perhaps it needs to reinterpret the very stuff of its doctrine to keep up with the demand for relevance. Nothing can be anticipated with any confidence because nothing can be guaranteed. Indeed, the only thing that can be said for sure is that people will find ways of meeting their own needs and, given the very different needs of people at any one time, they will cling to what works for them until they can cling no more.
This explains the tremendous range of expressions found in the church today. It is not a case of ongoing fragmentation so much as ongoing differentiation. Spiritual hunger drives people to congregate in clusters of like-minded people who will support each other in their quest for meaning. The more driven these congregations are, the more vigorously they will develop their own unique characteristics and evolve into possible versions of the future church.
I think this is exciting but it is also sobering. If we are indeed in a period of emergence, then it stands to reason that many forms of church which are vital and strong today may well be obsolete tomorrow, which could mean that millions of present-day church-goers will find themselves homeless. Not that there is any remedy for this now, since who is to say which of these forms will stay afloat after others have sunk? The only thing we can do is be aware of the potential for widespread alienation and make sure we stay open-minded enough to switch streams if the need should arise.
Thursday, 2 May 2013
Never-ending Namibia
As a way to celebrate our fiftieth birthdays, my husband and I planned a short holiday to a destination that neither of us had ever been to before. We chose Namibia because it was close enough to reach for a brief stay and exotic enough to captivate us. Namibia is the second most uninhabited country in the world, outranked only by Mongolia, and it has the odd characteristic of desert lying right next to the coastline. The so-called Skeleton Coast was something that had evoked curiosity in me since childhood.
Armed with cameras, sunglasses, hats and boots, we boarded Air Namibia in Johannesburg on Friday morning and were delighted to find ourselves travelling on one of the airline's two new airbuses to Windhoek. The flight was incredibly quiet from where we were sitting in front of the wing. Smart Namibian stewards and stewardesses served us a satisfying breakfast of omelette with cheese and potato slices, fruit salad and yoghurt. We lost an hour in flight due to the difference in time zones and landed at 6.30am, just as the landscape was beginning to brighten.
We had ordered a high-clearance vehicle from Avis Car Rental in view of the mileage we would be doing on desert roads. On arrival at the desk, however, we were informed that there were no high-clearance vehicles left and that we would have to take a Toyota Corolla instead. Fortunately, my husband is a businessman and knows how to get his way. He stood there, shaking his head as the woman stammered her way through her apology, and eventually admitted that there was, in fact, a Kia Serento available. Relieved, we stocked up our four-by-four with bottled water, bread rolls, cheese and grapes - not forgetting paper serviettes and bags to store rubbish in on the road - and set off.
We were well prepared for the long hours of driving we would have to do through arid landscapes. My husband has an iPad and an auxiliary cable which plugged directly into the car radio. Before leaving home, we had downloaded the audio version of the book "Wool" to listen to as we drove. Strangely enough, the setting of the story echoed the dry, dusty surroundings quite closely, bringing the narrative to life and accentuating the dominant theme of survival in an inhospitable environment. We only got half-way through the book in all our thirteen-odd hours of driving, but it kept us riveted throughout and gave us lots to talk about when we were sitting around having drinks or eating at a restaurant.
In Swakopmund, we stayed at the Swakopmund Hotel, a lovely building with big rooms and attractive lawns full of palm trees. The porters and front desk staff were charming, greeting us by name and making us feel very welcome. They encouraged us to book two tours while we were there, and we were glad they did. The Marine Tour, leaving from Swakopmund but taking place in Walvis Bay, was brilliantly run by a young woman named Martinette, who interacted with the seals and pelicans to give us a close-up view of both. Aboard the beautiful catamaran Mehandri, we got to see - and hear - a vast seal colony of 60 000 seals, an oyster farm, a wrecked Chinese fishing boat, various container ships and trawlers in the harbour, and of course, the ubiquitous dolphins that love to swim in the bow wave of the boat. On our Desert Tour in the afternoon, we travelled into the Nakloof Nature Reserve to look at several rare species of plant, such as the "Living Stone" and the Welwichia, drive through a dry river bed, climb a high sand dune and listen to the music of iron-rich rocks. It was amazing to stand on the high point of the dune and listen to the roar of the ocean in the distance, a true example of nature's variety!
From Swakopmund we drove inland to Kulala Desert Lodge, a very different hotel in that it was set unapologetically on a sandy plain with absolutely no trees or grass. Here you really get the sense of being out in the arid wilderness. The accommodation is in tented chalets with ceiling fans and insect netting on the windows but no air conditioning. In the heat of the afternoon, the coolest place to be - apart from the pool - is in the stone-floored bathroom with its concrete walls and roof! Water is, of course, a luxury in such a climate and we were grateful to have sufficient supply for drinking, showering and mopping down our overheated bodies. Despite the intense heat, though, we were determined to take advantage of the activities on offer. My husband did a morning tour of the great red dunes of the Namib and the deadpan at Sossusvlei. I joined him for an afternoon guided tour of the nature reserve where we spotted lots of springbok, oryx, ostriches and bat-eared foxes, along with the occasional jackal and crow. From the top of the mountain we watched the sun go down over the vast and barren landscape, and for me, that was the definitive moment of the trip. I had a sense of looking out over the world, surveying the possibilities lying open to me and identifying what I wanted as my life moved forward into the second fifty-year phase. With the sun setting on the past, I know much more now than I did before, and I have a far better impression of what I wish for on the spectrum of lushness and aridity.
We did some stargazing on the last night there. I generally only see one or two stars in the sky on a good night in the city, but in the darkness of the outback, I counted as many as six or seven. My husband, whose eyesight is normal, if a little weak with age, thrilled at the sight of the whole Milky Way. There are so rarely clouds in the Namib - it rains heavily only once every two years or so - that one is almost guaranteed excellent stargazing conditions. We were especially fortunate to be there at a time when the moon, though fairly full, only rose late, thereby giving us an inky dark sky to look up into.
We were almost late checking in for our flight back to Johannesburg, owing to the slow drive on rough roads and the constant temptation to stop for photographs. In our rush to leave the car at Avis Car Rental, we didn't remember to remove all our belongings from the various hidey-holes and pockets. It was only after we had gone through security that a call came over the intercom for my husband to report at the company desk, and he was so flustered by the stress of being late that he almost ignored the call, thinking they probably wanted him to hand in a piece of paper which he had brought with him. Fortunately, he thought to look up their telephone number on the iPad and call them, because it was his camera and prescription sunglasses he had left behind. What a loss that would have been, especially after spending so much time and effort taking beautiful pictures to remind ourselves of our celebratory trip!
For anyone who is considering a trip to Namibia, I can highly recommend it as a novel and gratifying experience. The towns are neat with the influence of early German colonisation. The restaurants are good, the coffee shops well up to scratch by international standards. As for the local people, they are friendly and welcoming, and in our case, willing to go out of their way to assist me when my husband wasn't around to guide and dish up for me. We thoroughly enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere of the country after coming from the busyness and pressure of Johannesburg, and if it is African wildlife you are after, Namibia offers a distinctive variety with ample means to view them.
Armed with cameras, sunglasses, hats and boots, we boarded Air Namibia in Johannesburg on Friday morning and were delighted to find ourselves travelling on one of the airline's two new airbuses to Windhoek. The flight was incredibly quiet from where we were sitting in front of the wing. Smart Namibian stewards and stewardesses served us a satisfying breakfast of omelette with cheese and potato slices, fruit salad and yoghurt. We lost an hour in flight due to the difference in time zones and landed at 6.30am, just as the landscape was beginning to brighten.
We had ordered a high-clearance vehicle from Avis Car Rental in view of the mileage we would be doing on desert roads. On arrival at the desk, however, we were informed that there were no high-clearance vehicles left and that we would have to take a Toyota Corolla instead. Fortunately, my husband is a businessman and knows how to get his way. He stood there, shaking his head as the woman stammered her way through her apology, and eventually admitted that there was, in fact, a Kia Serento available. Relieved, we stocked up our four-by-four with bottled water, bread rolls, cheese and grapes - not forgetting paper serviettes and bags to store rubbish in on the road - and set off.
We were well prepared for the long hours of driving we would have to do through arid landscapes. My husband has an iPad and an auxiliary cable which plugged directly into the car radio. Before leaving home, we had downloaded the audio version of the book "Wool" to listen to as we drove. Strangely enough, the setting of the story echoed the dry, dusty surroundings quite closely, bringing the narrative to life and accentuating the dominant theme of survival in an inhospitable environment. We only got half-way through the book in all our thirteen-odd hours of driving, but it kept us riveted throughout and gave us lots to talk about when we were sitting around having drinks or eating at a restaurant.
In Swakopmund, we stayed at the Swakopmund Hotel, a lovely building with big rooms and attractive lawns full of palm trees. The porters and front desk staff were charming, greeting us by name and making us feel very welcome. They encouraged us to book two tours while we were there, and we were glad they did. The Marine Tour, leaving from Swakopmund but taking place in Walvis Bay, was brilliantly run by a young woman named Martinette, who interacted with the seals and pelicans to give us a close-up view of both. Aboard the beautiful catamaran Mehandri, we got to see - and hear - a vast seal colony of 60 000 seals, an oyster farm, a wrecked Chinese fishing boat, various container ships and trawlers in the harbour, and of course, the ubiquitous dolphins that love to swim in the bow wave of the boat. On our Desert Tour in the afternoon, we travelled into the Nakloof Nature Reserve to look at several rare species of plant, such as the "Living Stone" and the Welwichia, drive through a dry river bed, climb a high sand dune and listen to the music of iron-rich rocks. It was amazing to stand on the high point of the dune and listen to the roar of the ocean in the distance, a true example of nature's variety!
From Swakopmund we drove inland to Kulala Desert Lodge, a very different hotel in that it was set unapologetically on a sandy plain with absolutely no trees or grass. Here you really get the sense of being out in the arid wilderness. The accommodation is in tented chalets with ceiling fans and insect netting on the windows but no air conditioning. In the heat of the afternoon, the coolest place to be - apart from the pool - is in the stone-floored bathroom with its concrete walls and roof! Water is, of course, a luxury in such a climate and we were grateful to have sufficient supply for drinking, showering and mopping down our overheated bodies. Despite the intense heat, though, we were determined to take advantage of the activities on offer. My husband did a morning tour of the great red dunes of the Namib and the deadpan at Sossusvlei. I joined him for an afternoon guided tour of the nature reserve where we spotted lots of springbok, oryx, ostriches and bat-eared foxes, along with the occasional jackal and crow. From the top of the mountain we watched the sun go down over the vast and barren landscape, and for me, that was the definitive moment of the trip. I had a sense of looking out over the world, surveying the possibilities lying open to me and identifying what I wanted as my life moved forward into the second fifty-year phase. With the sun setting on the past, I know much more now than I did before, and I have a far better impression of what I wish for on the spectrum of lushness and aridity.
We did some stargazing on the last night there. I generally only see one or two stars in the sky on a good night in the city, but in the darkness of the outback, I counted as many as six or seven. My husband, whose eyesight is normal, if a little weak with age, thrilled at the sight of the whole Milky Way. There are so rarely clouds in the Namib - it rains heavily only once every two years or so - that one is almost guaranteed excellent stargazing conditions. We were especially fortunate to be there at a time when the moon, though fairly full, only rose late, thereby giving us an inky dark sky to look up into.
We were almost late checking in for our flight back to Johannesburg, owing to the slow drive on rough roads and the constant temptation to stop for photographs. In our rush to leave the car at Avis Car Rental, we didn't remember to remove all our belongings from the various hidey-holes and pockets. It was only after we had gone through security that a call came over the intercom for my husband to report at the company desk, and he was so flustered by the stress of being late that he almost ignored the call, thinking they probably wanted him to hand in a piece of paper which he had brought with him. Fortunately, he thought to look up their telephone number on the iPad and call them, because it was his camera and prescription sunglasses he had left behind. What a loss that would have been, especially after spending so much time and effort taking beautiful pictures to remind ourselves of our celebratory trip!
For anyone who is considering a trip to Namibia, I can highly recommend it as a novel and gratifying experience. The towns are neat with the influence of early German colonisation. The restaurants are good, the coffee shops well up to scratch by international standards. As for the local people, they are friendly and welcoming, and in our case, willing to go out of their way to assist me when my husband wasn't around to guide and dish up for me. We thoroughly enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere of the country after coming from the busyness and pressure of Johannesburg, and if it is African wildlife you are after, Namibia offers a distinctive variety with ample means to view them.
Thursday, 25 April 2013
A Changing Church
Last night I attended a fascinating presentation on the ways in which people are redefining traditional Christian concepts and rethinking the way church should be done. The audience comprised mostly Anglicans, but included open-minded members of other denominations and movements, as well as some who claimed no church affiliation at all. Accompanied by thick, creamy soup, fresh rolls and delicious wine, the talk and the conversation which followed provided rich nourishment for body, soul and mind alike.
Listening to the propositions for restating basic doctrines in more contemporary and metaphorical language, I found myself agreeing with most of what was being said. I do think notions of a literal heaven and a literal hell interfere with our rational understanding of the universe. I do think that Christian exclusivity - the notion that none can achieve union with God except by professing Jesus as Lord - stands in the way of spiritual advancement and love for all mankind. I do think that the focus on Christ as the sacrifice that atoned for sin and purchased freedom from the curse of the law no longer holds relevance in a world where people don't even know what the curse of the law is. I do think that focusing on Jesus' works, such as healing the blind and the lame, keeps people spiritually immature, as if the greatest manifestation of the glory of God is the miraculous alteration of physical form. Surely, as Jesus himself pointed out, of far more significance is the miraculous alteration of a person's sense of connectedness to God and others?
Yet a part of me remains loyal to the church that raised me. It was a good place to be. It offered clear guidelines for growth, absolute certainties in terms of beliefs, codes of conduct and role in the world, and provided a community of like-minded people with whom to worship, work and play. I benefitted much from the security my church offered, being spared any sort of faith crisis until I was well into adulthood. From the point of view of living with visual impairment and gaining confidence among supportive people, it was an ideal setting.
With this in mind, I am not sure whether I really want the church to change from the foundation up. It seems to me that a rigid framework is helpful for teaching faith. For example, you don't teach a child to swim by throwing him into the sea where he could be eaten by sharks or overcome by fierce waves. You teach him that there are places to stand which are safe, that there are objects to help him keep afloat, that there are arm and leg movements which work to help him orientate himself in the water, and that there are techniques for going deep and exploring new places below the surface if that is what he wants to do. This is a metaphor for sound, foundational teaching in faith. Religion, with its built-in creeds, rituals and festivals, provides this foundation, and it is debatable whether any good would be served by tossing it out.
The problem, I think, comes in when new possibilities open up and the religious structure isn't able to accommodate them. This is where I, personally, hit a ceiling and discovered I couldn't go any further without actually dismantling some of my most trusted beliefs. To go back to the swimming analogy, it is like being offered scuba diving gear and invited to descend to twenty metres to look for sunken treasure. The prospect of going to new places and finding long-forgotten wealth is tantalising, yet in order to utilise the technology, you have to unlearn several basic safety rules, such as never to breathe in underwater! Unless you can unlearn these rules, you cannot progress - and that is what the spiritual life is like.
One thing that intrigues me about all this is why I should care so much about the church and what happens to it. It isn't my family anymore; I outgrew that relationship when I stopped feeling emotionally dependent on it for my identity and direction. It isn't that I have invested money, time and energy into it over the years; I have been rewarded more than adequately for that. It is, I think, because the church gave me such an ideal setting for growth early on and I want others to benefit from that aspect of it in years to come.
The church is many things to different people, but for me it was a place to learn. I love learning - it is perhaps my chief joy in life - and my church context offered me lots of opportunities to gain knowledge and experience. I attended a Bible study, took guitar lessons with the leader of our worship team, practised singing in public at services and weddings, went on courses to expand my knowledge on topics of interest, fellowshipped with people from very different backgrounds, read books by popular Christian authors, studied Scripture on my own, experimented with the gifts of the Spirit, moved into leadership, and more. All this happened outside of my academic life at school and university. Looking back, I wonder what I would have done if the church had not provided such opportunities for me. Perhaps I would have become an ardent stamp collector, or taken music lessons in town and joined an orchestra, or got involved in another religion. Whatever the case, I would have hungered for the mental stimulation that lessons, books and practical application of knowledge afforded me. Many other activities on offer at the time, such as horse-riding, sailing, sewing, baking and partying, couldn't satisfy that hunger and were therefore ignored in favour of church. Consequently, it is to the church that I owe my gratitude for nurturing and feeding my growing mind.
This being the case, I wish for the church to continue that function in my life. I don't think it is a stretch to say that many others would feel the same. The church is, by definition, a body made up of many members, each relating to the head who is Christ. In terms of this definition, its very reason for being is to support individual growth. Part of this entails motivating, guiding and correcting, but another part entails engaging, exchanging and transforming. As much as the church has been a good place for fostering inquiry and virtue in the past, it needs to be a place for embracing change and uncertainty in the future. Otherwise, it will cease to meet the needs of the hungry and cater only for those who have reached capacity and want no more.
Listening to the propositions for restating basic doctrines in more contemporary and metaphorical language, I found myself agreeing with most of what was being said. I do think notions of a literal heaven and a literal hell interfere with our rational understanding of the universe. I do think that Christian exclusivity - the notion that none can achieve union with God except by professing Jesus as Lord - stands in the way of spiritual advancement and love for all mankind. I do think that the focus on Christ as the sacrifice that atoned for sin and purchased freedom from the curse of the law no longer holds relevance in a world where people don't even know what the curse of the law is. I do think that focusing on Jesus' works, such as healing the blind and the lame, keeps people spiritually immature, as if the greatest manifestation of the glory of God is the miraculous alteration of physical form. Surely, as Jesus himself pointed out, of far more significance is the miraculous alteration of a person's sense of connectedness to God and others?
Yet a part of me remains loyal to the church that raised me. It was a good place to be. It offered clear guidelines for growth, absolute certainties in terms of beliefs, codes of conduct and role in the world, and provided a community of like-minded people with whom to worship, work and play. I benefitted much from the security my church offered, being spared any sort of faith crisis until I was well into adulthood. From the point of view of living with visual impairment and gaining confidence among supportive people, it was an ideal setting.
With this in mind, I am not sure whether I really want the church to change from the foundation up. It seems to me that a rigid framework is helpful for teaching faith. For example, you don't teach a child to swim by throwing him into the sea where he could be eaten by sharks or overcome by fierce waves. You teach him that there are places to stand which are safe, that there are objects to help him keep afloat, that there are arm and leg movements which work to help him orientate himself in the water, and that there are techniques for going deep and exploring new places below the surface if that is what he wants to do. This is a metaphor for sound, foundational teaching in faith. Religion, with its built-in creeds, rituals and festivals, provides this foundation, and it is debatable whether any good would be served by tossing it out.
The problem, I think, comes in when new possibilities open up and the religious structure isn't able to accommodate them. This is where I, personally, hit a ceiling and discovered I couldn't go any further without actually dismantling some of my most trusted beliefs. To go back to the swimming analogy, it is like being offered scuba diving gear and invited to descend to twenty metres to look for sunken treasure. The prospect of going to new places and finding long-forgotten wealth is tantalising, yet in order to utilise the technology, you have to unlearn several basic safety rules, such as never to breathe in underwater! Unless you can unlearn these rules, you cannot progress - and that is what the spiritual life is like.
One thing that intrigues me about all this is why I should care so much about the church and what happens to it. It isn't my family anymore; I outgrew that relationship when I stopped feeling emotionally dependent on it for my identity and direction. It isn't that I have invested money, time and energy into it over the years; I have been rewarded more than adequately for that. It is, I think, because the church gave me such an ideal setting for growth early on and I want others to benefit from that aspect of it in years to come.
The church is many things to different people, but for me it was a place to learn. I love learning - it is perhaps my chief joy in life - and my church context offered me lots of opportunities to gain knowledge and experience. I attended a Bible study, took guitar lessons with the leader of our worship team, practised singing in public at services and weddings, went on courses to expand my knowledge on topics of interest, fellowshipped with people from very different backgrounds, read books by popular Christian authors, studied Scripture on my own, experimented with the gifts of the Spirit, moved into leadership, and more. All this happened outside of my academic life at school and university. Looking back, I wonder what I would have done if the church had not provided such opportunities for me. Perhaps I would have become an ardent stamp collector, or taken music lessons in town and joined an orchestra, or got involved in another religion. Whatever the case, I would have hungered for the mental stimulation that lessons, books and practical application of knowledge afforded me. Many other activities on offer at the time, such as horse-riding, sailing, sewing, baking and partying, couldn't satisfy that hunger and were therefore ignored in favour of church. Consequently, it is to the church that I owe my gratitude for nurturing and feeding my growing mind.
This being the case, I wish for the church to continue that function in my life. I don't think it is a stretch to say that many others would feel the same. The church is, by definition, a body made up of many members, each relating to the head who is Christ. In terms of this definition, its very reason for being is to support individual growth. Part of this entails motivating, guiding and correcting, but another part entails engaging, exchanging and transforming. As much as the church has been a good place for fostering inquiry and virtue in the past, it needs to be a place for embracing change and uncertainty in the future. Otherwise, it will cease to meet the needs of the hungry and cater only for those who have reached capacity and want no more.
Monday, 22 April 2013
What Is The Glory Of The Lord?
I wonder if the glory of the Lord is not more than we think it is. I, for one, have always equated glory with shining light and thunderous sound, but is this the actual point of the descriptions of glory found in Scripture?
I raise this question because of a song we were singing in a fellowship group I attend. The words go, "All over the world there's a mighty revelation of the glory of the Lord, as the prophets said it would be." The lyrics come directly from the Old Testament. The image is a visual one, pertaining to light covering the earth as the waters cover the sea. They bring to mind other Old Testament references to sunlight breaking through clouds, rainbows glistening against a darkened sky, stars twinkling on the horizon, dawn breaking after a long, dark night and lightning flashing with blinding force. Also, of fire consuming an offering on an altar, candles illuminating sacred objects, gold and jewels gleaming, white robes glistening and eyes radiating zeal. Reflecting on all these images, it struck me, what if a person had never seen light? What if he was blind from birth and could not conceive of streaming sunbeams or shimmering halos? Would the meaning of glory be beyond him?
The same question might be asked about a deaf person. What, if he could not hear, would descriptions of heavenly music mean to him? He could not imagine the songs of massed choirs of angels, nor the peal of bells, nor the brilliant trumpeting of brass instruments. Equally beyond him would be the impressive roaring of a lion, the haunting cry of a fish eagle or the sweet cacophony of frogs croaking after the rain.
Glory is clearly more than an attention-grabbing sight or sound. It is more than a beautiful aroma too, although we frequently hear of a glorious-smelling rose or a gloriously-scented dish. Similarly, it is not a taste, even though some desserts are called glorious and some wines are, too. Slightly more compelling as a sense of glory is touch, though I am not referring to the glorious feel of velvet or the texture of a lover's lips. The feel of the earth rumbling under one's feet or of being swept up into the air by a powerful force comes close to being a universal experience of glory because it is so beyond normal human experience. But even this is to restrict glory too much. What if a person became familiar with such experiences as part of his job? Would he still regard these sensations as glorious? Probably not.
I wonder, then, if glory is not really an internal experience, suggested by outward experiences but perceived, essentially, by the heart? Writers can evoke the feeling of glory by describing spectacular scenes and moving events, but what is really being communicated is an inner response to something which takes our breath away. The question is really about what remains when the sensory stimulation is stripped away. Apart from the organs' activity, the brain's processing of information and the transmission of signals around the body, what is actually taking place? Surely, it is that we are aroused to an unusual degree and simultaneously weakened?
It must be so, because glory, as written about in Scripture, does not evoke the fight-or-flight response. Instead, it roots people to the ground and sometimes makes them "fall down as though dead". Glory can knock the wind out of a person, turn his insides to liquid or produce uncontrollable trembling. The overall effect is to fill him with humility and wonder and, if he feels inwardly connected to the source of glory, intensely consoled as well.
"My glory and the lifter of my head," says the psalmist of God. When a person perceives himself to be one with the source of glory, he is comforted in the midst of his awe. A hurricane may arise, but if he feels united with the Master of the wind, so to speak, he may even be moved to celebrate its towering strength and ferocious speed. He experiences holy fear, marvelling at the overwhelming grandeur before him even as he appreciates his own feebleness and impermanence.
While I am not saying that glory is an emotional response per se, I am saying that it lies somewhere between the sensory experiences of the outer world and that emotional response itself. It is, in a way, a spiritual perception informed by the physical perception, a deeper knowing than eyes and ears and brain can afford yet not something wholly subjective either. The glory of the Lord is, after all, something we can all relate to, providing we are in common relationship with the Lord. I wonder if it is not purely a matter of revelation - the opening of our inner eyes to the greatness which lies behind all things - as the prophets and the songs said it would be.
I raise this question because of a song we were singing in a fellowship group I attend. The words go, "All over the world there's a mighty revelation of the glory of the Lord, as the prophets said it would be." The lyrics come directly from the Old Testament. The image is a visual one, pertaining to light covering the earth as the waters cover the sea. They bring to mind other Old Testament references to sunlight breaking through clouds, rainbows glistening against a darkened sky, stars twinkling on the horizon, dawn breaking after a long, dark night and lightning flashing with blinding force. Also, of fire consuming an offering on an altar, candles illuminating sacred objects, gold and jewels gleaming, white robes glistening and eyes radiating zeal. Reflecting on all these images, it struck me, what if a person had never seen light? What if he was blind from birth and could not conceive of streaming sunbeams or shimmering halos? Would the meaning of glory be beyond him?
The same question might be asked about a deaf person. What, if he could not hear, would descriptions of heavenly music mean to him? He could not imagine the songs of massed choirs of angels, nor the peal of bells, nor the brilliant trumpeting of brass instruments. Equally beyond him would be the impressive roaring of a lion, the haunting cry of a fish eagle or the sweet cacophony of frogs croaking after the rain.
Glory is clearly more than an attention-grabbing sight or sound. It is more than a beautiful aroma too, although we frequently hear of a glorious-smelling rose or a gloriously-scented dish. Similarly, it is not a taste, even though some desserts are called glorious and some wines are, too. Slightly more compelling as a sense of glory is touch, though I am not referring to the glorious feel of velvet or the texture of a lover's lips. The feel of the earth rumbling under one's feet or of being swept up into the air by a powerful force comes close to being a universal experience of glory because it is so beyond normal human experience. But even this is to restrict glory too much. What if a person became familiar with such experiences as part of his job? Would he still regard these sensations as glorious? Probably not.
I wonder, then, if glory is not really an internal experience, suggested by outward experiences but perceived, essentially, by the heart? Writers can evoke the feeling of glory by describing spectacular scenes and moving events, but what is really being communicated is an inner response to something which takes our breath away. The question is really about what remains when the sensory stimulation is stripped away. Apart from the organs' activity, the brain's processing of information and the transmission of signals around the body, what is actually taking place? Surely, it is that we are aroused to an unusual degree and simultaneously weakened?
It must be so, because glory, as written about in Scripture, does not evoke the fight-or-flight response. Instead, it roots people to the ground and sometimes makes them "fall down as though dead". Glory can knock the wind out of a person, turn his insides to liquid or produce uncontrollable trembling. The overall effect is to fill him with humility and wonder and, if he feels inwardly connected to the source of glory, intensely consoled as well.
"My glory and the lifter of my head," says the psalmist of God. When a person perceives himself to be one with the source of glory, he is comforted in the midst of his awe. A hurricane may arise, but if he feels united with the Master of the wind, so to speak, he may even be moved to celebrate its towering strength and ferocious speed. He experiences holy fear, marvelling at the overwhelming grandeur before him even as he appreciates his own feebleness and impermanence.
While I am not saying that glory is an emotional response per se, I am saying that it lies somewhere between the sensory experiences of the outer world and that emotional response itself. It is, in a way, a spiritual perception informed by the physical perception, a deeper knowing than eyes and ears and brain can afford yet not something wholly subjective either. The glory of the Lord is, after all, something we can all relate to, providing we are in common relationship with the Lord. I wonder if it is not purely a matter of revelation - the opening of our inner eyes to the greatness which lies behind all things - as the prophets and the songs said it would be.
Sunday, 21 April 2013
When Prayer Doesn't Work
We had an enjoyable church service today with a sermon on discipleship. In particular, I was struck by the question, "how many people come to you asking for help because they see something in you which gives them hope?"
This is a serious challenge. In my experience, people usually go to pastors or priests - people in spiritual offices - when they need help or advice. Sometimes this is because they genuinely recognise a certain quality in that person which convinces them of his closeness to God, but I suspect it is more often that he is available for them to refer to. Moreover, they actually believe that the pastor or priest, owing to his position or academic certification, has a hotline to God. Yet this is not the case. The irony is that some of the most fervent intercessors have the least success in their prayer lives. They are just the most vocal when it comes to professing hope in a good outcome.
Perhaps I should explain how I arrived at this observation. Being saddled with macular degeneration, a form of blindness, since my teens, I have had the dubious privilege of being prayed for by a host of different people. Some were so convinced that their prayers would be answered that they practically accused me of not believing when I couldn't instantly read printed text. Others sent me away with confident assurances that my eyesight would be a hundred per cent normal in a few days. Still others wanted to do spiritual warfare on my behalf to cast out obstructing demons. Granted, there were many who simply told me they were praying for my healing, which was comforting. Nevertheless, as the years went by, I could not help but wish everyone would stop thinking of my condition as a handicap. It had played a central role in teaching me to "see with the heart", and as far as I could tell, this had deepened my spirituality considerably.
I also remember being impressed by a teaching I heard on the raising of Lazarus. Jesus stood at the open tomb and said, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me but I said this for the benefit of those standing nearby so that they may know you have sent me." The vocalisation of his thanksgiving was not the essence of his communication with God. Jesus was in unbroken fellowship with God in a way that did not need words. His use of words was simply to educate the crowd on where his power came from. What was always more important to Jesus than results was helping the people see that they too could be in unbroken fellowship with God.
This enabled me to understand so-called "unanswered prayer" in a new light. Previously, I had been unsure of what it meant. On the one hand, if a request wasn't forthcoming, it could be regarded as a "no" answer. On the other hand, there was the suggestion that no prayer gets a "No" answer; it just gets a "Yes" answer in a non-literal way - such as God strengthening the eyes of my heart when I went up for prayer for the eyes of my body. With time, I came to appreciate that prayer wasn't so much a way to get my needs met as an experience of intimacy in itself. Framed this way, prayer isn't the way to God's heart but actual union with God.
Or so it should be. Only when I acknowledge it to be such does it have the power to transform me. Otherwise it is just another ploy to satisfy my self-centred desires: Please let my work be recognised. Please heal my good friend. Please impress upon the politicians the importance of passing that piece of legislation. Please save the planet from the scourge of nuclear warfare. Yes, these are all valid expressions of my heart but I cannot equate my passion in intercession with my nearness to God. In fact, less passion in intercession might indicate more nearness to God, since the person who rests in God's presence is in tune with the rhythms of life to such an extent that there is no need for him to beg or plead for things to be done. Indeed, he does not see himself as even being separate from God. Like Jesus, he simply acts spontaneously, doing what he sees the Father doing, which is to say, saving people from their ignorance about prayer.
Prayer brings us into the presence of God but it is not so that we can gain control of our circumstances. It is so that we can remain in the presence of God, living each moment with the consciousness of connection to the great I AM. That is why prayer is so central to the Christian faith. Without it, we communicate on a purely human level, exchanging limited insights about our limited life experience. No wonder there is so much division, discrimination, mistrust and destruction in the world! No wonder Jesus came to seek and save the lost, teaching them to take his yoke upon themselves and seek first God's kingdom and his righteousness!
There is no such thing as unanswered prayer when it is viewed in this light. The only thing I am asking for is to be heard by God and that is already granted me through faith in Christ. Beyond that, it is up to me to be conscious of saying or doing what feels right, and if that should be to lay hands on a sick person or to hold back and say nothing when an argument is underway, so be it. There are no rules with God, only promptings of the Spirit. The main thing is to do what I believe, to radiate integrity.
Perhaps, to go back to the challenge I referred to in the beginning, I do not overflow with hope the way that some intercessors do, and therefore do not attract as many needy people to me as I might. But that is fine. I would rather not focus on circumstances and outcomes. My focus is on where people can find their own comfort and strength, and how they can stay there. I guess this means I have to wait until they have tired of wondering why prayer doesn't always work and are open to looking at it in a new light.
This is a serious challenge. In my experience, people usually go to pastors or priests - people in spiritual offices - when they need help or advice. Sometimes this is because they genuinely recognise a certain quality in that person which convinces them of his closeness to God, but I suspect it is more often that he is available for them to refer to. Moreover, they actually believe that the pastor or priest, owing to his position or academic certification, has a hotline to God. Yet this is not the case. The irony is that some of the most fervent intercessors have the least success in their prayer lives. They are just the most vocal when it comes to professing hope in a good outcome.
Perhaps I should explain how I arrived at this observation. Being saddled with macular degeneration, a form of blindness, since my teens, I have had the dubious privilege of being prayed for by a host of different people. Some were so convinced that their prayers would be answered that they practically accused me of not believing when I couldn't instantly read printed text. Others sent me away with confident assurances that my eyesight would be a hundred per cent normal in a few days. Still others wanted to do spiritual warfare on my behalf to cast out obstructing demons. Granted, there were many who simply told me they were praying for my healing, which was comforting. Nevertheless, as the years went by, I could not help but wish everyone would stop thinking of my condition as a handicap. It had played a central role in teaching me to "see with the heart", and as far as I could tell, this had deepened my spirituality considerably.
I also remember being impressed by a teaching I heard on the raising of Lazarus. Jesus stood at the open tomb and said, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me but I said this for the benefit of those standing nearby so that they may know you have sent me." The vocalisation of his thanksgiving was not the essence of his communication with God. Jesus was in unbroken fellowship with God in a way that did not need words. His use of words was simply to educate the crowd on where his power came from. What was always more important to Jesus than results was helping the people see that they too could be in unbroken fellowship with God.
This enabled me to understand so-called "unanswered prayer" in a new light. Previously, I had been unsure of what it meant. On the one hand, if a request wasn't forthcoming, it could be regarded as a "no" answer. On the other hand, there was the suggestion that no prayer gets a "No" answer; it just gets a "Yes" answer in a non-literal way - such as God strengthening the eyes of my heart when I went up for prayer for the eyes of my body. With time, I came to appreciate that prayer wasn't so much a way to get my needs met as an experience of intimacy in itself. Framed this way, prayer isn't the way to God's heart but actual union with God.
Or so it should be. Only when I acknowledge it to be such does it have the power to transform me. Otherwise it is just another ploy to satisfy my self-centred desires: Please let my work be recognised. Please heal my good friend. Please impress upon the politicians the importance of passing that piece of legislation. Please save the planet from the scourge of nuclear warfare. Yes, these are all valid expressions of my heart but I cannot equate my passion in intercession with my nearness to God. In fact, less passion in intercession might indicate more nearness to God, since the person who rests in God's presence is in tune with the rhythms of life to such an extent that there is no need for him to beg or plead for things to be done. Indeed, he does not see himself as even being separate from God. Like Jesus, he simply acts spontaneously, doing what he sees the Father doing, which is to say, saving people from their ignorance about prayer.
Prayer brings us into the presence of God but it is not so that we can gain control of our circumstances. It is so that we can remain in the presence of God, living each moment with the consciousness of connection to the great I AM. That is why prayer is so central to the Christian faith. Without it, we communicate on a purely human level, exchanging limited insights about our limited life experience. No wonder there is so much division, discrimination, mistrust and destruction in the world! No wonder Jesus came to seek and save the lost, teaching them to take his yoke upon themselves and seek first God's kingdom and his righteousness!
There is no such thing as unanswered prayer when it is viewed in this light. The only thing I am asking for is to be heard by God and that is already granted me through faith in Christ. Beyond that, it is up to me to be conscious of saying or doing what feels right, and if that should be to lay hands on a sick person or to hold back and say nothing when an argument is underway, so be it. There are no rules with God, only promptings of the Spirit. The main thing is to do what I believe, to radiate integrity.
Perhaps, to go back to the challenge I referred to in the beginning, I do not overflow with hope the way that some intercessors do, and therefore do not attract as many needy people to me as I might. But that is fine. I would rather not focus on circumstances and outcomes. My focus is on where people can find their own comfort and strength, and how they can stay there. I guess this means I have to wait until they have tired of wondering why prayer doesn't always work and are open to looking at it in a new light.
Saturday, 20 April 2013
What I Need Is Within Me
I am a Christian who has radically changed her view of faith over the past ten years or so. Yet it is one of those strange things - having questioned, moved away from inherited beliefs, grappled with inconsistencies between religion and science and learned a whole new vocabulary for expressing spiritual concepts, what I now trust in and what I previously trusted in are not all that different. They are, in a sense, the same thing observed through different lenses, which puts the matter firmly in the realm of perception rather than truth.
This sounds very philosophical but it has bearing on the way I feel about my faith. Being torn between traditional belief in an intervening God who decides who to bless and rational belief in the power of individuals to evolve from total dependence on an external provider towards higher consciousness and responsibility for others, I was deeply conflicted. Loyalty to established doctrine vied with an inner compulsion to explore new horizons along with religion's reformers. Despite my longing for a spiritual home, I did not have one because I fitted into neither grouping. This produced a sense of dislocation which demanded to be resolved.
I am happy to say that things are improving now, thanks to progress made in my personal growth course and the awareness that I am not alone in my quest for a more reasonable, free, progressive and tolerant faith. There are enormous changes afoot in Christianity. Many people, I suspect, feel the disconnect between what they profess to be true and what they actually live by, though they haven't the time or means to dig deep and resolve the contradiction for themselves. Hence the popularity of Christian books about the "emerging church", proposing a variety of ways to link orthodox principles with post-modern experience and understanding. In some ways, these books offer exciting new ways to know God, but they can stir up competition and ill-feeling if they only impact people superficially. One form of religion exchanged for another form doesn't bring godliness. The process of transformation has to go a lot deeper than mere spiritual discipline or practice.
For me, the key is knowing that I am a partaker of God's divine nature. I came to this knowledge through the traditional route - faith in Jesus Christ who died for my sins, and acceptance of God's righteousness, love and peace. However, it was a big step to accept that my adoption as God's child and my oneness with Christ made it possible for me to become like Christ in this life. I had to draw on all my knowledge of the Holy Spirit's ministry and the revealed intent of God to be able to get over the mental block that said, "Divinity rests in Jesus Christ alone and it is blasphemy to claim any such attribute for man."
However, having overcome my qualms, I found relating to God a whole lot easier. I stopped thinking of myself as a mere mortal trying to catch the attention of the mighty Creator and began thinking of myself as being united with God through the Spirit. Like a molecule of oxygen floating in the air of a house, I was connected to God indivisibly and invisibly, moving with and aware of God even as I remained myself. This took a load off in the area of prayer because I no longer had to "seek" God or "reach" Him through a particular method or ritual. I could simply look inward to my subtle awareness and know that God was feeling my emotions, thinking my thoughts, empowering my words and directing my actions. I could trust that love would prevail when I was conscious of God, because it was impossible to keep love out when His presence was so real.
I speak of "His presence" and yet that construction is itself misleading. God cannot be male because God is what some have called "the ground of all being", the source from which all substance, life and gender arises. When God manifests in me, God is, of course, female because I am female. Yet that is not to say I regard myself as God. I am a vessel of God, just as Jesus was a vessel of God [admittedly to a far greater degree] and Pontius Pilate was a vessel of God [albeit unconscious of the divinity that lay within him].
The truth is, we only really know God to the extent that we know the life and light within us. All else - all learned doctrine and assimilated ideas - is surface dressing. Even the Bible and the church's creeds and sacraments are ultimately shifting sands when we compare them to the rock of first-hand, personal experience of sacred space.
What I need is within me. Provision, protection, rescue, guidance, companionship, consolation, inspiration, power - all of this and more is available in the infinite, indescribable vastness to which I am connected. Admittedly, I cannot access or even sense the resources that lie at my disposal when I do not need them, but the moment I do need them, they suddenly appear to my watchful inner eye. I discover, for example, that I have patience when I am made to wait for an important piece of news, or that I have strength when I am tempted to buckle under heavy disappointment. It is not always in keeping with my baser notions of what would suit me, but it is aligned to the common good, the way of progress and the future of humankind.
Or, put another way, it is aligned to the extension of God's kingdom on earth. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. And so, I come full circle. My image of how the kingdom looks is very different from what it used to be but my heart is still set on the same goal. I want to know God and to have eternal life [that is, experience God's divine nature], and I want to point others to the same rich and rewarding knowledge.
This sounds very philosophical but it has bearing on the way I feel about my faith. Being torn between traditional belief in an intervening God who decides who to bless and rational belief in the power of individuals to evolve from total dependence on an external provider towards higher consciousness and responsibility for others, I was deeply conflicted. Loyalty to established doctrine vied with an inner compulsion to explore new horizons along with religion's reformers. Despite my longing for a spiritual home, I did not have one because I fitted into neither grouping. This produced a sense of dislocation which demanded to be resolved.
I am happy to say that things are improving now, thanks to progress made in my personal growth course and the awareness that I am not alone in my quest for a more reasonable, free, progressive and tolerant faith. There are enormous changes afoot in Christianity. Many people, I suspect, feel the disconnect between what they profess to be true and what they actually live by, though they haven't the time or means to dig deep and resolve the contradiction for themselves. Hence the popularity of Christian books about the "emerging church", proposing a variety of ways to link orthodox principles with post-modern experience and understanding. In some ways, these books offer exciting new ways to know God, but they can stir up competition and ill-feeling if they only impact people superficially. One form of religion exchanged for another form doesn't bring godliness. The process of transformation has to go a lot deeper than mere spiritual discipline or practice.
For me, the key is knowing that I am a partaker of God's divine nature. I came to this knowledge through the traditional route - faith in Jesus Christ who died for my sins, and acceptance of God's righteousness, love and peace. However, it was a big step to accept that my adoption as God's child and my oneness with Christ made it possible for me to become like Christ in this life. I had to draw on all my knowledge of the Holy Spirit's ministry and the revealed intent of God to be able to get over the mental block that said, "Divinity rests in Jesus Christ alone and it is blasphemy to claim any such attribute for man."
However, having overcome my qualms, I found relating to God a whole lot easier. I stopped thinking of myself as a mere mortal trying to catch the attention of the mighty Creator and began thinking of myself as being united with God through the Spirit. Like a molecule of oxygen floating in the air of a house, I was connected to God indivisibly and invisibly, moving with and aware of God even as I remained myself. This took a load off in the area of prayer because I no longer had to "seek" God or "reach" Him through a particular method or ritual. I could simply look inward to my subtle awareness and know that God was feeling my emotions, thinking my thoughts, empowering my words and directing my actions. I could trust that love would prevail when I was conscious of God, because it was impossible to keep love out when His presence was so real.
I speak of "His presence" and yet that construction is itself misleading. God cannot be male because God is what some have called "the ground of all being", the source from which all substance, life and gender arises. When God manifests in me, God is, of course, female because I am female. Yet that is not to say I regard myself as God. I am a vessel of God, just as Jesus was a vessel of God [admittedly to a far greater degree] and Pontius Pilate was a vessel of God [albeit unconscious of the divinity that lay within him].
The truth is, we only really know God to the extent that we know the life and light within us. All else - all learned doctrine and assimilated ideas - is surface dressing. Even the Bible and the church's creeds and sacraments are ultimately shifting sands when we compare them to the rock of first-hand, personal experience of sacred space.
What I need is within me. Provision, protection, rescue, guidance, companionship, consolation, inspiration, power - all of this and more is available in the infinite, indescribable vastness to which I am connected. Admittedly, I cannot access or even sense the resources that lie at my disposal when I do not need them, but the moment I do need them, they suddenly appear to my watchful inner eye. I discover, for example, that I have patience when I am made to wait for an important piece of news, or that I have strength when I am tempted to buckle under heavy disappointment. It is not always in keeping with my baser notions of what would suit me, but it is aligned to the common good, the way of progress and the future of humankind.
Or, put another way, it is aligned to the extension of God's kingdom on earth. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. And so, I come full circle. My image of how the kingdom looks is very different from what it used to be but my heart is still set on the same goal. I want to know God and to have eternal life [that is, experience God's divine nature], and I want to point others to the same rich and rewarding knowledge.
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