The Trouble with Tribbles

This is a blog about the philosophical movement which has become known as New Atheism. It is not a blog about Atheism, which is a worldview that I quite respect. There are plenty of intelligent, thoughtful, nuanced Atheists* out there, but the particular sub-culture spearheaded by Harris, Dennet, and Dawkins is not where you'll find them.

New Atheism is popular, but popularity does not ensure any richness of thought. In fact, I dare say that popularity and richness are more often than not antonymous. The X-Factor is popular. Popularity depends on a simplistic message; something which doesn't require thought or effort from those watching/reading/downloading. It's popular because it's easy, not because it's good.

New Atheism is popular because it presents a polarised, simplistic view of religion; a surviving relic of prehistory, encouraging adherents to obey a bloodthirsty deity, and think and act accordingly, else face eternal damnation. It proclaims itself the saviour of mankind, fantasising that in preaching it's Empirical gospel, it is freeing us from the shackles of our self-imposed slavery.

In other words, New Atheism has a Messiah complex. And, like all good Messiahs, it thinks that it acts altruistically. Unfortunately, unlike all good Messiahs, it has no understanding of the thing that it thinks it's saving us from. Jesus was a Jew, and spent most of his life absorbing 1st Century Pharisaic Judaism before he started preaching his gospel, which was in equal parts critical of, and dependent on, it. From his vantage point, he was able to deconstruct religion so as to expose what lies at its core; the question of how  to live well.

The New Atheists, meanwhile, try to do what Jesus did; liberating us from religion, but skip the part about understanding it. Instead, they launch a drone strike on an unknown enemy, with no concern for civilian casualties. They are the George W. Bushes of philosophical liberation, firing their pistols in the air, and dropping bombs on parts of the world that they know nothing about.

Being a Christian means, in the eyes of the New Atheist, that I believe the world is only 5000 years old, I think it's a sin for men to fancy other men, I think women are second-class citizens, designed only by God to receive my seed, and that I'm terrified of going to Hell. None of which looks anything like the religion I follow. And that's not because I'm a postmodern, liberal sort of a Christian, it's because Christianity, in real life, looks nothing like this. It's a caricature.

So, the trouble with New Atheism is not that it constructs a coherent anti-religious argument, it's that, like the fluffy little purrers that this blog is named after, they are harmless pests, who are everywhere. Captain Kirk opens a cupboard and they all come tumbling out; no harm done, but what a pain in the arse.

I haven't yet heard an argument from the movement that has made me realise how blind and naive I've been about the God-thing, and I don't think I will. But I'm tired and bored of going opening the cupboard (read: Twitter) and hearing the same old ineffective arguments tumbling out.

My suggestion for the New Atheists is this: if you want to be taken seriously by people of faith, stop video-blogging and writing easy books, and try reading something. Or, which would be even better, just stop it. Go outside and get some fresh air. It's a nice day.

*Check out Slavoj Zizek, Jacques Derrida, Nietzsche, even John Humphreys.

Away from Youth Work©

 If you know me, you'll have probably at some point heard me say something about how I don't really like Christian Youth Work. Then, you might have laughed (or more likely rolled your eyes) at the irony of the statement, because I am undeniably a Christian Youth Worker.

 And I suppose that I don't really hate Christian youth work. My faith as a Christian is one of the things that defines me, and that I'm actually quite proud of. I like most of the young people that I meet, and I'm pleased to be in a job that means I get to spend time with them. I don't even hate all Christian youth workers - some of them are unfortunate enough to be some of my closest friends.

 So, all that being said, how I can really hate Christian youth work? I don't; I can't.

 But I do hate Christian Youth Work©. As is so often the case, especially with religion, there's a pretty distinct difference between the lived experience of working with young people in a Christian context, and the official, branded, orthodoxy.

 I suppose I don't like the Christian Youth Work brand; I don't like the Platonic ideal of CYW©; the eternal, unchanging form of the Youth Minister, that we are only reflections of; distorted by the ripples of real life.

 The form of the Youth Minister watches Britain's Got Talent and Twilight, not because it enjoys them itself, but because it wants to stay in touch. It wears a hooded sweatshirt. It rails against the awful stuffed-shirt traditionalism of the established church. It reads books by Rob Bell. It subscribes to Youthwork Magazine. It blogs. It has an iPhone 5 with the latest worship music from Survivor Records on it. I could go on, but I'd hate to sound cynical.

 The trouble isn't that these are inherently problematic things to do (apart from maybe reading Rob Bell). I sometimes wear a hoody. I blog *poorly executed wink*. The trouble is the expectation that this is what a Youth Worker looks like.

 I've taken to wearing a tie to work - partly because I'm bored of looking scruffy, but also because I think what I wear changes how I feel, and I feel more confident when I'm dressed smartly. Judging from some people's reaction to my simply wearing a shirt, you'd think it was in my job description to dress like a 14 year old.

 I can't think of anything more depressing than absorbing youth culture as an adult; part of the joy of growing up is complaining about the music that kids listen to, I'm not going to let my job rob me of that joy. I don't want to see Pitch Perfect just because it's aimed at teenagers. It looks like a shit movie, why would I waste my time and money on it?

 I like the established church. I prefer liturgy, choirs, icons, and silver chalices to Fresh Expressions. I don't want to 'do church' in a cafe, or have donuts and Coke for communion. I can do that any time. Tradition feels special to me.

 The people who have made the biggest impact on my life are not the people who try to live up to an image of what they think I think they should be. The people who have made the biggest impact on my life are the people who are most fully, and joyfully, themselves. I don't care if someone understands my culture or not; what's important is how alive a person is.

Most of the people who I look up to don't have a clue who Ben Reilly is (admit it, you don't either). They've probably never heard of Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe. They probably didn't even know who MCA was, let alone that he died. That's fine. That's not why I look up to them. I look up to them because they embody something distinct and special. That, and, chances are, they've simply made time for me.

 So let's (those of us in Christian youth work) have an iconoclasm. Let's tear down the retro-filtered Instagram brand logo of what a Christian Youth Worker is, and instead let's just be the people who we actually want to be; even if it means we all dress and talk differently to each other. The important thing is that we make time for young people; that we visibly demonstrate that we're on their side. They don't care about the rest, why should we?

On Mrs. Thatcher

The following opinions are predictable, and not very exciting. If I were you, I wouldn't even bother reading ahead.

Mrs. Thatcher has died. The internet has gone insane, in the way that it does when public figures die. On one hand, people have gleefully started believing in hell again. On the other, and this is perhaps more surprising, there's a lot of 'one of the greatest Britons to have ever lived' talk.

It seems that when talking about death, we are required to switch off reason, and fill the void left with emotion. You have to either believe Margaret Thatcher was the worst hound of hell, sent to Earth to kick orphans off precipices into pits full of salivating hyenas, and rejoice that now she's getting her comeuppance, rotting in the pit from whence she came, or that Margaret Thatcher was the greatest woman to ever lead a country, ushering in a new age of enlightenment and truth, and lament that this current generation of spineless politicians don't live up to her legacy (which throws into question how all-pervasive said age really is).

We saw the same thing when Michael Jackson, or Jade Goody died. On one hand, the 'edgy' (tedious) bloggers and tweeters who gleefully rejoice that the Earth is free from such a vile person, on the other, the 'sensitive' people who set up shrines and mourn that we've lost an angel.

The great thing about being human is that we don't need to choose between reason and emotion. Contrary to  what the pseudo-scientific New Atheism movement tells us, feeling stuff doesn't nullify reason, even when those feelings contradict it.

I think Margaret Thatcher was a pretty shitty prime minister. I'm glad she isn't in charge any more, and I think the current cabinet is making a great mistake in holding her as an idealogical figurehead. I was too young (/not even born yet) to have any opinion about her while she was in power, but her legacy is all-pervasive, and I wish it wasn't.

That said, she was a human being; a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a friend to many. She was someone who knew the same fears and desires that we all know. She loved, and was loved. In the twilight of her life, she was crippled by a horrible and terrifying illness, which I hope I'll never have to go through. Her death is sad. I am sad that she died; and I feel for her family and friends.

She wasn't the greatest prime minister this country has ever had. I dare say (with limited political knowledge) that she was one of the worst. But neither was she a monster. She was human; and she was a victim of what Francis Spufford so neatly calls 'The Human Propensity for Fucking Things Up', and so are we all.

In the church, when we pray for the dead, we pray the following words. And I pray them for Mrs. Thatcher. That doesn't mean that I'm ignoring her short-comings, it just means that I'm acknowledging her humanity, in the way that I hope people will when I die.

Rest eternal grant unto them, Oh Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon them.
May they rest in peace, and rise in glory.
Amen.

Real Reality

At times in my life, the 'negative' label has been applied to some of my attitudes and opinions. And there have been times when that label has been quite appropriate; I feel cynical about plenty of things, and sometimes struggle to hide it. Often, the things that tease my negativity out most visibly are characterised by relentless, thoughtless optimism.

This is the optimism of television adverts, that tells us that our basic state is as bleached-smile grinning beautiful people, and that the only reason why have reached that state is because we haven't started buying the right shampoo yet. It's the optimism of 'Reality TV', which tells us that if we can conform exactly to Simon Cowell's vision of humanity as bland, glazed-eyed throatwobblers who like Westlife, then we'll be really free and creative. It's the optimism of Hollywood romance stories, in which two breathtakingly good-looking, erudite and wealthy people realise that they can be really, truly happy together, while the rest of us, with our crooked teeth and personality disorders gaze at them, imagining that their life is real and ours isn't.

When it comes to these expressions of life-denying positivity, I'll take the negativity, thank you very much. But the reason I'm writing this is to express that I'm actually equally turned off by relentless, thoughtless negativity.

In the same way that fascism provides the answer to communism, the 'alternative counter-culture' of negativity provides the answer to mainstream positivity. This is the negativity of stand-up comedians, who fall on tired old stereotypes about the Catholic Church to gain easy laughs. It's the negativity of basically any nature documentary of the past twenty years, which shows us how beautiful the universe is, but reminds us that humanity is an evil scourge on the face of the Earth, slowly eradicating all life to satisfy our greed. It's the negativity of politicians, polished and varnished to the point where the only hint of character that remains in them only presents itself so as to blame the opposition for all the world's problems.

It might seem as though these two forces (popular positivity and popular negativity) are pulling in opposite directions, but they're actually two sides of the same coin; denial. They both absolve us of responsibility. One tells us that everything's fine, if there's a problem, you can fix it, and your life will be great again. The other tells us that there are only problems, too many to do anything about, so why bother.

And I find both of them tiring. I want to have a conversation about reality. I want to be able to be able to talk about my life - good and bad - without someone telling me that the bad's not that bad, or the good's not that good.

Airbrushing over the shit bits of life robs us of them. The shit bits of life are where we can actually discover grace, forgiveness, and healing - not in an easy fix-all-your-problems sort of way, but in a I've-undergone-this-and-I'm-still-alive sort of way. Let's stop robbing ourselves and each other of the gift of undergoing life.

Equally, pretending that everything is shit robs us of goodness. Just because life doesn't look like the adverts doesn't mean it's missing anything. Life is richer for not looking like the adverts! We need to be reminded of the goodness in the people we've learned to hate, including ourselves.

We all have our drugs; quick fixes to help us escape the terrifying complexity of life. Way back in the 4th Century, Evagrius Ponticus wrote about the eight logismoi (which evolved into the seven deadly sins) - eight thought patterns that he'd noticed in himself and others that unhelpfully helped him to escape real life, where he believed God was to be found.

And actually, that's what I believe. When we buy into the lie that life is just a few fixes away from being all good, or the one that says that life is just a few fractures away from being all bad, we shut ourselves off to reality, and therefore God. The story of the Incarnation of Christ tells us that God has relocated from a celestial golden throne, into the chaos - tohu wa bohu - of life. We will discover God's infinite creativity, we will discover the Kingdom of Heaven, by opening ourselves to reality; savouring the moments of desolation as much as those of consolation.

So I just need to overcome my own temptations to escape from life. Just as soon as I've finished this game of Simcity.

Satanic Christianity

 It will come as no great surprise that in a politico-religious sense, I probably fit more comfortably under the label that says 'liberal' than the one that says 'conservative'. There's quite a lot of stuff that fits under the liberal label that I don't like, but when it comes to some of the particulars; understandings of the role of women in the church, gay marriage, and so on, I feel pretty happy in choosing the left side.

 One of things that I don't like about my label is the liberal's tendency to demonise the other side (actually, both sides do this, I just see it more on my side). If you disagree with gay marriage, you must be a homophobe. If you think women shouldn't be priests, you're a misogynist, and so on. These are pretty clearly lies. I have a handful of close friends who are religious conservatives, but far from being backwards-minded bigots, they are thoughtful, compassionate, articulate people. I disagree with them, but I also enjoy being challenged by them.

 But there is a thread of Christianity that exists in liberal and conservative circles alike, that is ugly, nasty, and satanic. It's the world of accusation.

 In the Hebrew scriptures, the character of Satan represents the opposition; or the accuser. He whispers in our ears, telling us that we are guilty, evil, beyond redemption. In the Biblical courtroom drama of judgement day, Satan plays the prosecutor (maybe even the persecutor), while the defendant, the Paraclete, is the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit being one with the Father means that we're involved in a biased trial. The defendant and the judge are one and the same.

 The word gospel literally means good news. The good news is that we are judged, but that the judge finds in our favour! While Satan cries out that we are awful, corrupt, vile wretches, God calls us his children, and leads us into salvation and freedom.

 Make no mistake about it; that's why I'm a Christian. Christianity isn't a method of gaining salvation, it's a response to the unshakeable fact that I am saved. To say, 'I am saved because I am a Christian' is to confuse cause and effect. I am a Christian because I am saved. I am a Christian because I have discovered that the judge likes me and is on my side.

 However, some aspects of Christianity have bought into the prosecutor's story. These aspects have warped the good news into awful, hateful news. They are caricatured by people standing on street corners with megaphones, but they exist all over, in much more subtle ways. With cheery smiles, these aspects 'evangelise' by telling people how awful they are, and that their eternal salvation is in jeopardy. Sometimes, it's as blatant as "you're going to hell", but probably more often, it expresses itself in "I say this in love, but..."

 With angelic eyes and well-meaning voices, these aspects tell us to feel guilty; ashamed of not living up to their standards. These Christians sit on the bench with the prosecutor and are oblivious to the fact that Jesus' words, "Your father is the devil" might have something to say to them.

 Who are these aspects? Where will we find them? We might start by looking within ourselves. We all host these devils that encourage us to apportion blame. We're all Jonah; we're good people, we do our best, we try to be nice to people, but not 'those bastards' who don't deserve help.

 Someone recently told my girlfriend that it doesn't matter how nice she is; she isn't saved because she isn't a Christian. When she told me, I was seething. What a horrible, ugly, thing to say. That's not good news. That's not evangelism. That's Satanic. So I started writing this blog. But as I write, it becomes hard not to be aware of my own hypocrisy. I say the same thing, all the time. I, with varying degrees of venom, direct my condemnation towards the nouveau riche, towards drunken clubbers, towards the Conservative party, the list goes on and on.

 And while we're all pointing the finger, telling God who's to blame for all the shit in the world, we stop listening to him. He sits in the ultimate judge's seat, and refuses to play our game. There is no condemnation in Christ. The condemnation comes from us. The wrath of God is a medieval painting we've stolen to justify our own indignation.

 In one sense, there are no sides to choose from; whatever label we fit best under, the mercy and grace of God extends to us, inviting us to discover freedom and wholeness. In another sense, there are two sides to choose from, and it's a choice we need to keep making; will we choose to be on the side of the defendant, who looks for, and rejoices in, the image of God in the other? Or will we choose to be on the side of the prosecutor, accusing the other of not living up to the standards that we ourselves fail to live up to?

 I'm afraid I think the Satanic role is probably easier, even more attractive, in the short-term. But ultimately, it will only make us all miserable; blind to the goodness of life that surrounds us.

More Twitter Rage

Twitter, much as I like it, has the potential to make me a dick. With its faceless 140-character homilies, it's become a home to anyone who feels like they have something clever to say. It becomes easy to take oneself too seriously, and to attack the people who don't find you as insightful as you find yourself.

As an aside, the users who really 'get' Twitter, in my opinion, are those who are aware of how silly it is. 'Weird Twitter' users like Wolf Pupy, Brendle What and Wint clutter my feed and are much more interesting than all of those people who think they're interesting (myself included - I write a blog).

I recently discovered my white whale on Twitter. A man called Pat Condell, who manages to combine far-right political opinions (he's a UKIP man), together with an anti-religious zealotry that makes him look like a Scarfe caricature of Richard Dawkins. He takes his well-articulated but ill-informed opinions very seriously, and to make matters worse, he's managed to amass nearly 17,000 followers.

He manages to combine just about everything I hate into his opinions, and does so with the same self-satisfied glaze that varnishes people like Piers Morgan.

And I'm irresistibly drawn to him. I dream of meeting him to have an argument. I visit his page more often than I visit those committed to the people and things I actually like. Why? Why do the things that we hate the most capture our imaginations in such a powerful way?

French sociologist Rene Girard would call Condell my model obstacle. He represents the things that I am in rivalry with. In other words, he's at risk of getting what I want (followers, admiration, the ability to make people think you're very intelligent without the inconvenience of having to actually learn anything), before I can get it first.

Model obstacles begin to mirror each other. As Condell uses hateful language to describe people-like-me, I react by using more hateful language to describe people-like-him (c.f. a few paragraphs up...). Soon, model obstacles obsess about the other, trembling with anticipation as we wait for their counter-attack, and preparing our own preemptive counter-counter-attack.

Christian Carion's film Joyeux Noel has something significant to say about this. The film is based on real accounts of the Christmas Day cease-fires of World War 1. When your enemy is faceless, concealed by a trench (or Twitter-handle), throwing a grenade at them is relatively easy. They are the evil oppressor; the model obstacle that threatens our desires. Once you meet your enemy and talk to him, you begin to realise that here is another human, with the same fears and desires as you. War becomes much harder once you've played football and shared a cigarette with your enemy.

I will almost certainly never meet Condell. But I think I need to discover the discipline to resist lobbing 140-character grenades at him, and at other model obstacles, because they achieve nothing to but add fuel to the fire of hatred. The trouble is, hatred burns with an attractive flame.

Thank goodness for the distraction of Weird Twitter.

I'm not Spiritual, I'm Religious.

He said, “How will we liken the Kingdom of God? Or with what parable will we illustrate it? It’s like a grain of mustard seed, which, when it is sown in the earth, though it is less than all the seeds that are on the earth, yet when it is sown, grows up, and becomes greater than all the herbs, and puts out great branches, so that the birds of the sky can lodge under its shadow.”

— Mark 4:30–32

Spirituality gives us nice potted plants for our garden. Religion gives us a seed that grows into something so big that it knocks all those little pots over.