More on the romanticism of faith

Reactions to this Christmas carol by the Iona Community (1987) are always illuminating:

Once in Judah's least known city
stood a boarding-house with back-door shed,
where an almost single-parent mother
tried to find her newborn son a bed.
Mary's mum and dad went wild
when they heard their daughter had a child.

Giving a fruity twist to the Once in royal original, invariably churchy people are a bit unsure about it, whereas people who attend Christmas services but who would not usually come to church are much more impressed by it. While it's always a bit risky generalising from anecdotal experiences, I believe the contrast is indicative of something: people outside of churches are wary of romanticism, whereas church-regulars have definitely been shaped by it. This doesn't mean - at all - that churchy people are heads-in-the-clouds while other people are feet-on-the-ground, because I believe churches address more gritty topics than we give ourselves credit for (it is, after all, churches who risk talking about asylum-seekers, poverty, racism, etc.) But when it comes to the things of faith, spirituality and religion, we tend to like ours served with a fair dollop of romanticism, something to make the pill taste better, whereas the public at large is ready for a bit more realism. After all, this faith-stuff has to measure up and we need to know what we're talking about - especially in a world of conspiracy theories, scientific fundamentalism, anxiety about absolute claims and religious extremism, and a fairly healthy degree of scepticism about institutions, if not an unhealthy cynicism about everything! Victorian carols may serve a cultural function, galvanising a sense of history, continuity, safety; but they do little to nourish the spiritual hunger for something more real. The contrast is telling.

The Inescapable Christmas Orgy?

Every year it's said, and every year it happens again. How come? It's not even as though it is religious people alone who make the point; most conscious people are aware that commercialism has done something negative to Christmas, and that far from making it a happy time, it is a very stressful time. Of course, it's all very well for people to complain about it if they/we are among those wealthy enough to participate in it without too much hardship - the more pressing point concerns those who are stressed and depressed because things are such that they cannot even participate in it, while they remain surrounded by images and crowds which make it perfectly obvious what it is all about: presents! So it is rightly often said that "Christmas = debt" for many normal people, something which should shame the culture we take for granted ... but the point is, even though we can identify the crass superficiality and poorly disguised money-making orgies of the High Street, and even though we can deplore the stress the whole package causes us in terms of expectations, yet we still do it. Nothing seems to indicate more clearly Walter Wink's observations about the Powers: see how we remain in the thralls of something bigger than ourselves, even though we know the right thing is to head for a much simpler festival. Something takes hold of us at the corporate level (in both senses of 'corporate'!!), which Wink believes has a spirituality of its own. Perversely, the nativity narratives actually give us the key to unlock and dismantle this treasure chest approach to the Christmas 'season'; for while Emperors and Governors and Kings get on with their dirty business, the real action happens where there is "no room", in an animal trough, a simple manger. This is no justification for Christian self-righteousness, however, as though Christmas should embrace Victorian romanticism plus a 'superior' sense that we are now the victims keeping alive the true flame! Instead, the nativity narratives invite something more subversive than romanticism and pride: commitment to the margins, to those who poke at and unpick the enormity of the Powers. And yet, it remains so difficult not to buy more than we can eat and more than we need.

If roots could talk ...

In chapter 11 of the prophet Isaiah, a passage used in Advent because Jesus is believed to fulfil such prophecies, there is the image of a tree, even a stump, out of which grows a new branch. It is called the stump of Jesse, Jesse being King David's father, and David being viewed by the Jewish people as the greatest of kings, God's 'anointed one'. Jesus, then, is said to fulfil such great kingship, such 'anointed' status, with renewed purpose. But what it also shows us is that every tree has roots, and roots are the hidden part of a tree - and certainly the 'family tree' of Jesus has its fair share of skeletons (to mix some metaphors), including David - with a very mixed and muddled life, not exactly the idealised construction conveyed - just as every tree has things that continue to shape the new branches but which are buried. So it is with faith, with Christmas: the 'shadow' side of religion, the things we struggle to engage with constructively, because it's much easier to whitewash our religion, to boast about the good bits. Not exactly a Christmas message: and yet may be it is, since the nativity narratives have a shadow side, rooted in a vicious Empire, with puppet kings in fear of a new 'anointed' ... so give thanks that, even though our trees have shadowy roots, even so, new life and hope and joy can grow out of them; one who judges by fairness, equity, with concern for the poor, can even grow out of such violent soil; the possibility of renewal is always there - right in the muddiest of places.

Living with spilt milk

I was going to try and be clever. But the words aren't coming. I wanted to link two things: 1) the fact that I've just read on "The Unlikely Evangelist" website (link to be added soon!) about "the end of the world", about how it's not about the destruction of the world, but seeing the world through different eyes amd working for its re-creation now; and 2) a letter I've received angrily criticising me for forgetting to do something. And they are linked - I think. The letter really upset me. It was right - I had forgotten to do something - but its anger was disproportionate, and the attack was personal. So I have to live with that spilt milk, which I did "cry over" briefly, but I felt better after telling one of the most amazing 70-something year-old women who phoned me back and read a prayer over the phone. Of course, this incident is not the end of the world, and yet on the other hand, it is. I must pray for the person who wrote it, if I want to be part of this 'new world', because that begins to break the cycle of bad feeling - but it's bloody hard! In fact, I should want this episode to be the end of the world as we knew it, to be an opportunity (a kairos?!) for something new and braver. Forgetting things is easily done; I'm sure the letter-writer has forgotten a few things too; so "spilt milk" is all around us; but the trick is to live with it in a new way, with new eyes, with a new prayer: God, help me to mop it up.