Hozier and Personal Faith

Hozier's song, "Take Me to Church," analogizes sex and worship. It can come off a bit uncomfortable for people of faith, although the honesty of the lyrics and his performance is tough to over come. I'm not sure whether this was his intent in writing, but, being an Irish singer, it's not difficult to see the complicated relationship between the Irish people and the Catholic Church coming through here.

Seen with that perspective, the song becomes even more powerful. Hozier talks about giving his partner the knife with which to cut him, but also being dependent on her for whatever satisfaction he finds in life. Relationships are like this in a lot of ways - the trust we put in another person is certainly a double-edged sword, but it also speaks to what's traditionally been the relationship between the people at the Church, especially Roman Catholicism.

There is so much emphasis on the Church itself as the means of salvation - and while I certainly agree with that in principle, it often becomes an unhealthy obsession with a human institution. The Irish Catholic Church, as has been revealed over the last few decades, really took the trust of the Irish people and trampled it for a long time. The very deep and devout faith of the people was used as a knife to cut them deeply - yet, because of generations of church teaching, there was literally nowhere else to turn. It's not hard to see how it can feel like a prison.

The Irish Catholic Church largely failed to properly mediate the gospel for the people in its care. The result is a whole generation of Irish kids, shaped and formed by an extremely religious culture, running from faith altogether - at least the sort of organized, formal faith that so marks their land.

In the song, Hozier doesn't depict an equal relationship. He's not approaching his love from the same footing she approaches him; the power dynamic is off. It's not as though he can be blamed for the position he's found himself in. It's far from ideal and certainly different decisions could have been made to prevent it, but, like the Irish relationship to the Church, what we really have here is abuse and manipulation that feels like a inescapable trap.*

For me, it speaks to how we understand our personal faith. Even that term itself can be tricky. So often you hear people talk about personal faith. I have a hesitancy to use the term, mostly because it sounds so individualistic. Personal faith means, I decide. I become the arbiter of value and truth. In some sense, we do all have to be that - we live in a world with free will. We get to make decisions; there is some measure of autonomy, even if we're ultimately connected to each other. At the same time, we really move onto shaky ground when we become the arbiter of anything - that could be illustrated no better than the recent failures of the Irish Catholic Church.

Perhaps the better way to speak about things is taking personal responsibility for faith. Traditionally, the Church served as the mediator of faith - this is how traditions with a strong lay/clergy split still function. The priest/pastor represents God to you. As a pastor, this is a pretty scary, solemn responsibility. It's almost too much.** No person, no institution, really, can be the proper mediator. Trouble really arises when those failures compound.

This is outsourcing our faith. That's a problem in the Catholic Church, sure, but also in a low of evangelical protestant churches as well. It's not an issue of theology or practice - it's an issue of humanity and religion. People go to church, essentially, so its someone else's problem. We don't have to ask and answer the questions if there's a pastor/priest there to do it for us. We'll just show up now and then, listen and be good.

This was never a good idea, but it worked so long as the mediator was trustworthy. Now that we've reached this age where pretty much no one fully trusts religious institutions, things are all coming apart.

People tend to respond to a failure of mediation by assuming a personal faith - in essence they become their own mediator. They might still show up in church from time to time, but now, instead of following blindly, they'll just take what they like and leave what they don't. This is a very pragmatic faith, but it's not helpful in any way. This kind of individualism is dangerous for all the reasons outlined above. It's the source, I think, of all the "spiritual, but not religious" talk happening with younger generations today. That's the next step: saying, "why do I even show up at all? I'm capable of figuring this out. There's an understanding of something outside ourselves, but we have no means of faithfully reaching it, because the mediators we've been given have failed us or have proven untrustworthy. So we become the mediator.

I think there's another way to respond to this cold shower of realization. Instead of simply taking the faith we've outsourced and making it a personal faith, what if we just, I don't know, took responsibility for the faith we've ignored? There's still an element of individualism here - I'm not sure how we get around that when we are, in some measure, individual people. But we're just as flawed a mediator as that church or priest we rejected; it would be silly and downright arrogant to think otherwise.

There is a real value to having other people, especially a people with a history and a tradition, speaking into our lives, providing guidance and wisdom and influence. The idea of Church is not a bad one - in fact it's really, really good. The problem is blind acceptance. We need to enter the mediating relationship with our eyes open, recognizing that we're all just people - the whole thing is people. Yes, there is, if you believe in God, some force working through it all, but we can't just take the conduit for granted.

We can and should ask questions. We can and should do our own leg work, investigate what's being told to us - not out of suspicion, but out of care and concern for our own spiritual (and physical) well being. Faith is, of course, meant to be personal, but it's not meant to be all personal. We're naturally connected to each other - now and in the past. History is important, as is tradition - so long as we're not outsourcing our faith to them irresponsibly.

I think that's why the Hozier song is so powerful. Sex ends up being a perfect analogy. We recognize in (both spiritual and physical) ecstasy some real larger truth that's at once within us and completely outside ourselves. But that ecstasy is a moment within a larger life - and realities of that life outside those moments is so much bigger and more complex and less, well, ecstatic. We can't simply chase the moments; we have to figure out how to incorporate them into the whole of our lives in healthy ways.




*The official video for the song is even more complex and emotionally disturbing on a number of levels - it explores this notion more deeply and troublingly that certainly I was expecting.

Wheaton College, the Nazarenes, and the New Reformation

I'm generally a realist about most things. I try not to get too caught up in idealism, because we live in a real world where ideals rarely play themselves out cleanly. At the same time, I try to recognize that ideals are important and do my best to live up to them. I try to give ideals the benefit of the doubt as much as possible. I'm loyal.

Despite all that, I may have reached a tipping point with this whole Wheaton College thing.* It's not so much the theology of the matter, although that bugs me, but because the theology seems to be more an excuse for institutional preservation than it is a legitimate theological argument.

We've seen this all over the place within evangelicalism in recent years - calls for theological purity that are far more about power and control than they are about genuine intellectual and theological inquiry. Beyond even theology, my own denomination, The Church of the Nazarene, has seen incident after incident where institutional cohesion, control, and continuity have trumped the basic tenets we claim to believe. It's undermined the authority of the institution and caused the exact divisive harm it was intended to prevent.

I've tried to be a big believer in the ideal of Christian community - that despite our messed up tendencies we can and should be together. I'm not rejecting that notion, either practically or theologically, but I feel like I've now abandoned the notion that our historic or traditional institutions have any real place in the future of Christianity.

The institutional church in America - at least the evangelical variety - is eating itself alive.** At the same time, I'm pretty certain any group of people must, in some measure, be institutionalized to remain cohesive in any way - not that it has to be done, but that it will inevitably happen. There will always be institutions when people try to live together - from communes to corporations, overt or unintentional, we all institutionalize, even the most radical revolutionaries. We're going to have (and need) institutions, but I'm no longer convinced those institutions we have are capable of being the institutions we need moving forward.

More and more I'm realizing that perhaps talk of a "new reformation" is not so far fetched.

You have the argument from history. As (the late, great) Phylis Tickle so eloquently laid out, every 500 years or so there are massive changes in both the form and institutionalization of Christianity. We went from a movement of loosely connected local cells, to an empire-influencing centralized body, to an almost brazenly political force, to a relatively disconnected conglomeration of competing denominations. None of these system looked much at all like the last. For years people have been foretelling a similar change (it is about time, after all) - I've resisted those calls, but my resistance is waning.

On a small scale, I can see in my own denomination the real dysfunction and purposeless that continues to radiate from the center. At the same time I witness a real vibrancy of mission by those on periphery.*** There is a hunger for living out the Christian life in creative, faithful ways among people that just can't be supported by the old structures of the institution. The two forces seem increasingly divergent - one pushing to fit new developments into an old structure and one marching forward with intention, ready to build whatever structure makes sense as we go along.

Our idealism as Christians tells us we should be able to reconcile these forces. I'm just not sure that's really possible anymore, especially as sustaining the institution becomes more and more important to those in charge. I get the tension there - being in charge specifically means care for the institution, but what I'm beginning to realize is that perhaps, in this rare and unique instance, caring for the institution might just mean tearing it down and working to rebuild something different.

I have a lot of fear in that statement. There's a lot of grief and sorrow. I imagine it's similar to the sorrow of Martin Luther, who saw much of his beloved catholic church deconstructed by the movement he started - not that he regretted speaking out and sparking a reformation, but that he felt genuine grief over the loss of something beloved and familiar. It's a difficult position to be in; I don't envy any institutional leader.

At the same time, those leaders must be willing to make difficult decisions, even if they're unpopular within the institution itself. That is sort of the point of leadership, right? To recognize when context is changing and lead people to change with it. Mission and ministry in the coming years will not be served by the structures and systems of the past. This isn't just a generational shift, I'm starting to think it's something bigger.

At the end of the last reformation, the catholic church was broken - broken to such an extent it's taken 500 years to begin to recover its footing. The idealist in me celebrates the re-emergence of catholic leadership in the world because it speaks of the real perseverance of the saints. Even if missteps are taken in dealing with a new reality, there is hope for the future. It's what keeps me optimistic about the old systems and structures I love, but often bristle against. The core goodness within them is real, even if it's not expressed in appropriate ways for a changing context.

Evangelicalism is facing a whole host of pressures from various forces and perspectives. It's not really about one thing. It's not just about theology, but also the place of religion in society. It's not just biblical interpretation, but how human society itself is evolving over time. It's not just about what science means for core beliefs, but how those new realities impact the way our very institutions are ordered and designed. It's not an easy picture.

I guess, in the end, I'd call on all of us - those who cling to institutions for security and safety and those who push boundaries almost by nature, and even those in the middle, like me, who see the real value of both - to maintain a vision of Christ. We do claim to be Christians after all, and even if we can't agree on theology or practice or organization, perhaps we can agree on the need for continued communication, charitable discourse amongst ourselves as we move forward with whatever comes next.

I really struggle with some of these incidents, like the one at Wheaton, the one before it at Northwest Nazarene, and many others - not because they're emblematic of some larger issue, but because they're precisely the opposite - they're distractions from more important conversations. They're side-skirmishes in a larger struggle to engage the changing global context with the grace and peace and love of Jesus Christ.

I'm loyal, probably to a fault. I love my denomination and my evangelical identity - even when evidence suggests I resemble those things less and less every day. I don't want to see us descend into the literally wars of religion that marked the adjustment period following the last reformation, I'd like to see us moving forward together, even as we're a bit wary of each other and what lies ahead.

So I guess we could say, there's still a little bit of idealism left in me, and I hope, with good reason.




*If you want further information about this issue, you can see both the professor's statement and the statement from Wheaton.

**The mainline version has pretty much marginalized itself over the past 60 years in a different, but no less effective way.

***I wrote a little bit about how that functions psychologically in a post a few weeks back.

The Definition of America

I've struggled mightily with this new-found Christian ideal of lawsuits. We've seen many controversial episodes recently, some ongoing, where Christian groups, individuals, or organizations sue the government, in one form or another, in the name of religious freedom. I've been unsettled by all of this.

It strikes me as wrong.

This has nothing to do with the particular merits of any one claim. I happen to appreciate some and others draw out an improperly equivalent anger. I have no problem agreeing that a Catholic hospital should be allowed to use theology in it's decision-making. At the same time, I think the complexities of reproductive care and contraception prove the Green family of Hobby Lobby fame foolish at best, ignorant at worst.

However, the real struggle I have is with the implication that any of these lawsuits are faith-based in nature. Certainly the issues discussed are matters of faith and practice. I also believe the participants are motivated by faith. Still, it seems like the suits themselves, the struggles and the manner with which these struggles are engaged, lack any grounding in faith.

Well, that's not true. It is a sort of faith that has wrapped up its own belief within the definition of America. By America, I am speaking of the United States. Often we forget that America applies to a pretty large land mass, stretching from Greenland to Chile, with an awfully diverse mix of people. Still, to most of the world, in colloquial shorthand, if nothing else, the US is America.

For many of my tribe - the American Evangelical - our understanding of America is indistinguishable tied to faith. Really, America brings this on herself. This union of faith and civics stems from the mythic and religious language characterizing the history of this country (or at least the European history of this country). From the Puritan "City on a Hill" to the Mormon New Israel, there has been a real understanding for many that the United States has somehow assumed the role of God's chosen people and carries with it an inherent righteousness beyond all other nations.

This is more than simply American exceptionalism; it is a civil religion. One in which the flag and the cross are interchangeable symbols of identity. Soldiers become martyrs, and freedom is the highest ideal. This is a painful union because flags and soldiers and freedom are not evil concepts; they're not wrong. They are simply not Christian. Unfortunately, attempts to illustrate the necessary separation of faith and patriotism involves a critique, not of the things themselves, but of what they represent to some people. This distinction, however, is often lost - and the resulting pain is truly regrettable.

But it is the truth. No nation can be a Christian nation - even if that nation adopts the symbols, practices, or morality of Christianity. That's ultimately what these battles are about - they're struggles over the moral definition of America.

Some are under the belief that these are and should be identical; for others, the civic morality should be influenced by Christian morality; for still others there should be careful consideration to intentionally preclude Christianity from impacting civic morality.

That's the struggle. And it seems the civic leaders, in the legislature, the White House, and the Supreme Court are just as engaged in the struggle - with no firm or evident lines drawn.

Regardless, the machinations of the civic process should not be the concern of Christians. We should be acting without regard to those systems. Christianity - life in the way of Jesus - has always been (even before Jesus) a lived critique of the systems around us.

We can and do, even as Christians, disagree about which laws are just and unjust and which are worth obeying and which require considered disobedience. If Hobby Lobby wants to make what I consider ill-informed and poorly-reasoned decisions based on the faith of their owners, wonderful. If the Catholic Church wants to make similar decisions for their schools and hospitals, great. We, as Christians, should not expect or even fight for, the acceptance of those ideals from the civic government under which we live. It just doesn't make any sense.

Now, there is certainly a case to be made that various Christian morals can be supported by non-religious reasoning. I don't have a problem with advocacy along those lines at all. Personally, I can't think of a single thing I do strictly because "God said so." I tend to have firm, real world rationale for just about everything.

I am not saying Christians can't and shouldn't be involved in shaping civic morality - simply that we should not be doing it by appealing to our faith or religious freedom.

Religious freedom is the freedom to practice one's religion without being harmed or hindered. This does not include the right to participate in society with the same unmolested religious practice. When civic morality differs from religious morality, there is still freedom of religion, just not freedom of participation. That's not guaranteed - nor should it be.

Christians participate in civic society as much as as the society allows and as much as their own faith practices allow. Amish communities are exempt from a lot of the taxes and responsibilities of other citizens, but in exchange they've given up many of the benefits as well - sometimes the privilege of being involved in civic society. The separation is not all by choice.

Religious organizations and individuals are free to act on their faith in their own communities. The idea that this freedom must be extended to the public economic, social, and cultural spheres is pretty antithetical to the idea of a nation. No nation can afford to have competing life narratives at play among decision makers.

As much as we make of the differences between Republican and Democrats (or Libertarians and Socialists for that matter) they are all simply divergent voices in the midst of the unified national narrative. Certainly there could be a religious party alongside, with its own unique perspective on how we define America (that happens in a lot of countries). We avoid that here because religion is still an undercurrent of the grand narrative.

It's simply not a Christian undercurrent.

The American narrative, our civil religion, the machinations of government - none of them are conducive to actual Christian participation. This is what's borne out in the lawsuits that so trouble me.

Christians do not demand rights. We have none. That is the very definition of Christian freedom. When Paul speaks of being slaves to Christ, he equates that with freedom. We have a way of life particular to us, peculiar as it may be. That way of life gives us freedom - not freedom to do as we please, but freedom from the alternative narratives in the world.

Yes, that does sometimes mean suffering. We must live with the consequences of our actions. What it means to live as Christ in the midst of a world that thinks and lives differently is sometimes suffering. But again, as Paul says, it is not really suffering if we genuinely believe the Christian way is the right way to live in the world. Often, though, it seems our modern, American, Christian desire is to live a comfortable life and also go to heaven when it's over. That's much more the embodiment of the American civil religion than it is anything to do with Christ.

So how then do Christians have any influence on the world? Well, it's through example - through loving action. I truly mourned when the Catholic Church used claims of rights and constitutional arguments concerning its schools and hospitals. A Christian response would be to continue living out their faith (on this particular issue - the evils of birth control - I don't even agree with the stance). But I guarantee you, if the Catholic Church had been willing to close all its schools and hospitals over this stance, the public would have reacted and the civic morality would have been sufficiently changed. It would not have been a power move, but one of humility. All the good, positive, loving action generated from Catholic schools and hospitals would have overwhelmed what is, in reality, a much smaller controversy.

When Christian stand up for their principles and no one notices, it's simply because they haven't been making a positive enough impact to be missed.

This is a real problem for public, for-profit companies. The ways the markets work, if one company shuts down because of moral or religious reasons, some other, less morally constricted company will take their place. The Hobby Lobby suit was an attempt to participate in civic society without cowing to civic morality. That's wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.

Yes, it would be wonderful if that were possible, but it would require the civic morality to match the morality of the business owner. That's the real struggle - not for religious freedom or Christian expression or any of that - it is a fight for the definition of America.

If the system is Christian, then Christians should be able to participate in it. If it is American, then Christians have to choose where their allegiance lies.

I'd like to say this is a new problems, but it really isn't. It's simply a new, more overt twist on an old problem. Since government first began using Christianity to advance its own causes (way back in good, old Roman times), the faith itself has been altered and amended and sacrificed to please the civic morality - the needs of the State. Yes, the civic morality has equally been altered and amended and sacrificed at times as well - it is a mutual symbiosis. But the underlying relationship has been to advance the cause of civil society under the mantle of Christianity.

There's been an almost 2,000 year old lie that the two can be one.

Many are only now realizing that this is not true (although many have always known so and been silenced as radicals). Civil society has realized it doesn't need Christianity any longer - its interests can be advanced just as well and just as fervently with the civil religion - a story of social, economic, and military success - a story of personal freedom and hard work.

Christians react to this in many different ways. Some are simply so attached to the civil religion that they'll go along with the change and notice no real difference in life. Some cling to the notion that the two - civil society and Christian faith - must be connected and are necessarily by divine right, whether reality plays out this way or not. I humbly offer an alternative:

Recognize that civil society and Christian faith are not of the same kind, that they cannot be united simply by virtue of their existential purpose and also by the underlying principles of their individual narratives.

Live in the way of Christ. Be willing to sacrifice whatever is necessary (including everything we might call a "right") in order to live the transformative love we know can change the world. But leave God to do the changing. We can only make choices for ourselves and our lives - to live in the way of the cross - we can't force anything else to change, no by lawsuits or hard work or manipulation. We can only love and let that mystical, unexplainable transformation take place in the way of Christ.