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Andrew Haslam
Screen time and the decay of the soul
As a general rule of thumb, I have discovered that the more time I spend on my iPhone the more unhappy I feel. It seems to underscore a number of key failings that, I suspect, many will identify with: a loss of self-control and increase of impulsiveness; a failure to pay attention to those I love; time squandered that should have been used to more productive (or simply more relaxing) ends.
Perhaps the real eye-opener has been the ability to monitor my own phone use with the new Screen Time feature. I'm reluctant to divulge the results because, unlike some people at Salt I am not an oversharer, but I can at least point to some sobering statistics. Those aged 15 to 24 spend four hours a day on their phones. That amounts to a quarter of waking hours, or 3 months a year (without any meals or toilet breaks). If you consider that a workday is typically about 8 hours, this is equivalent to spending thirty-four years of your working life on your phone. [1]
Now, I could be wrong, but I suspect that none of us choose to spend our lives in such a fruitless and compulsive way. It's not as though anyone begins their new year with a resolution to commit more time to their screen.
I'm guessing that most of us feel very uncomfortable about all of this. We know that being on our phones this much makes us worse at relating to people in real life. We're aware that our phones seem to be fuelling and intensifying the anxiety epidemic that has gripped society. And we also have this nagging feeling that we're missing out on the best of real-world experiences: serendipitous encounters with strangers that never took place because we don't make eye-contact; concerts sullied by a compulsive need to video what we're supposed to be enjoying; meals forgotten because we took some photos of the plate and then spent far too long selecting the perfect filter whilst mindlessly spooning the stuff into our mouths.
All of these worries (and more) are valid. But I would suggest that at the root of our concern about screen time is a more important and profound issue: our mortality. Life is already too short, and this is not how we ought to spend it, especially as staring at a screen seems to have the odd effect of making time move even faster still.
There's a line in a psalm in the Bible that says, 'Teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom'. In other words, it is a prayer that assumes you will live a smarter, more enlightened and intentional life if you meditate on how quickly time passes, and how little there is to waste of this finite resource.
A consideration of the shortness of life does not immediately answer the question of how best to use our time. We can at least agree that nobody is going to lie on their deathbed and express a regret such as, Too little time spent tapping and scrolling. We know that screens are stealing far too much time, but what should we be doing instead?
Besides the typical suggestions (pay attention to your kids, read more books, be in-the-moment) I believe that the part of us that suffers the most from this chronic inattention and zero tolerance to boredom is our souls. Throughout history, men and women have been very deliberate in seeking out opportunities for perfect solitude in order to deepen their capacity to know God. So, while we worry about our general psychological health as we behave more and more like impulsive addicts, I believe it is the soul that suffers most in this digital age.
This is not because technology is somehow inherently opposed to spirituality – a myth I wholeheartedly refute – but simply because the soul is slow and technology has the effect of making life move fast. There are very few moments for true contemplation any more, and especially when that contemplation throws up genuine existential questions and emotions. It is simply too easy to seek out distraction that is really a form of escapism, giving brief shots of dopamine to mask the deeper issues of life.
Perhaps this is one reason many in the West have turned to a form of pseudo-spirituality in mindfulness meditation. Besides the promise of reducing anxiety, the fact that meditation has roots in Eastern spirituality may explain some of its appeal. Yet somehow we've ended up with a reduced and acceptable version for secular people. While I'm not an advocate of simply trying out whatever religious worldview or spirituality seems attractive to you in the moment (after all, the question of what is true must come into it at some point), I also find it dismaying that we have been duped by consumerism to such an extent that even spiritual practices are cut off at the roots, and then repackaged as products to improve your life.
What then is the solution to this neglect of the soul? To begin, there is the obvious need to tame your phone addiction (and I highly recommend reading Jaron Lanier and Cal Newport for inspiration). But it is not sufficient to merely carve out more space and time for boredom.
Why not? Because the deepest need of the soul is to find peace through truth. The discomforting sense of existential angst that many are familiar with (the very sensation you may seek to escape by finding distraction in your screen) emerges out of uncertainty about life, its purpose, and its end. Those feelings need to be confronted, but the secular world we inhabit has proved woefully inadequate at answering these deep questions and longings.
Therefore, if I'm right in arguing that our phones are the latest iteration in our human quest to seek distraction by entertaining ourselves to death, then the real solution is to face up to the hardest questions and look for answers. That is where the Christian faith has a remedy that perfectly matches the soul sickness I'm describing, since it offers both a rational and persuasive account of reality, along with a satisfying and joy-giving way of life.
[1] If a person works from age 21 to 65, they might spend a total of 82,720 hours at the workplace. But since screen time runs over the weekend, that is 28 hours a week, or 3.5 workdays per week. That adds up to 64,064 hours between the ages of 21 and 65, which is the same as thirty-four working years (and no, I didn't bother factoring in leap years in any of these calculations).
This article was originally published at Salt.
Are Christians cherry picking their morals?
'The Bible is homophobic, we all agree that's wrong. So, when it comes to things like homophobia, are Christians just choosing which parts of the Bible to accept and which to reject? Are they cherry picking their morals?'
This question is a perfect example of one of the major blind spots in the secularist worldview. It was asked during the Q&A at our last Salt Live event this week on the topic, Does religion poison everything? In the heat of the moment it seemed a pretty formidable question, and I wasn't sure how our speaker would handle it. But a couple of moments reflection reveal some gaping problems.
First, there's a deep irony in someone adopting the secular stance and then accusing religious folk of cherry picking morality. Why? Because that is probably the most devastating critique that can be levelled against secularism itself. The truth is that without a religious foundation for morality there is no such thing as objective moral truth – all we have are personal preferences. And many atheist philosophers have long recognised this fact.
So, if we take the example in the question – homophobia – and read between the lines, this person was saying something like this: 'These days we all agree that homophobia is wrong, that minorities should be protected, that individuals have free choice to express themselves in whichever way they wish, and that nobody has the right to judge another person based on these choices.' The problem is that there are so many unsubstantiated moral judgments here that have no grounding in secularism. For example, what in nature tells us that minorities should be protected? What in nature teaches us that individuals have a perfectly free choice to express themselves? There are literally no moral statements (statements involving words like 'should', and 'ought', and 'wrong') that have an objective basis in the secular worldview.
The highly problematic implication is that all morality in secularism is cherry picking. The secularist must build a worldview based on what feels right, in which things like 'equality', 'acceptance' and 'free self-expression' are essential values for relatively arbitrary reasons, but they preach those values as though they are God's Honest Truth.
Second, we need to acknowledge that everyone draws the line somewhere when it comes to sexual ethics, and it is somewhat arrogant to assume that only just now, in the 2010s, have we got it all figured out and everyone else (in history and across the world) is wrong. Yet, this is often the working assumption.
Perhaps the main reason for the liberalisation of sexual ethics in the West has been our growing commitment to freedom as our most deeply held doctrine. And freedom goes hand in hand with individualism – a very modern, very Western, way of looking at the world which largely disregards the community, or one's ancestry. This commitment to individual freedom explains why we have come to accept certain sexual behaviours as being in keeping with free expression (like homosexuality, hookups, and polyamory), whilst rejecting anything that violates our deepest convictions about the freedom of the individual (hence the passion that was driving the #MeToo movement last year).
But there is a problem. It is interesting that it never seems to dawn on us that the rest of the world does not necessarily build their morality on the same foundation. Not all cultures regard individual freedom as the highest ethic, and many cultures believe in things like responsibility and community with equal or greater fervour.
Here's my point. We too often arrogantly assume we have got it right. But what is this if it is not a form of cultural imperialism? Why should we accept the claim that the Modern Western Liberal view of these things is the only right one, and everyone has to come into alignment with it or suffer marginalisation as bigots? This kind of cultural imperialism is dangerous, not least because there are exceptionally good reasons to question how healthy our individualism is. Nobody seems to notice that our increasing levels of absolute personal freedom have not always made us happier in the West (and the fact that we can't imagine an alternative moral framework only proves how thoroughly indoctrinated we have become).
Third, the assumption that all Christians agree on the rightness of homosexuality, and therefore cherry pick morality from the Bible, is wrong. This is where we have to make a very careful distinction. All of the Christians I know do not think homophobia is right, even for a second. They don't want anyone to be judged and persecuted in society, and we in the church don't think it's our place to judge those outside the church.
That said, the fact remains that if someone wants to be a follower of Jesus they must not pick and choose their favourite bits from his teachings, accepting only the things they like while rejecting the things they don't like. To do that is to make yourself an authority over Jesus, as though you know better than him, when in fact the very definition of believing in Jesus is making him the supreme authority over you. The danger in attempting to marry Christianity with progressive values is that we end up creating a god in our own image, who (surprise, surprise) seems to echo back all of the things we already believed about the world. At this point I would agree with the questioner, and affirm that it is hard to respect Christians who cherry pick from the Bible.
But as I said, that is not usually the case. For my friends who have grown up experiencing homosexual attraction, but have also come to believe that Jesus is the Son of God, they have been willing to trade their sexual fulfilment in order to pursue a deeper satisfaction in following Christ. And of course, this is not just an experience for those with homosexual desires. Literally every person who chooses to follow Jesus makes these painful and self-denying choices. And yet, for the average secular Londoner, the idea that someone would willingly say no to their sexual desires is utterly unthinkable. Why? Because we have entirely believed the message that free sexual expression is right up there with The Meaning of Life, and nothing – not even Jesus – can compete with that.
And yet he does compete with that, as so many of my friends will attest. To follow him is to kill yourself entirely, and to hand your whole life over to him. You don't guard a part off and say, 'This is my identity, and you can't touch this.' No, following Jesus has always been about something much more deep, much more radical, than that. To be a Christian is to agree with the Apostle Paul: 'You are not your own, you were bought with a price.' A Saviour who was willing to die for me in order to rescue me from my own miserable state of separation from God is not a Saviour I will deny, even if it means giving up my rights.
Dementia in the Trans-Physical Age
My dad can't remember my name any more. It's unspeakably sad, not least because he is only in his mid-sixties. He knows he likes me, and even trusts me, but he's not sure why. He often affirms that I'm 'a good man' and I respond by telling him that I love him, but that only elicits a confused look which seems to ask, Why?
While my dad is suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's, the sad fact is that dementia is going to affect most of us in some way. A third of people born this year will develop dementia at some point in their lives, and even if you escape this curse many of the people you love will be afflicted by it.
From my earliest memories my dad has been the hero of my life and a constant inspiration. His vast reading, his deep convictions, his grit and indefatigable approach to the challenges of life have all left their mark. I have always loved the way he loved me, my brothers, my mum. There were many shortfalls, but he has been a good dad, even a great one. Now it feels like he is slipping away.
And what is left? A face I love. Eyes that are kind and strangely understanding. Crooked teeth like tombstones. And a body that is slowly but surely failing. Yet this body is still my dad, and so we care for him and seek to offer him the dignity and honour he deserves.
Reflecting on the destructive effects of dementia raises a huge question: Where does the real you reside? We live in the Trans-Physical Age in which we view our bodies as plastic, moldable, even disposable containers in which our true selves live. If you feel that your body is an inaccurate portrayal of the real you, you are free to change it. Perhaps the real you is younger, a different race, or a different gender. And so, like choosing a more suitable outfit for an occasion, we paint, cut and carve our bodies to better reflect the person we feel we are inside. And when the body eventually fails, one of the greatest hopes that is beginning to emerge is the idea that you could upload that true self into some more durable hardware than disease-ridden meat. Your consciousness may be transferred to a computer and so the real you can outlive this rotting biological waste. [1]
All of these movements I am describing are captured by the 'trans' prefix. It means across or beyond. And I have no doubt that what we have seen so far is just the beginning. There will be an ever-expanding array of alternative trans identities and options which reflect a common theme of body denial. The point is that in this word 'trans' we are seeking to bypass and alter our bodies, as though they do not matter to our sense of self or they must be adjusted to better reflect who we are. All of this is underpinned by a conviction that the real you is somewhere inside, rather than the imperfect container you're in.
Face to face with my dad, I'm very aware that there are no simple answers to the questions I'm raising here. On the one hand, it does feel as though he is slipping away as one neurone after another fails to fire, and everything that was familiar or automatic to him becomes strange and out of reach. At what point is he no longer my dad? How many memories does he have to lose before the body that resembles who he was becomes an empty shell? But I can't think that way. No matter how bad things are going to get, he's still my dad standing right there in front of me. That body is a body I love because it is him, and so it cannot be discarded or neglected or ignored.
It was the Ancient Greeks who first taught us to despise our bodies. The philosophical underpinnings of our modern attitudes to the body seem to have stemmed from the teachings of Plato, in which the spiritual realm of the Ideals was elevated above the grime of the material. The body was seen as something to escape, a mere vessel. This goes some way to explaining why the Greeks thought of work with the mind as so much superior to work with the body. We agree with this whenever we talk of blue collars and white collars, showing just how deeply this Greek way of thinking is embedded in our world, elevating one thing above another.
But Christianity broke into the Greek world with an altogether more complex, more subtle, and more hopeful view of things. Yes, the body is broken, and you have a spirit that will live on beyond death, but the aim is not to be separated from the body and enter some ethereal version of the afterlife in which you will float around for all eternity. This notion was killed when Jesus came back to life in a body that was both like and unlike his old one. It still bore the scars of his crucifixion as he ate barbecued fish with his friends. But he also looked different and seemed less constrained by the laws of nature. His body was physical, but somehow better and improved.
This means that when I look at my dad I feel sadness and hope at the same time. Perhaps parts of him are disappearing, like a photo bleached and faded by years of exposure to the sun. But since I am certain that Jesus did in fact rise from the dead—a certainty I derive from the testimony of the eyewitnesses who were frequently put to death for this claim—so I am deeply confident that my dad will be reunited with a better body one day. That will be the reward of his faith in Jesus, the 'firstborn from among the dead'. Dad's future body will have all the same parts, being both familiar and strangely unfamiliar at the same time. It will also be an improved and perfected body.
A vision of the future as something embodied—with hair and sweat and feasting, and with spit flying out of your mouth as you laugh at a friend's jokes—this is at the heart of the Christian hope of eternity. That is why we treasure and honour the body, even that of a dying person. 'For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens' (2 Corinthians 5.1).
[1] This growing movement is called Transhumanism.
This article was first posted at Salt.
Our strange and incoherent stance towards the unborn
Earlier this year my wife and I discovered we were expecting our third child. We were happy about this. We were hoping to see our family grow, and we were quick to tell the people we love. But we found out things might not be okay with the baby when we went to the first ultrasound scan. This was followed by days of uncertainty about whether our baby was healthy and whether it would survive.
A few weeks later we were sent to a special appointment with the purpose of taking a closer look at the baby's heart using ultrasound, and moments into this we could sense that something wasn't right. The usual rhythm of the rapid thumping and swishing that fills the ultrasound room when you hear the baby's heart was notably absent. All we heard was silence. All we saw was stillness.
Sie Yan gave birth some days after this to a lifeless little boy the size of my palm. I was numb, and later I was overwhelmed with sadness and uncontrollable tears. It was not easy to get my head around the death of a child I didn't know. But we decided to name him Enoch, after a man who 'walked with God, and he was not, for God took him'. [1]
While many miscarriages take place in secrecy, we had been very open with everyone we knew, and the torrent of love and affection we experienced had a healing potency. All of our friends – regardless of religious belief, political persuasion, or personal experience – offered us deep sympathy on the loss of a child. Even a child who passed away at a mere 15 weeks gestation.
Around the same time this was all happening, news broke that the Republic of Ireland was taking a referendum, and then secured a vote, to overturn the Eighth Amendment banning abortion. It was a clear majority of 66%, and public opinion expressed through the media was clearly supportive. There were comments such as, 'The spell of shame has been broken', and it was described as 'the end of shame and guilt'.
To me, this exposed the deepest fault line of incoherence and contradiction in our approach to the unborn. It made no sense to me that people could express genuine sorrow that our child had died, while at the same time there was ecstatic celebration over the potential of many Irish babies being terminated in days to come.
It made no sense to me that if a woman wants her baby, it's a child, but if she doesn't then it's a foetus. If the child dies, it's a tragic miscarriage, but if the pregnancy is brought to a medically induced end, it's a routine termination. If a couple is longing to have a family the loss of a child is a grief too hard to bear, but if a child doesn't fit into their current life plan then ending the child's life is a human right.
Perhaps the contradiction is never more clear than in the case of the hospital ward. There you can find operating rooms used to perform miraculous procedures in-utero in order to save unborn lives. You can also step into those rooms at other times to observe the disposal of bodies being cut up and vacuumed out, complete with tiny hands and tiny feet. And our reaction to both of these scenarios could not be more different. We give best wishes, prayers, hopes to those fighting to save their babies. We ignore those who are quietly disposing of them; no flowers, cards, sympathies. It was a choice, after all.
But why do we get to decide? Why is it up to us whether this is really a life or not?
I know that for many, the choice over whether to abort is impossibly difficult and is often driven by the utterly terrifying prospect of becoming a parent without the means to provide the kind of life we think a child needs. But that doesn't change the nature of the question of whether a life is a life.
It's right to celebrate life and therefore also right to grieve the horror of sickness and death that takes a life, even one as young as our own baby Enoch. And it's wrong to think that we can make an arbitrary choice that changes the status of that baby into something less than human.
If anything, that makes us less than human.
[1] Genesis 5.24
The myth of the freethinking atheist
Somehow we have come to attach the idea of 'freedom', and particularly freedom of thought, to atheism. Religious people are shackled to ideas that exert power of them, almost as though they are helpless victims. But the atheist is free because nobody's gonna tell him what to believe or do.
Well, sort of. But no.
One of the greatest myths we live with in day-to-day life is the illusion of freethinking. For one thing, there's the fact that most atheists do not arrive at that conclusion independently, but rather through a sequence of influences, books, ideas, often imbibed unconsciously; which is not all that different from how we arrive at religious conclusions. In other words, the so-called freethinking atheist would likely hold to some other belief system if raised in some other age or in some other place. You're not as free as you think. You're just as much a product of your time and circumstance as any religious devotee.
But freethinking is still more illusive than that. Scratch beneath the surface of ordinary life and you discover a surprising truth, which is that we're all driven by religious impulses all of the time, especially the impulse to worship. This was never more aptly put than by the late David Foster Wallace in his famous speech, This Is Water:
Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship… is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. [1]
Most of us won't accept this on the basis that we have a pretty narrow view of what worship means – perhaps singing, definitely involving a higher power, and probably some elaborate rituals. But really, worship is much more basic and ordinary than that: it's allowing something in your life to become in some way ultimate. When something becomes the underlying driver, motivation, goal, passion of your life, then that's what you worship. That's what Wallace meant, anyway, and that's why most of the stuff we worship will 'eat you alive'.
If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough… Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you… Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.
All of this rings true. Whatever you want so much in life that to have it would be heaven, and to not have it would be hell – that is your god, and that god exerts control over you. If worship can be directed at all these ordinary pursuits and passions – money, the body, power, intellect – then it doesn't take much thought before you start to see a place like London through new eyes. There are temples of worship everywhere, and devout worshippers scurry through life offering their sacrifices on the altars to their particular gods. And, yes, these gods eat us up. Every one of us has tales of the damage we have caused ourselves through our uncontrollable desires and ambitions.
The most sobering aspect of all this is that so little of it is voluntary:
But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.
This means you did not choose to worship, and you did not choose what to worship. Instead, worship arises from inside us as something unconscious, instinctive, irrepressible.
So, even if we like to think of ourselves as rational creatures, led by logic and evidence, most of the time the very opposite is true: we are led by the hidden drivers of the heart. [2] We are compelled by motives we can't fully understand, in search of goals we can't fully articulate, in hope of dreams we can't fully express.
Nobody is a freethinker. Nobody is a free agent.
Our humanity does not flourish in a spiritual vacuum when worship of something is so deeply hardwired into us. Without a sense of the greatness of the God who is over us we end up worshipping the material world under us. And that experience of being consumed and ruled by those lesser idols can awaken an awareness that running from God does not lead to freedom.
When you realise this you can begin to make sense of the impulse toward faith. Those who grow sick and tired of the endless pursuit of meaningless desires – who find that they are actually enslaved by their worship of money and intellect and sex and power – may at some point yearn for a different kind of worship, and may instead turn to God. To do so is not to surrender your reason, or engage in an act of mindless obeyance to some form of empty tradition, but rather to begin to be honest with yourself in recognizing that you are not as free as you think you are.
[1] This Is Water, by David Foster Wallace, accessible all over the internet
[2] See The Righteous Mind,by Jonathan Haidt
This article originally appeared at salt.london
14 things you probably didn't know about Christianity, but really should
Most people I talk with who are not Christians have a lot of deep misconceptions about this religion. In a way, this is odd, given our rich Christian heritage in this country. But it also provides some great talking points in this otherwise (often) awkward subject of conversation. So, here's my list of fourteen things you probably didn't know about the Christian faith, but really should.
1. Churches are not buildings, and the buildings are (almost) unnecessary. A church is the people; a particular group that has come together to form a family despite often having zero things in common. This means that you could knock down all those old church buildings in Britain and the actual church (the group of people) would not be wiped out; arguably, it would flourish.
2. Not all (male) Christian ministers wear dresses. This might strike you as a slightly silly point, but here's why it matters to me. The early Christians were a rag-tag bunch of men and women, with a very flat leadership structure, and very little in the way of special outfits or elaborate rituals. Today we call this style of Christianity 'low church' (as opposed to 'high church'). It's important because it means that Christianity is designed for the ordinary guy in the street, and Christian ministers should look pretty normal too.
3. There are more Christians in China than the population of Britain. There is simply no way you can describe Christianity as a 'Western religion' any more (nor was there ever!). Christianity is exploding in secret in China, as well as in underground, hidden churches in places like Iran and Nepal. The Christian faith in general is growing fastest on the continent of Africa. We may be a post-Christian country here in Britain, but that says very little about the fortunes of this faith.
4. You will never encounter deeper diversity than you do in the global church. You may be able to think of some community that is more diverse than the church, but I doubt it. The reason is that Christianity advances by the power of its message, and that the message itself is one of radical unity regardless of natural divisions. The earliest Christians managed to bridge some impossible divides, with slaves and masters worshipping alongside one another, as well as Jews and Gentiles, and every other societal division that existed in the first century Roman Empire. That makes sense when you understand the core message of Christianity: it tells us that we're all broken (so there's no room for pride) and that we can all be forgiven and brought into God's family (so there's deep unity). In reality, that means that on any given Sunday I could be sat next to a Nigerian, a Malaysian, or a Ukrainian at church, and that would be pretty normal.
5. If Christians were less involved in social issues, chaos would ensue. It's estimated that the volunteerism of Christians in Britain is worth about £315 million every year [1]. At the same time, there are a lot of people who think Christians are dangerous and don't fit in modern society. I wish these people would understand the selfless kindness and generosity of so many Christians, and the reasons they do all this. Believing in Jesus changes you in a very basic way, and I have never encountered any form of belief as potent or effective in changing individuals and helping them to become more loving and kind.
6. Nobody gets to heaven by being good or moral. These good works are a result of being a Christian, not the means of becoming one. In fact, if you think you're a 'good person' then you are totally unqualified to be a Christian. It's counter-intuitive, and that's why so few people understand something so fundamental. But Christians do not believe in being good, nor do they think that being good will get you any points. The only thing that matters is being forgiven.
7. Being christened as a baby is quite likely totally meaningless. Too many people think that if you're splashed with 'holy water' as a baby, you're all good. But of course, if it were that simple then we'd walk through the streets spraying the general population with specially blessed holy water from fire hoses. Far fewer would call themselves Christians if they realised how meaningless this ceremony is unless you also have some kind of genuine faith.
8. There are lots of other practices that don't make you a Christian.Being British. Eating fish on Fridays. Going to church. Praying. None of these things make you a Christian. The only thing that makes a person a Christian is whether or not they have faith.
9. Faith is not a blind leap. While some of the New Atheists like to claim that faith is some kind of wish upon a star, the word 'faith' has a lot more to do with (1) being persuaded of the truth of something, and (2) placing trust in those beliefs. You exercise this kind of faith all the time in ordinary life. It's much more like the experience of being persuaded that a 150,000 ton lump of metal can safely float on water, and exercising trust the moment you step on board. For Christians, the faith you need is faith in Jesus to save you. It's nothing more, and nothing less, than that.
10. There's much more evidence than you think. A lot of people assume that Christianity was debunked at some point by someone. But that has never happened. On the contrary, one of the most unique things about the Christian faith is that it is based on historical events, rather than teaching that can be separated from events. What I mean is this: you could take the teachings of just about any other religious founder and scrub out the historical story, and the teachings still stand. That isn't the case with Jesus. If the events didn't happen (especially his death and resurrection) then there's no Christianity. Thankfully, there are heaps of evidence that attest to it being true.
11. The reason we're not progressive on some issues is not because of any phobias. It's true that we continue to draw certain lines in the sand on issues of morality, but it's not because we're afraid of change, nor is it coming from judgmentalism. The most basic belief all Christians share is that we're all sinners in need of God's kindness, and that precludes any allowance of self-righteousness or judgment. But we also believe that God has the best plan for our flourishing, and we don't get to simply make up the rules (since that road inevitably leads to tragedy and oppression).
12. Most of your deepest moral instincts come from the Bible. The instincts we think are either common sense, or part of the very fabric of nature, such as equality, human rights, justice – all of these (and many more) have been embedded in our culture from centuries of exposure to the Bible. Now that we Westerners have largely abandoned our Christian heritage, we are like a jumbo jet suffering engine failure: we continue to glide, but it's not long before this thing will plummet to the ground. Morality without a Moral Lawgiver is arbitrary and vulnerable.
13. Jesus was not a good teacher. CS Lewis put it best:
I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg – or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronising nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to [2].
14. We really do believe you'll live for eternity, the only question is where. Some people think that if Christianity is to survive, it must accommodate itself to modern sensibilities. That would mean no more talk of an afterlife, and definitely no hell. Besides the fact that this strategy doesn't actually work (the more liberal a church becomes, the more empty it gets), we have some pretty formidable reasons to believe that eternity is real. The most important reason of all is the fact that Jesus came back from the dead, a fact attested to by hundreds of witnesses. That is the reason it's worth listening to the only person in history who spoke with anything like authority on the subject.
[1] Cinnamon Faith Action Audit 2016
[2] CS Lewis, Mere Christianity
Sex is never NSA
No Strings Attached. Few expressions better capture the modern view of sex. Which means that, despite their obvious respectability as philosophers and social commentators, the Spice Girls got it exactly wrong when they sang,
Are you as good as I remember baby, get it on, get it on,
'Cause tonight is the night when two become one
They were (knowingly or unknowingly) articulating a very, very old view of sex as something that has deep soul-level power; the very opposite of No Strings Attached. And this is why Bloodhound Gang were much more in tune with the times with their immortal lines, 'You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals // So, let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.'
Both of these songs come from the 1990s when few could have predicted how much mammalian activity would be enabled by the onset of hookup apps, so that now, more than ever, sex is mainly about fulfilling your appetites. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's not much different from eating, drinking, or sleeping. Who you do it with is not of much consequence, provided they're good.
How did our view of sex change so profoundly, and so quickly?
For one thing, it was not so long ago that sex was inextricably bound up with making babies. If you were a man and you got someone pregnant, you'd have to take responsibility (especially in a world with no state support for single mums). Your community kept you accountable. But that has changed: it is hard to exaggerate the effects of widespread contraception available since the 1960s in separating the act of sex from its natural, biological consequence. This has had a profound effect on how we think about sex, at a deep philosophical level. It used to be the case that only the rich or powerful could bed whoever they wanted, for the simple reason that they could get away with it. But contraception democratised the seeming freedom of sex-without-responsibility, and turned sex into a momentary act rather than a life-changing decision.
Another reason can be given. The secularisation of the West has been a potent force here. If your religion says sex is a sacred act with the power to bind souls, that view might linger for a little while after you have cast off religious restraint, but eventually it dies. The new narrative is that we're clever monkeys, and if monkeys can do it with whoever they want (bonobo chimps being a perfect example of a 'free love' primate society), then the social construct of sex being sacred need not hold us back any more.
And so, we have landed in a new era. It's an era in which love is optional, and sex is easy. In fact, it's only a few swipes away. And you don't need any of the traditional skills of seduction, which means you can get away with being clumsy and cheap. Hit upon a match, exchange a few texts, and you're done and dusted within the hour. And it's free. Did I mention that? And you don't have to speak again. And you can try someone else tomorrow. And there are no babies. And nobody else need ever find out.
All of this rests on the assumption that sex can be No Strings Attached. But can it? I'm not convinced.
First, there is the problem of 'catching feelings' and the consequent experience of rejection. The subject of so many sitcoms and low budget movies, we might be tempted to downplay how destructive this kind of rejection is for the soul. But consider, how many times can you get the cold shoulder from a hookup and not suffer some kind of erosion on the inside? I mean serious psychological harm. It seems we have more compassion and understanding for dogs abandoned on the street than we do for ourselves, since we are willing to subject ourselves to relentless and repeated experiences of being discarded. The simple reality is quite straightforward: if they don't call you back, they don't want you. They want someone new. And we might bury this truth and pretend that's not the case since we're both consenting adults entering into a kind of social contract for meaningless sex. But lying to ourselves doesn't change the facts. You were yesterday's choice, not today's. Of course, rejection is a risk in any kind of relationship, but the nature of NSA sex is that you are deliberately exposing yourself to hurt. And if you're the one with the bullet-proof confidence, how can you know that you are not causing immense harm to the other person?
Then consider the reality of jealousy. I know that the word is usually viewed as a negative quality, a mark of a deficient, weak, and insecure person. But jealousy is also hardwired into us as a fierce guardian of committed love. It can set a wall of fire around a relationship that does not allow casual invaders to maraud and steal what is precious. And jealousy proves that we don't really believe in NSA sex. We get jealous in talking about our partner's old lovers and past experiences; an irrational and inconsistent reaction if sex can be meaningless. We also insist on exclusivity as love grows. But why? If your partner can claim that sex with another person was just NSA, doesn't that let them off the hook? Absolutely not. Every fibre in your being tells you that. Your jealousy contradicts your belief in NSA sex. (Which is why Ross's excuse, 'We were on a break', doesn't hold water for Rachel; sex is never NSA.)
Another proof of the lie of NSA sex has to do with our inconsistency when it comes to taboos around sex. These taboos are still deeply embedded in our minds and our society (though for how long, I am not sure), and reveal that we still understand the power of sex as something that cannot be as meaningless as a handshake. Think about incest. If sex could truly be NSA, then why sustain such artificial boundaries? By what logic do we say that it is wrong for siblings to sleep together, or a father with his daughter, if it is No Strings Attached? We can't have it both ways, and our deep and intuitive revulsion towards incest tell us that sex is never NSA.
Finally, consider the painful reality of rape and sexual abuse. Why is rape so damaging? What is it about sex that it has such powers of destruction, so that a person can be changed forever by one brief, momentary act? Why can it make people feel so dirty, so defiled, so used? The answer must be that sex is inherently powerful. Of course, you might argue that the crucial missing element here is consent. But does the giving of consent render sex impotent, as it were? And if so, why do so many feel dirty and guilty after a mistaken fling, or a casual hookup? It seems to me that we are fighting against our very souls when we try to make sex a meaningless act.
Sex is a force of nature; a force in our nature. It goes down to the roots of a person. It involves the most hidden parts of our souls. Such have humans believed for thousands of years. There is accumulated wisdom in beliefs that have transcended all recorded history and most cultures, and we discard such beliefs at our peril. The modern dating scene is an anthropological test tube, an experiment we are running, and nobody knows the future ramifications of a generation raised this way. How will it affect our ability to make long-term commitments (essential for our own wellbeing and that of our children)? How will it affect our ability to simply be happy and content?
The flip side to all this is that if sex is powerful, its power can be directed and used well. Sex can actively restore ailing marriages, reinvigorate forgotten love, and repair the bonds of broken intimacy. In other words, sex attaches strings.
It is with good reason that the ancient Hebrews spoke about sex as knowing someone, because it is essentially a relational act. We all want to know and to be known, and we want that deeply. Perhaps that is the deepest need of all. They also spoke about sex as uncovering your nakedness; it was a euphemism that somehow captures the pure vulnerability, total openness, face-to-face and soul-to-soul intimacy that sex is meant to involve. To be naked with another – in both the literal and metaphorical sense – is to reveal your very soul. That is why the walls of commitment are so vital, since you are never more at risk than when you are totally opened up to another.
And all of this makes me wonder, if sex is really about intimacy, perhaps the modern view of NSA sex is a thinly veiled attempt to experience love, even transcendence, if only for a moment. If so, there is great tragedy in that. It is a misguided quest, a fool's errand. No amount of hookups can fill this gaping void. But it also signals a deep disquiet in the soul of this generation. What are we searching for? And, what have we lost? God only knows.
Why Christmas is stranger than fiction
Growing up my parents never tried to pretend there was such a person as Father Christmas. From as young as I recall, we knew the gifts under the tree were from mum and dad, and the man in the red suit in the shopping centre grotto was a fake, a fraud, and an imposter.
Their reason was quite straightforward: if we, as boys, thought that they could lie to us about a mythical jolly gift-giver on a sleigh, then wouldn't we be at risk of thinking that our religious beliefs could be legends too? In other words, they wanted us to trust them in what they told us about Jesus, and not undermine their credibility as parents by weaving in strange and bizarre fantasies.
I suspect many would think this is crazy for two reasons: because Santa Claus is so obviously a bit of fun that kids believing in him can do no harm, and because (it is thought) the stories around Jesus' birth are indeed mostly fantastical in any case.
There are multiple layers of irony going on here. For one thing, I suspect we've become more attached to the sentiments around Christmas than the historical realities the season signifies – we care a lot more about Father Christmas and his elves than we do about the religious festival. That is why it seems it is more controversial to tell kids Santa isn't real than to tell them Jesus isn't real.
But it's doubly ironic when we realise that Father Christmas was not, in fact, a mythical figure at all. Just a couple of months ago, news broke that his original burial site in Myra, Turkey, has likely been discovered. Saint Nicholas (whom the Dutch called 'Sinterklaas', which became 'Santa Claus') was once bishop of this town, and well-known for his generosity towards the poor. Somehow that story grew to include stockings, red suits, and reindeer – but the man himself was real.
Truth and legend are often hard to separate, especially at Christmas. But while the legends are full of gooey sentiment, they are actually made far deeper by understanding the truth behind them. So, while the three kings of Orient were not kings at all, and the shepherds did not wear tea towels on their heads, the fact remains that ancient Persian astrologers and Israeli peasant shepherds were the first to discover the infant Jesus and worship him for what he was. That matters to Christians at a level much deeper than sentiment, because it showed that Jesus was not just a saviour for the Jewish people, or indeed for the privileged, but a saviour for the world (including Persian nomads) and the poor (including smelly rough-sleeping herdsmen). Strangely enough, very little of this meaning comes across at the primary school play, does it?
But the danger is that, amidst the sappy and nostalgic customs, and the ever-cheapening commercialisation of this 'Holiday Season', people will fail to see that the reason we celebrate is because these events actually happened. To my mind, the most controversial aspect of the season is the fact that so many blithely get on with celebrating without ever really considering whether there's some history at the bottom of all this glitz, and whether there might be power in those historical events.
More than 700 years before Jesus was born, an ancient Israeli prophet called Isaiah predicted his coming with these famous words:
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end…
This same child grew up to do three extraordinary things. First, he gave teachings that have stood the test of time and transformed the way we understand what goodness is and how we think we ought to treat one another. Many of his teachings have been imbibed by our culture without any realisation they came from him ('Do not judge, lest you too be judged'… 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'… 'Turn the other cheek'… and so on.)
Second, he lived a spectacularly unique life that drew the admiration and ire of his contemporaries. This was a man who performed miracles and then tried to keep them under wraps, being averse to unwanted attention. Sane and reasonable men wrote down their eye-witness accounts of the many people they saw healed instantly by his miracle-working abilities. But, of course, like any other world-shaking figure, the powers-that-be were deeply threatened by him and eventually turned against him with fatal results.
Third, he was crucified by the Romans but rose from the dead three days later. Even at his birth his own mother was told that something tragic would happen to him, when an old priest called Simeon told Mary, 'a sword shall pierce through your own soul'. No other baby in history was born for the express purpose of dying, but then, no other baby in history was prophetically foretold centuries earlier as a Saviour whose death would change everything, whose death would bring the offer of forgiveness before the Holy God.
I'll admit that, when you conjure up in your mind the many Hallmark cards and chocolate-filled Advent calendars that depict these events, you are likely to think it all belongs in the category of Legend along with Rudolf, Dasher, and the rest of them. But as it turns out, Jesus' followers were deadly serious about the events they witnessed and many put their lives on the line (and often lost them) so that they could relay these events to us as facts.
So, I wish you not only a Merry Christmas, but one that is filled with discovery and hope. Beneath the accumulated sediment of myths and fables layered on over centuries there is something solid, something real, and indeed world-changing. The truth about Christmas is stranger and more wonderful than the fiction – and filled with more profound significance and power.
London's greatest threat
If you walk down the street and see a 20 stone guy puffing away, with a sickly-sweet shiny donut in his hand, you might well judge that man for his poor choices and consider the likelihood that he's going to put himself in an early grave. He's indulging in that toxic combination of artery-furring heart-stopping delights: sugar and fat.
But apparently, he might be healthier than you.
You might watch what you eat, exercise diligently, and refuse all those vices like smoking and excessive alcohol, and still be suffering from one of the biggest killers of the modern age: loneliness.
According to some recent findings, 'There is robust evidence that social isolation and loneliness significantly increase risk for premature mortality, and the magnitude of the risk exceeds that of many leading health indicators' [1]. In other words, if you're lonely, this is very likely a bigger problem for your health than the danger of being obese.
I was surprised when I first learned this. It's not as though you often come across Men's Health articles that prescribe a night at the pub with friends as something fundamental to your physical wellbeing. And why not? Perhaps because we've accepted a very narrow view of our bodies as machines that we can alter and fix with better therapies, better nutrition, and better medicine.
But the science is beginning to stack up, and it is showing what ancient wisdom has always known – that health cannot only be understood in purely physical terms. This is a reductionistic way of understanding our very humanity. The fact that loneliness hurts our biology goes to show that we are a great deal more complex, and a great deal more nuanced, than we might otherwise have thought.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell tells the extraordinary account of the town of Roseto, Pennsylvania. Growing up around the turn of the twentieth century, Roseto was an exclusively Italian town, with most of the inhabitants coming from the same place in Italy.
Gladwell tells the story of how some doctors in the 1950s came to the realisation that nobody in Roseto under the age of sixty-five suffered from heart disease. Years later, one of the doctors explained,
'This was the 1950s, years before the advent of cholesterol lowering drugs… Heart attacks were an epidemic in the United States [and] the leading cause of death in men under the age of sixty-five'. Not only did the Rosetans have healthy hearts, but the same doctor said that there was 'no suicide, no alcoholism, no drug addiction… These people were dying of old age. That's it' [2].
You begin to wonder what was so unique about this place that made people so healthy. All of our modern prescriptions for health don't fit. Was it the famed Mediterranean diet? No. They ate Italian-type food, but made much worse for being Americanised (think extra-thick pizza bases, and extra lard, so that many of them were actually obese). Was it genetics, then? No, their cousins in Italy had hearts like everyone else's, and did not share the health benefits witnessed in the US. Was it location? No, the nearby towns were unhealthy like the rest of America.
In the end, the only explanation was that Roseto had an unusually tight community, with generations of the same families living together, respect for the elderly, easy-going conversation in the street, and an egalitarian ethos where the rich didn't show off their wealth. In other words, the health of their community produced health in their bodies.
When we look out on our present context, the situation seems to be quite dismal. Loneliness has reached epidemic proportions, and we've barely woken up to think through the causes and cures. Even if we can identify the bad effects loneliness is having, it's not as though anyone is making any great effort to solve it.
Stephen Thomas, in a recent article for Hazlitt Magazine [3], shares pretty honestly his own struggles with loneliness, despite having many, many friends. He points to research that shows that we start losing friends from around the age of 25, and there are lots of reasons for this. People move home (and town) too much these days, 'repotting' but struggling to find new friendships. People move jobs too much, no longer enjoying the same work relationships for decades like our parents did. Freelancers suffer particularly badly, because there's no stability in work or location.
We could add many more reasons: the culture of individualism that has gripped the West, the fragmenting of families, the rise of divorce, the breakdown of generational relationships (particularly obvious in London, where you can go for months without speaking to an older person), the emptying of churches, the loss of neighbourliness, and so on.
For many (though not all) of us, we can look back on our school days as the time in life when friendships were richest, when we could spend many careless hours hanging out and doing whatever. But every indicator seems to point to this changing: teens are getting lonelier, too. Obviously, the reasons cited above are not so relevant to them, but they have one massive social disturbance that seems to have caused shockwaves in their psychological wellbeing: the smartphone [4]. The screen does not replace the face.
As a Londoner, I'm acutely aware that this loneliness epidemic is most prevalent in big cities. All of the causes of loneliness are intensified in the city. The population is very transient, people live far away from friends, and busyness makes it hard to find time to simply hang out with people you love.
It's one of the great ironies of city life, that being around more people does not solve anybody's relational deficit. If anything, it seems to compound the problem. There are now more people to ignore you, morepeople to avoid eye contact with you, more people who don't want to talk to you. And far too often, the people you do know are not life-long friends, but mere acquaintances here to experience a brief few years in the capital before they settle down elsewhere.
But I don't think the solution is fleeing the city and finding some town in the Shires in which to settle down and play bingo. I think community in London is not only imaginable, but possible. I know it from experience.
The most powerful solution to loneliness in the city is right under our noses, yet so few see or realise this is the case. Consider, where in London can you experience cross-generational and cross-cultural community, where the typical dividers (like wealth, status, and education) are reduced to irrelevancies? Where can you have meaningful conversations with older people, interact with children and teenagers, and experience commitment rather than momentary connection? Where can you go to be known for who you really are, instead of the charade many of us put on for the sake of maintaining our personal brand? The only place I know of is the church.
Three years ago, nine friends started a new church community in Waterloo, which is the church I lead. We have grown steadily since then as many have come to find some kind of shelter and genuine connection with others. I'm not trying to suggest that the horizontal relationships (person to person) are the sum-total of what church is about. The experience of spirituality – the vertical relationship of you to God – is the factor that becomes the common thread binding us all together. But everyone is at a different point in their journey in discovering who God is, and that does not create hierarchy or exclusion.
Not all churches are equal, it's true. Some do not have a strong bond of community. But when you find a church that does, and one that is also serious about knowing God, you have found a place where people finally begin to feel that they have come home. So, while I don't think the church is the only place you can experience genuine community in London, I do think it's the most accessible and the one place with the potential to change many lives very quickly.
This much is indisputable, in my view. I know it is true because I have witnessed it time and again among the people in our own church. I find it sad that many Londoners would rather continue on in their struggle with loneliness than consider being part of a good church. But the doors remain open, and the invitation is not expired. Perhaps you will be persuaded that it may be worth taking a look?
And if you've never tried church for yourself, how would you know any differently?
[1] 'So Lonely I Could Die' American Psychological Association, August 5, 2017
[2] Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell
[3] Stephen Thomas, 'The Legion Lonely', Hazlitt, August 11, 2017
[4] Jean M Twenge, 'Have Smartphones Destroyed a Generation?', The Atlantic, August 3, 2017
Ten lessons in three years of church planting in Central London
Back in September 2014 we began meeting as Grace London and so we're about to hit our third birthday as a church. Here is my list of ten things I've learned about church planting these past few years.
(1) Planting is rewarding
The gospel works. That means that good stuff happens in peoples' lives whenever you're committed to making Jesus the centre of everything you do.
So, while I have moments of discouragement at all the stuff that hasn'thappened, or that isn't right about our church, it's also possible to look back and see things that happened because we stepped out and actually did it; we planted a church, and lives have been changed.
Two things in particular stand out to me. First, there are the guys from our church who have made very deliberate steps towards training for full-time ministry and/or church planting. That is, without a doubt, the thing that excites me most in this work because I know that whatever we do, they're going to do more by God's grace. Second, there are the many prodigals who have fallen in love with Jesus and with church again. That is so, so beautiful to see.
(2) It's easy to plant without doing evangelism
I'm not saying this is a good thing; I'm just saying it's a thing that can happen. You can easily lose focus when you have a church in front of you that needs to be pastored.
In our context, if you put your hand up and say, 'Hey, we're planting over here', there are people who will join you. Mainly, those people are Christians already. That's fine – you need to grow in order to survive (unless you have an umbilical cord of continued financial support from a generous sending church). But, theoretically, you don't have to do any evangelism to plant. That's something to be aware of and to avoid at all costs.
For us, that has meant being incredibly deliberate about being gospel-centred on Sundays, thinking of initiatives to share the gospel (e.g. Salt or seeker courses like Alpha), and now employing a guy who is clearly gifted and called as an evangelist.
(3) Planting is pastoring
A church planter is not a breed of special forces pastor, exempt from the dirty and difficult work of pastoring people in their mess. I think some guys are quite likely drawn to planting precisely because it seems to be in a different box to pastoring. If the pastors are maintenance guys, planters are pioneers — or so we imagine.
But the truth is, from day one you will have all kinds of stuff going on in peoples' lives that requires pastoral skill, compassion, and wisdom. Not to mention the other massive role of pastoring — wielding a hefty staff in the direction of dangerous animals when necessary. Conclusion: If you're not a pastor, don't plant a church.
(4) Reconciling the dual tensions of evangelism and pastoring is only possible by making the gospel centre
There is a difference of emphasis between the call of evangelism (sharing the gospel with unbelievers) and the work of pastoring (applying biblical truth to disciple believers). I would despair of ever bringing these two emphases together if it were not for the fact that the gospel does both. So, the more gospel-centred you are, the more you end up being both evangelistic and pastoral at the same time. I credit Timothy Keller and Martyn Lloyd-Jones for teaching me this.
(5) Who you plant with is more important than your gift — and reflective of your gift
Some of the guys we started the church with were heavy lifters in terms of carrying some weighty responsibility from the very start. The reality of planting is that there is quite a lot to do, including setting the church up as a legal entity, getting bank accounts, running a budget, creating a visual identity (please don't say 'brand'), making a website, buying and using some sound kit, making sure whatever kids are in the room are taken care of according to legal and biblical guidelines, and so on.
If I had been the guy doing all this stuff, I don't think I would have survived. But God, in his wisdom, so worked as to form a launch team with a wide array of abilities (and this was not by my design). We had a lawyer, an economist, a designer, a PA technician, a few home-makers (food and hospitality are essential), a software developer, as well as people gifted in more 'spiritual' areas like leading worship — and that was among a group of just nine adults. I honestly didn't realise until we started how blessed we were.
I have often said that because of their skills, and their devotion, they saved our marriage and our sanity. As a result, church planting was not as hard as people often say it is, simply because it was a pleasure to pull the weight together.
Of course, forming and keeping a team is a skill in itself. But far better you work on that skill than try to accumulate all the other skills in yourself.
(6) Organic growth lasts longer
We did a very small amount of promotion in the early days of the plant, mainly by blogging about it, and I had the opportunity to share a little at a prayer meeting at a major conference. But, the rest was all word-of-mouth. We discovered that word-of-mouth growth is best because the person who brings a friend also then takes care of their friend. I'm not saying that it's pointless doing other kinds of promotion; but I feel it's more likely you'll gather a crowd than form a family, and it can be hard to change the culture if it doesn't start right.
(7) Don't live or die by last Sunday
One of the peculiarities of our context (city centre) is that we gather people who very often want to flee the city at weekends. The result is that our Sunday attendance fluctuates significantly — not only according to seasons, but also from week to week. We can quite literally have twice as many people one Sunday as we did the previous, and then drop right back down the week after. Also, our people tend to be your typical city centre demographic — young professionals. Their families are not living in London, so Christmas and Easter are a write-off; we might have a fifth of our church around at those times.
Even though, as a pastor, I'd like to be above building my worth on the number of people in the room, that tendency (temptation?) always returns whenever things are looking dismal. So, I try not to live or die by last Sunday — as though a good attendance somehow makes me better, and a bad one makes me worse. Instead, I have to set my mind to just one thing as I prepare for the service: my job is to love whoever is in front of me.
(8) Your prayer life will grow when things are difficult (and you might not pray much in the good times)
It's always uncomfortable to bare your soul when it comes to prayer. Most of us are aware of our inadequacies in this area. I admire people who are consistent, but honestly, I am not. I have found that when things are difficult I pray more, and when things are going well I pray less.
(9) Beware the time sucks
I constantly return to the example of the Apostles in Acts 6 who were determined not to set aside their primary calling (prayer and the word) by doing mercy ministry work. Church planting presents many, many opportunities for work that isn't prayer and the word. For example, you need to find venues to meet in, which can be difficult and very time-consuming. While this is an incredibly important job, I think we can all agree that it's not pastoring. You have to be relentlessly determined to do the most important things, the unseen things, both for the sake of your soul and for the long-term good of the church. I refer you to point (5)above.
(10) Making comparisons is really dumb
There are church plants not too far from us that are (on some measures) doing better than us. Maybe we do some stuff better too. But the question is, Why am I even aware of these differences?
Sin. That's why. And I know I'm not the only one; whenever I spend time with other pastors I see insecurities surfacing and I feel sad for us all that we're not more dependent on our identity in Christ for our sense of joy in the ministry. One of the great blessings of heaven will be that, finally, we no longer compare.
The reasons not to compare are quite obvious. First, we all have different levels of gifting sovereignly apportioned by Jesus himself, and that's okay. Second, every context is vastly different. I know that planting one mile away from where we started would be different. So, when I compare with guys in other towns, I'm really starting to be very dumb indeed. Third, Jesus is very much sovereign and in charge of his church, and he can grow and bless it wherever he pleases. Fourth, very often our points of comparison represent fleshly and idolatrous measures of success rather than biblical measures. (The easiest way to determine biblical fruitfulness is to look at Paul's prayers for the churches, and the letters to the churches in Revelation 2–3).
I've heard of church plants where the sending church has pulled the plug because the stats weren't impressive enough. I think that's utterly crazy. Of course, there are plants that need to come to an end sometimes, but if only we had a better appreciation for what matters in Christ's eyes, and an appreciation for the unique challenges of every context. Too often, I believe, we can be quite carnal in all this. We're much like the Pharisees who '… loved the glory that comes from man more than the glory that comes from God' (John 12.43).
God help us, and God further the work through faithful men who care not a jot how they appear in the eyes of others, and care only to return a good interest on the investment Christ made in them.
How to control the future
They sat across the table from me, telling the judge all about how much damage I had caused. Panic attacks leading to an inability to work, stemming from a car accident in which they had suffered whiplash and traumatic injuries and bruising. The thing was, it was all a pack of lies.
I had been reversing at about three miles an hour when I bumped into their car. We got out, surveyed the damage (a cracked fog light), exchanged details, and I went home feeling a little sheepish.
But later on, when the false injury claims were made, it was the lies that infuriated me. I was happy to take the blame for the accident (and did so in court), but I couldn't stand listening to these lies.
We've all been touched by dishonesty and lies, and I suspect that as a society we are growing more and more dishonest. You arrange a gathering of friends and people start flaking out last minute despite having said they were coming. The CVs that land on your desk need to be double-checked for those 'white lies' and exaggerations. Whether you're buying or selling a house, you now expect the other party to do something dirty at the last minute so that you lose money. The newspapers literally make stuff up all the time. Colleagues take the credit for your work, or pass the blame on for their mistakes, or simply fail to do what they said they'd do. Your spouse leaves you because they're no longer 'in love', even though they said they'd stay with you until death.
One evidence of this growing dishonesty is the increased need for legal protections and padlocks. Legislation abounds to regulate everything from billion pound trades to sales worth pennies on eBay, and it's all for one reason alone: we lie. We need to use the law to protect ourselves. If there were no lies, there would be no contracts, no regulations, no forms to sign or courts to arbitrate. A culture that doesn't know how to trust one another is a culture that is crumbling apart, tied together only by the contracts we sign.
I wonder why truth is rapidly declining, why we live in a post-truth world, why it is so hard to trust one another these days. When did a man's word stop being his bond?
Telling the truth matters, and the most powerful version of truth-telling is the capacity to make promises. Lewis Smedes was an author and ethicist who wrote about the extraordinary power of promising as 'the only way to overcome the unpredictability of your future'. Why?
When we make a promise we take it on our feeble wills to keep a future rendezvous with someone in circumstances we cannot possibly predict… to create our future with someone else no matter what fate or destiny may have in store. This is almost ultimate freedom [1].
A promise is the only way we can create future certainty in an uncertain world, the only way of making 'a small sanctuary of trust within the jungle of unpredictability'.
The modern fear of promises and commitments must have a cause. I would argue that it has to do with our increasing distance from God. Smedes asks about making promises, 'Can any human act, other than the act of forgiving, be more divine?' The entirety of the Christian faith is based on promises: God's promise to forgive, his promise not to hold our sins against us now that Jesus has died in our place, his promise to resurrect those who have believed in Jesus to eternal life. Without promises there is no relationship with God, and there is no Christianity. Smedes unfolds this thought some more:
The future of the human family rides the fragile fibres of a promise spoken. One thing assures us that the cosmos will not climax its arduous odyssey turning itself into a stinking garbage heap. Only one thing affirms that the human romance will have a happy ending, and that the earth will be populated one day by a redeemed family living in justice and shalom. The one thread by which everything hangs is a promise spoken and not forgotten.
I confess that I lie. I've been lied to many times. But as truth seems to disperse, the peace that comes through knowing the God who keeps his word more than atones for whatever disappointment I feel in life, not least with myself. That is why God is often described as a rock — immoveable, unchanging, steadfast. And that is why Jesus invited us to build our lives on that rock as the only way to control the future.
[1] 'Controlling the Unpredictable — The Power of Promising', Christianity Today, 2002
Equality and other fictions
If you haven't read it yourself, you've probably seen someone on the tube reading it. I'm talking about Yuval Harari's monstrously successful book, Sapiens, which tells the story of our species. At the heart of this book is a philosophical bomb that ought to make many of us lie awake at night. But strangely, it doesn't. Let me explain.
If there is one idea, one overriding value, one passionate plea that has shaped our modern society, it is the notion of equality. We may not agree on whose equality matters the most, but equality itself is still the one thing that (almost) everybody seems to agree on, in principle at least.
You don't have to be American to appreciate their Declaration of Independence, which is surely the creed of our age. It states that 'all men are created equal… endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights… [such as] life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' Just about every conversation in politics revolves around these assumptions. They're central to our understanding of what it means to be a happy society.
But Harari says it's all nonsense. He speaks as a secularist and atheist, and as one who is attempting to make sense of our species without appealing to religion. And so he writes,
According to the science of biology, people were not 'created'. They have evolved. And they certainly did not evolve to be 'equal'. The idea of equality is inextricably intertwined with the idea of creation [1].
America got the notion of equality from Christianity, he says, so if we reject the Christian 'myths' then we can't believe in equality either. Furthermore, there are no human rights, 'There are only organs, abilities and characteristics'.
I have met very few people from a non-religious perspective who will speak with such logical clarity and honesty. Because, if there is no God, then Harari is right.
Every sacred cow is shot in the head as he denies such things as the right to life, the right to liberty, and the right to happiness. These so-called 'rights' are all fictions we've bought into, but they're baseless. In a universe in which everything is an accident, there can be no rights. Atoms and chemical reactions might accidentally produce a person, but they don't produce moral values. Rights (like equality) have to be conferred by some higher power, so if you don't believe in a higher power, then neither can you believe in rights.
But strangely, despite the fact that modern Britain is becoming less and less religious, with most people now identifying as 'nones' (those with no religious affiliation) we are still hugely passionate about these values that came from our Christian heritage.
Why is that? I think there are two reasons.
Reason number one: The alternative is horrifying. If we truly and honestly admit that morality is a fiction that we invented, and that a godless universe cannot possibly create values like equality, then there are no rules and life becomes impossible.
Reason number two: We think with our guts, not our heads. That is to say, very few of us follow ideas through to their logical conclusions in Spock-like fashion. Most of what we believe to be right or wrong, true or false, is more intuition than deduction, more gut-feel than careful contemplation. Hardly anyone says to themselves, 'I don't believe in God, which means that morality is just a fiction we humans invented, therefore I discard all morality.' On the contrary, many non-religious people are every bit as passionate about moral causes as their church-going friends, and often more so. And the reason, I would argue, is that we have a deep inbuilt sense of what is right and wrong, even if we can't explain why. It is very hard to go against your gut, no matter what your head says.
Maybe we can keep on pretending, then? Can't we still believe that 'all men are created equal', even if we don't believe men (and women) were 'created' at all?
Perhaps. And perhaps society will do fine without faith in God. Or maybe it won't. History tells us that worldviews matter, and that they have consequences that sometimes take a while to show through. Cultures are like giant games of Jenga — some beliefs are built on other ones, and you can't take out the bottom bricks without the top becoming unstable. Harari is right in saying that most of our values in the West came from Christianity. How long can the tower stand when the foundation has been removed?
But then again, maybe we can look at this in reverse. Sometimes intuition is right. Sometimes our guts know better than our brains. The fact that we feel so strongly about moral truth, that we react with such anger to injustice, that we care so deeply about the rights of others — all of this suggests that these instincts came from somewhere, even from Someone.
Many have contemplated these ideas and been led to rethink their view about God. The alternatives have been held side-by-side: a cold and empty universe devoid of any ultimate meaning or morality, versus a belief in God that chimes with our deepest convictions about justice, love, and equality. Many have stared long and hard and followed their gut back to God. For me at least, that makes more sense than Harari's blank void.
[1] Sapiens, Yuval Harari
Hollow promises of productivity
I confess that over the years I have been seduced into the world of productivity systems — those white-covered books written by self-appointed gurus, offered up as the latest breakthrough solution to our ineptitude and frustration with ourselves. Perhaps it's my tendency to procrastinate and get distracted that makes me a sucker for shortcuts. But apparently, I'm not the only one.
The title of a recent article caught my eye: Why time management is ruining our lives [1]. Oliver Burkeman, writing for The Guardian, made gentle mockery of our growing obsession with productivity methods, and how silly it has all become. The article was interesting for two reasons: a story, and an insight.
First, the story. It concerned Merlin Mann, a forerunner of the time-management genre, who shot to fame after devising the notion of Inbox Zero — his method of decluttering your email account. After giving a presentation at Google in 2007, Mann became very popular, having 'stumbled on a rich seam of societal anxiety'. His email system 'was the Atkins diet for nerds: if you weren't doing it yourself, you almost certainly knew someone who was.'
Mann got a book deal, but ironically, he failed to deliver. He came to realise that he was missing time with his family 'typing bullshit that I hoped would please my book editor'. But he concluded that it was all a 'productivity racket' — a way of making money by distracting people from their work by getting them to read your stuff about how to do their work better.
I had not seen this whole genre as a racket before, but on reflection it obviously is. Most of the ideas and systems floating about are essentially common sense, repackaged with catchy titles and inflated promises.
Second, the insight. Why are we moderns so obsessed with being productive and efficient? No doubt it's partly explained by the vague anxiety we feel when engaged in so-called 'knowledge work' which we cannot easily quantify; work that is somewhat ethereal, measured by emails and meetings and spreadsheets. It can produce a gnawing sense that you haven't done enough, that time is slipping away from you and your life is not amounting to very much. But Burkeman offered up another explanation that I found striking:
At the very bottom of our anxious urge to manage time better… it's not hard to discern a familiar motive: the fear of death.
Your life needs to count. That is the angst of our age. Burkeman shows us that the 'modern zeal for productivity' preaches to us:
If only we could find the right techniques and apply enough self-discipline… we could know that we were fitting everything important in, and could feel happy at last… To die with the sense of nothing left undone: it's nothing less than the promise of immortality by other means.
But immortality has always been a religious notion, so what changed? The answer must be that in a secular age at some level work has replaced worship. Work has become our religion. The consequence is that all of the meaning we once found in a longing for eternity we now place on the creaking structures of vocation, ambition, and achievement.
Instead of seeking peace through knowing God, we seek calm through zen-like control of our time. If the religious view of life is as preparation for after-life, in an increasingly unspiritual age work is your one shot at making your brief life count. Worship is a life lived in service of Someone greater, but we now live in service to our personal dreams and ambitions. Instead of feeling guilt about breaking God's commands, we now feel guilty about checking social media too often on the job or missing a deadline. While community can be found among like-minded worshippers in church, most of us seek out networks who will help propel us forwards in influence and success, each person clambering over the other. To be productive is to be devout.
But while work is good and necessary, it was never meant to bear this weight. It was never designed to justify our existence or to give life some kind of eternal significance. Simply put, work cannot make us immortal.
If our anxious hankering for fulfilment by achievement is truly a symptom of a deep unease in the face of oblivion, then the fundamental promise of knowing God remains intensely relevant today, in particular, the prospect of life beyond death.
The danger, of course, is that we never pause to really consider why we're working so hard in the first place. Work is so all-consuming, and offers so many rewards — like promotion, recognition, and wealth — that it is all too easy to submit to the climate of a work-obsessed city. Very few take the time to dig deep into their own souls and ask whether the meaning they crave is at the end of the journey they're on. As humans, we are:
…a whole race perpetually in pursuit of the rainbow's end, never honest, nor kind, nor happy now, but always using as mere fuel wherewith to heap the altar of the future every real gift which is offered them in the Present. [2]
The most important gift on offer in the Present is freedom — from anxious work, from rainbow-chasing, and from the fear of death. And if one thing is for certain, it is that you cannot find something so precious and so rare as freedom by scouring the latest books and blogs on efficient work methods. You must go to an altogether deeper source of wisdom that is concerned with matters more weighty than your inbox, and more permanent than your productivity.
[1] Oliver Burkeman | Technology | The Guardian
[2] Screwtape Letters, CS Lewis
The dating apocalypse
They're calling it a dating apocalypse. The world of love and romance is changing more quickly now than at any other time in history, and nobody really knows what the longterm consequences will be.
Humans have always desired sex, and sex has always presented an opportunity for extraordinary pleasure and unfathomable pain. Nothing about us has changed, but two things have collided: the shattering of social taboos around promiscuity, and the enabling power of technology.
A while ago, Nancy Jo Sales published a long piece for Vanity Fairpeeling back the lid on the real world experiences of the Tinder dating scene [1]. The young people she spoke to told her about sleeping with five different people in the past week, or 40 in the past year. They spoke of being able to land a hookup with no more communication than a few emojis (like a beer and a pizza). Girls explained that when a guy texts before 12AM he likes you, but if it's after 12AM he likes your body. Guys described finding a date as easy as ordering takeaway, 'but you're ordering a person.'
With some poignancy, one interviewee remarked:
Some people still catch feelings in a hookup culture… Sometimes you actually catch feelings, and that's what sucks, because it's one person thinking one thing and the other person thinking something completely different and someone gets their feelings hurt.
These dating apps are becoming more popular, and why not? Since we've come to believe that marriage is just a social construct and that sex is simply an enjoyable physical act then you would have to be a die-hard traditionalist or a hopeless romantic not to at least feel some draw.
At the same time, it raises so many questions: Can you partake without hurting and being hurt? Is it possible to sleep with someone and not feel rejection when they don't want you again? Why is it that when we indulge our desires without restraint, we rarely feel satisfied?
How are we to assess all this? We need to begin by acknowledging that sex is more powerful than we'll admit. Ask any person who has been cheated on, about the pain and raging jealousy that follows. Sex is not nothing. Or, ask anyone who has been forced to have sex against their will, about the feeling of violation and even dirtiness that results. Sex is not nothing. So, while we try to demystify sex, the devastating realities often seem to indicate a deeper, perhaps spiritual, potency.
If sex has the power to cause such emotional pain and victimisation, then why is it being treated so increasingly casually? The simple answer is that, at least in the moment, the appeal and pleasure seems to outweigh the risk and pain. If there is one thing that is universally true of humanity, it is that we predictably choose the short-term thrill over the long-term gain. All of our folklore and fairy tales were pointing to this trait long before we heard about the Marshmallow Test: we are bad at deferred gratification.
It is sad that we have been conditioned to hear any caution over hookup culture as judgmental moralising. But consider this very carefully: Doesn't it stand to reason that sex with one person with whom you share your whole life — the fears and the joys — is going to be better than sex with a hundred strangers? And wouldn't sex with those many strangers more likely threaten and diminish, rather than enhance, the joy of truly intimate and exclusive sex? While I'm sure you can work out the finer aspects of your technique the more partners you experience, good sex was never really about technique but about a shared life, about intimacy. The more we think we're preparing for the real future relationship that 'matters', the more we're actually damaging our ability to maintain or recognise that healthy model after all the casual and victimising sex that shapes us psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, and even physically.
As much as I am convinced that this culture is hurting and not helping us discover lasting joy and intimacy, I hold out little hope that many will be convinced. It feels like trying to hold back an avalanche armed with only a spoon; it doesn't work, and I look a bit stupid in the attempt.
But despite the easy dismissal of all these concerns, there are still very many who feel the pangs of regret, and even of guilt. It doesn't feel good to use and to be used. A drunken escapade, a moment you cannot undo, an unfulfilled desire to be loved for who you are.
For all our pleasure-mania, is anyone truly and lastingly satisfied? And of those who honestly admit that they are not, there may emerge a thirst for something altogether more gratifying. A heart that is content does not seek love in strange places. Address the heart's thirst, and the draw of the quick fix diminishes.
When Jesus met a woman who had been married five times, and was now cohabiting with a sixth man, he did not speak directly to her actions (though somewhat scandalous at the time) [2]. Instead, he spoke to the heartache that he saw beneath the surface; he spoke to her thirst. He did so by drawing a simple comparison: 'Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again'. They were standing next to a well, so it seemed as though he meant literal water. But there is a double-meaning here. He's speaking about the many ways we try and satisfy our soul-thirst — for this woman, through successive and short-lived relationships. Drink that water and you'll only experience temporary relief. He went on, 'But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again.'
[1] Tinder and the Dawn of the 'Dating Apocalypse', vanityfair.com
[2] The Gospel of John, chapter 4
Cultivating the inner life
Last year I sat in the jury waiting room at Southwark Crown Court, passing day after day in that sterile environment, drinking bad coffee and eating worse food. Thankfully, I was reading an insightful book that made the wait more bearable.
The author, David Brooks, is a shrewd commentator on the modern age, and so his recent book The Road to Character has been a runaway bestseller. It is excellent, but the fact that so many people are reading it reveals a great deal about a hunger in our society for a deeper way of life. Brooks speaks directly into that desire:
We live in a society that encourages us to think about how to have a great career but leaves many of us inarticulate about how to cultivate the inner life [1].
Indeed, there has been a radical shift in recent decades towards self-oriented existence. We crave attention, adulation, admiration. We define ourselves, and then present our lives to the world with pride (frequently bypassing the tiring work of doing anything truly meaningful). We are our own advertising gurus, but often what we broadcast is a mere shell designed to succeed in a world that rewards a glossy image more than a honed character. Brooks goes on:
You spend a lot of time cultivating professional skills, but you don't have a clear idea of the sources of meaning in life… Years pass and the deepest parts of yourself go unexplored and unstructured. You are busy, but you have a vague anxiety that your life has not achieved its ultimate meaning and significance… You do not have a strategy to build character, and without that, not only your inner life but also your external life will eventually fall to pieces [2].
What has caused this malaise? Some would suggest part of the problem is that we have become the most individualistic culture the world has ever known, and in the process discarded many of the anchors that gave meaning to past generations: traditions, history, institutions, commitments to people and causes, and faith [3]. Of course, there can be something hollow in serving archaic customs you no longer believe in, but the new world in which we all define ourselves has left many scratching their heads, unable to find a conclusive and satisfying definition of 'self' and of 'meaning'.
In this age of millennial rootlessness, perhaps it's no surprise there is a rejection of a our plastic mass-produced materialism (especially in style, clothing, and food) accompanied by a nostalgia for antiquated ideals – craftsmanship, quality over quantity, love of the specialist. But all too often, much of this cultivates superficiality rather than inner life. It's not as though a perfectly coiffed moustache and a handmade leather boots could ever make a man deep.
With success-driven materialists to the left of us, and image-obsessed aesthetes to the right, how do we discover a life of meaning amidst all this noise? We must start by dismantling the false idols of our culture, beginning with the idea that achievements make you happy. Here, again, is Brooks:
The central fallacy of modern life is the belief that accomplishments… can produce deep satisfaction. That's false. [Your] desires are infinite and always leap out ahead of whatever has just been achieved [4].
On top of that, so much of the desire for success is essentially people-pleasing. A life lived for admiration can only produce play-acting and insecurity, not the gravitas of a well-healed soul.
So what does it take to live a full life? Since we cannot operate in a void, then it's not enough to merely acknowledge that life is about more than our achievements; we need answers.
The ancient Hebrews had a word for this kind of depth and meaning; they called it wisdom. It's a word that seems to have passed from our collective conscience, but it speaks of knowing not only the what, but also the why — of understanding your place in this mad world.
Whilst elevating wisdom as something worthy of pursuit, the Hebrews added a haunting condition for attaining wisdom. 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom' [5]. That is to say, true wisdom and true meaning cannot be something purely subjective. It must be tethered to something outside of us, something bigger than us. We must first look to our Maker in order to understand the purpose for which we have been made.
Living in a world of pure subjectivism — in which we define meaning for ourselves, apparently out of thin air — leaves us dissatisfied, sensing an underlying instability as our desires and aims shape-shift with every whim of society. But to know, follow, and love God is to tether your life to the rock, the very source and arbiter of meaning.
[1] David Brooks, The Road to Character, p.xi
[2] Ibid., p.xi
[3] Ibid., Brooks contrasts these sources of 'redemptive assistance' with our hollow call to 'be true to yourself'.
[4] Ibid., p.15
[5] Proverbs 9.10
A Christmas thought experiment
Picture yourself in a large plain room, like a school hall, with lots of people. You've just woken up from a deep sleep along with the hundreds of others around you. You're confused, and a little anxious. You realise that you have no memory of how you got there, and no knowledge of your life before that moment; your mind is a total blank. It soon becomes obvious that the same is true for everyone else.
There is just one large Door, but it's locked shut. There are no windows. The only world you know is the Room you're in, the people you're with, and the time that has elapsed since you woke up.
Pretty soon you start to wonder about the obvious question: Is there anything outside this Room we're in? Or is this it?
As time goes by, speculation grows about the World Outside. And one day everyone's startled by a loud noise as one man wakes up shouting about a dream he's just had. He has a frantic look in his eye. He's seen things. He's seen things outside the Room.
This Prophet seems a little wild, but nobody else has ever seen a vision, so some people start listening. He tells amazing tales of the world outside, and he develops a following. But you're not convinced. I mean, how can he prove it?
A while later you come across a quiet woman who has taken refuge in the corner of the Room. She wears a permanent frown, with deep-furrowed creases in her brow, as she contemplates everything. It doesn't matter that she hasn't brushed her hair for weeks; people are drawn to her powerful mind and compelling logic. She has started a discussion group in her corner of the Room, and each day the numbers have swelled as curious types are drawn to her fascinating speculations about the metaphysics of the World Outside. But, even though you're impressed by this Philosopher and her musings, you're not really the speculative type. There's only so much we can infer by logic and reason alone.
In your frustration you make a decision. The only things we can ever be sure about are the things we can see, and touch, and measure. So you start recording all your observations in a big book, and over time, with the help of some like-minded friends, you start to unfold the mysteries of the Room. You have discovered your calling. You are a Scientist, and your sense of confidence in your field is matched only by your sense of wonder in the world around you.
But at the back of your mind there's always doubt: What if there is something outside? Why do I always have that nagging sense about there being more, but no idea what it might be? Certain puzzles gnaw away at your sense of peace, like how did we all end up in here in the first place? Who made this Room anyway?
And then it happens. A murmur ripples through the great hall and then comes excitement and shouting. This hubbub is coming from one corner, near the great wooden Door. People are talking about a sound outside the Door.
You're starting to feel desperate to see for yourself — to hear and know and get close enough to find out for certain. But the crowd has started pressing in and you can't get very near. In your adrenalin-pumped effort to push towards that door, you trip and fall hard, and all you see is the hard floor.
All of a sudden it's over, and you realise you haven't seen a thing. The story reaches you from someone who heard from someone that something extraordinary had taken place: the Door had been opened and a man had entered from outside.
You feel left out, so you retreat into a familiar and comfortable cynicism. If you didn't see it happen, then how can you know it is true? There were so many people crowding around the Door, and there was so much confusion and hysteria. It's easy for stories to get blown out of proportion. All it takes is for one deluded mystic to start a rumour, and pretty soon all these gullible people are saying it's true.
But what if it is true? If somebody came in from Outside, then everything you've ever believed is going to be shaken to the core. The visions of the Prophet, the speculations of the Philosopher, and even the cold hard facts of Science, must all bow to what this man has to say.
Allow me to join the dots here. Christmas is based around a central claim relating to a historical event: that God became human, and was born in Bethlehem. If true, this is something earth-shattering and world-changing. If false, it is at best an irrelevance, and at worst a great tragedy, when you consider the devotion this God-man has commanded for so long. But what reason do you have to dismiss the story out of hand? Have you really weighed it up with the kind of care it demands, given the uniqueness of this particular claim? Have you ever doubted your doubts?
You can either decide that the rumour was nothing more than a depressing example of our human tendency to believe what we hope to be true — or you can go and hear what that man has to say.
What have you got to lose?
Man Leaks Secret To Living Forever In 3 Easy Steps
In recent years, the people who run the Internet have perfected the art of turning us into suckers. Most of us are very predictable creatures whose interests can be quantified, manipulated, and converted into cash value by stringing together some choice words:
'One Short Guy Tried This And He Couldn't Believe What Happened Next'. Click.
'The Simple Trick That's Revolutionising People's Sex Lives'. Click.
'9 Life-Changing Things To Try in November' [1]. Click.
We are invariably disappointed or disgusted when we click through and find ourselves reading about some new way of removing warts, or looking at pictures we wish we could un-see. The trouble is that in the world of Everything Is Sensational, very few things of genuine importance succeed in getting our attention.
As a result, we are easily bored. If it's old news, or if it doesn't have a bizarre photo attached, we simply ignore. This is surely one of the main reasons so few people ever take an interest in religion in general, never mind the very important question of who Jesus was. Our attention has been drawn to the superficial; we've been clickbaited past what really matters.
The brilliant G.K. Chesterton once said, 'The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried' [2]. I think if he were writing today, he'd say that it has been found 'boring; and left untried'.
Why have we developed this impression? Besides the dreary experiences many have had in churches, inoculating them for life against religion, there is an even more fundamental cause: we have come to the conclusion that Jesus was just a Good Moral Teacher. We say things like this: 'I think Jesus was great. He taught some profound truths, like not judging, and loving your neighbour. But that doesn't mean I want to worship him any more than I'd worship Ghandi, Mother Theresa, or Bono'.
Jesus is simply not upworthy any more. He's too normal. Too nice. Now leave me alone so I can check out these leaked celeb photos.
Is it okay for us to put Jesus in the boring-but-important box and then move on? Many would be surprised to realise that dismissing Jesus as a Good Moral Teacher is the one option we're not allowed to take. Why not?
The best answer I've heard comes from C.S. Lewis (the Narnia guy). Lewis destroyed this idea in what has come to be known as his 'Trilemma'; he claimed that there are only three possible conclusions that make sense of Jesus. He was either mad, bad, or God. You can't go for the bland option of Good Moral Teacher because no good person says the stuff Jesus said:
A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse [3].
When Lewis wrote this, he was no doubt thinking of some of the more outrageous claims Jesus made. For example, he said he was the only way to God. He told his disciples they would need to die for his cause. He predicted his own death, but also that he would rise from the dead.
Jesus was a headline-writer's dream: 'This Guy Tells The Crowd To Eat His Body And Drink His Blood And You Wouldn't Believe What Happened Next' [4].
But he was no sensationalist playing for attention, much less advertising revenue. He backed up what he said by his character, his substance, and (dare I say it) his miracles that won over many hardened skeptics.
This is why C.S. Lewis himself went from atheist to Christian — because, as he put it, Jesus 'was neither a lunatic nor a fiend: and consequently, however strange or terrifying or unlikely it may seem, I have to accept the view that He was and is God' [5].
Jesus was not just a moral teacher — a first century Russell Brand or Owen Jones, calling out the Establishment. Instead, his message exploded across the Roman Empire with the speed of a viral K-pop dance, but with a good deal more longevity. Hundreds of people claimed they'd seen him risen from the dead. Nobody has been able to quash this headline ever since.
Jesus looms over history like no one else who's ever lived. That is simply a statement of fact, which in itself means that he merits sustained attention. Yet, sadly, we are content to remain ignorant of what he said and did. Our intellectual appetite is satisfied on a daily basis by the never-ending churn of sensational clickbait involving sex toys, human tails, and dogs telling the time [6]. No Good Moral Teacher can compete with that.
Anyone is entitled to wrestle with the facts and come to the honest conclusion that Jesus was indeed mad or bad, but we must lay to rest this beige nonsense about him being nothing more than a decent bloke.
[1] Based on a genuine[ly pointless] Buzzfeed article: buzzfeed.com/maitlandquitmeyer/life-changing-things-to-try-in-october
[2] G.K. Chesterton, What's Wrong With the World (1910)
[3] C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (1952), Chapter 3
[4] Gospel of John, Chapter 6
[6] A few examples from the home page of metro.co.uk (October 2016)
Entertaining ourselves to death
It seems we have lost the ability to sit still and do nothing, which is more problematic than you might realise.
Every spare moment, every tiny pause in the day, is soon filled by the mesmerising pull of those devices in our pockets. We check them when we wake, and then we tuck them under our pillows at night, having tapped, swiped, and clicked them 2,617 times that day [1].
This makes many of us uneasy. Why can't we just sit still and be bored for a while? But few of us are ready to trade in our smartphones, even if we are aware of the compulsive power they have over us.
If we had a moment to really think about it (a moment we're not allowing our thumbs to scroll and eyes to glaze over) we'd realise that it's our thinking itself that is suffering the most. As one author lamented, 'The last remaining place I'm guaranteed to be alone with my thoughts is in the shower' [2]. That device we worship — along with the endless cycles of box sets that swallow up countless evenings — is contributing to the death of contemplative thinking, of introspection, rumination, and reflection. And that's surely a cause for concern.
But I don't think our phones are the problem. Fantasising about throwing yours in the Thames and engaging in a digital detox is not going to solve very much. Why? Because this tendency towards escapism and shallow thinking has been a problem for longer than the internet has existed, and the smartphone is only the latest iteration in our quest for distraction.
Back in 1974, a Christian philosopher called Francis Schaeffer had begun to notice this same tendency under a different guise.
People today are afraid to be alone. This fear is a dominant mark of our society. Many now ceaselessly sit in the cinema or read novels about other people's lives or watch dramas. Why? Simply to avoid facing their own existence. Many of us can sit in front of the television and, except on rare occasions, not face our own private life. Entertainment so fills every cranny of our culture we can easily escape thinking [3].
That seems accurate to me. We seek distraction because we're afraid to be alone and face ourselves.
Schaeffer was unusually well-placed to comment on this sort of thing. He spent most of his adult life engaging in face-to-face conversations with a constant stream of people from all kinds of backgrounds, who came to stay at his home in the Alps. The home was named L'Abrimeaning 'The Shelter', because Francis and his wife Edith aimed to provide a context where people could engage on matters of faith and life in relative solitude from the constant distractions of the modern age.
The people who came to stay in L'Abri were usually on some kind of spiritual quest for truth. Often they were taking drugs (this was the 60s and 70s), but they were also disillusioned by the hippie scene and its vacuous message of love without truth. They needed hope, but not the fluffy kind; they needed something more solid. Schaeffer was a Christian and unapologetic about it, so his conversations invariably swirled around the questions of who Jesus is, and whether his claims hold up to scrutiny.
Schaeffer was observing the beginnings of a sickness in our modern love affair with entertainment, and it bothered him because of what lay underneath, because distraction was only the symptom of a deeper sickness:
No one seems to want (and no one can find) a place for quiet — because when you are quiet, you have to face reality. But many in this present generation dare not do this because their own basis reality leads them to meaninglessness; so they fill their lives with entertainment, even if it is only noise [4].
When we are separated from a greater sense of purpose, a narrative that makes sense of life, it is only natural to feel in the quiet moments that we are staring into the void. Constant noise provides a means of running from realities and questions we find too difficult to confront, surrounding issues such as purpose, grief, boredom, death, or futility.
I think most of us know instinctively that something isn't right here. We know that vicarious living through endless sagas on Netflix, or shallow communication through aphoristic interactions on social media, cannot be the best way to wile away our time. We know that we were made for more.
This tendency towards escapism is surely most concerning when it holds us back from exploring and developing a spiritual life; if we never take time to experience our own L'Abri, how will we ever know whether there's more than the emptiness we so expertly avoid? When escapism becomes a way to run away from God and our own consciences, surely it is time to stop and really think again. New pleasures and constant distractions result in a harried existence, and many of us are careening down a motorway with no idea of the destination, unable or unwilling to reach for the brake.
The problem is not with our smartphones, our TVs, or our many other devices. The problem is with us. But modern-day attempts to fulfil that spiritual void through self-help and meditation are reminiscent of the fluffy ideas that disillusioned Schaeffer and his guests in the first place. So what are we to do? Do we allow ourselves to be enslaved by the constant need for distraction, do we seek shallow and temporary solutions, or do we bravely look into the void of our lives and ask ourselves what's missing?
[1] Michael Winnick 'Putting a finger on our phone obsession' (16 June, 2016), research conducted by dscout: blog.dscout.com/mobile-touches
[2] 'The end of reflection' by Teddy Wayne for the New York Times (11 June, 2016)
[3] Francis Schaeffer, 'Walking Through the Mud' in No Little People(Crossway Books, 2003, first printed 1974), p.85
[4] Ibid
Dawkins and the meaning of life
Many people have come face-to-face with the possibility that life is meaningless and have given up as a result. Others have said something along these lines: 'Sure, life has no meaning. But so what? It's about whatever meaning you give to it.' Still others think life has significance, and that it's found in some Greater Purpose, be it religious or otherwise.
I'm interested in the second group — those who think life has no meaning, but still live as though it does. And if you think about it, that's probably most of the people you know.
Back in 2006, I had the opportunity to hear Richard Dawkins at an event at LSE [1] marking the 30th anniversary of his first book, The Selfish Gene. In his inaugural work, Dawkins gives us an explanation for life and the way we behave based on little more than the accident of our genes. Many who have read him have been forced to conclude that whatever meaning they thought life had, they were wrong.
As Dawkins gave his speech, he began to comment on this response to his work: 'One of the oddest reactions to The Selfish Gene has been the desire expressed by more than one person to un-read it.' He then went on to quote from a letter he'd received from a reader:
Fascinating, but at times I wish I could unread it […] On one level, I can share in the sense of wonder Dawkins so evidently sees in the workings-out of such complex processes […] But at the same time, I largely blame The Selfish Gene for a series of bouts of depression I suffered from for more than a decade […] Never sure of my spiritual outlook on life, but trying to find something deeper — trying to believe, but not quite being able to — I found that this book just about blew away any vague ideas I had along these lines, and prevented them from coalescing any further. This created quite a strong personal crisis for me some years ago.
When I heard him read the letter, I considered it a reasonable response from the reader. If Dawkins' conclusions are correct, and your behaviour is effectively pre-programmed by your genes, then how can that be meaningful at all? In fact, why shouldn't we feel depressed at this? But, bizarrely, when he finished reading the letter, the audience laughed. They actually laughed at someone experiencing a crisis of existence.
How does one answer this? How can life possibly have meaning when we're just an accident of chemistry + physics + who-knows-what? Dawkins gave his answer, and it's fascinating. First, he said, 'If something is true, no amount of wishful thinking can undo it.' In other words, there's no point believing in some idea about life that you or someone else has made up. The truth is the truth, he says, so let's face up to that.
I can agree with that. We're not supposed to believe in nonsense, especially when we know it's wrong.
But I wasn't expecting what he said next: 'There really never was any reason for these despairing reactions at all. It is a complete misunderstanding of what science can tell us about ourselves if we conclude from it that we are somehow diminished by it, by the truth. Our life is what we make of it.'
Hang on a second. Can you see the contradiction?
I absolutely agree that we don't want to buy into wishful thinking about life; but how can we just invent the meaning, and then believe in it? Can we ever be truly (and lastingly) satisfied with a life that only has the meaning we invent? Is that really meaningful at all? Isn't that the very essence of wishful thinking?
And yet, this is exactly the contradiction so many of us embrace in our day-to-day lives. We're convinced that when we die, we rot, and in the end the whole universe is going to dissolve in heat. But then we act as if we're doing stuff that's meaningful, important, fulfilling, purposeful.
What if there was another way? What if we could rebel against the great narrative of our age that we are here by accident, and will vanish as quickly as we arrived? What if we could truly know what we're here for, and why? I think that is exactly what Jesus Christ offers. The Christian faith is not wishful thinking, it is intellectually and emotionally satisfying. Come face-to-face with Jesus; his message and his claims, and you will find something utterly compelling. What hope can Dawkins offer people? None. Under the guise of self-defined truth and intellectual liberation, his conclusions have actually led many to despair. On the other hand, Jesus offers us the greatest hope we could ever have. In relationship with him, we no longer have to invent meaning, for infinite meaning is given to our existence. Isn't that an explanation of life worth investigating?
[1] Darwin@LSE Public Lecture, The Selfish Gene: thirty years on, 16 March 2006. Transcript and audio available online: http://www.lse.ac.uk/website-archive/publicEvents/events/2006/20051215t1557z001.aspx
Conversations and cringing embarrassment
'What do you do?' That is a question I've come to dread. I've lost count of the number of times I've been enjoying a good conversation with a stranger until the moment I'm quizzed on my profession. As soon as I say, 'I lead a church', there's often an icy chill that visibly runs down their spine, and the conversation seems to just dry up. It's not as though I'm a pimp, a cow inseminator, or a charity mugger.
So why the awkwardness? It seems we have become awkward around the subject of religion in general. In The Guardian a few months ago, there was an article by Andrew Brown entitled '"We need to talk about Jesus": cue cringing embarrassment' [1]. He was discussing this whole phenomenon of embarrassment around talking about our religious beliefs.
He explains it like this: apparently, the 'language' of embarrassment is universal, so it doesn't matter whether you know the other person or not, you can still 'accurately identify an embarrassed expression or posture on a stranger'. Since we are no longer expected to be religious these days, the moment religion comes up, someone (you or them) is bound to start getting embarrassed, and then it all gets a bit weird.
In other words, embarrassment begets embarrassment, and because embarrassment is infectious, it pulls a veil over the important conversations in life.
Given how religious London is (church attendance is much higher in London than elsewhere, and the massive diversity of cultures contributes to a rich mix of beliefs), you'd think that things should be a little different here. But are they? When was the last time you really probed and questioned a person about their faith? When was the last time the subject even came up?
I think this is sad and even tragic. How can we allow embarrassment to stifle the most important conversations of life? There have been rare moments when I have seen a friend drop their guard—perhaps after a few drinks, or in a moment of emotional vulnerability and openness—and really ask me what I believe and why. I live for those moments. I wish I had them every day. In fact, one of the reasons Salt exists is to try and find that one person in a hundred, or in a thousand, who will engage.
It's no exaggeration to say that embarrassment kills. My brother is a consultant anaesthetist. He's seen people come into hospital with strange items inserted 'where the sun don't shine'. Now, laying aside the obvious questions (like 'Huh?' and 'How?'—usually answered by, 'I fell while trying to hang a curtain… wearing no clothes'), there was one awful case where a man died because, out of sheer embarrassment, he failed to come to hospital until it was too late.
I think it's fair to say that when it comes to the issues that really matter, we are just as bunged up with verbal constipation. Whether that's down to British reserve, or the veneer of polite superficiality that is so normal in a big city like London, we find it hard to converse on the very issues that faith speaks into.
I'm speaking of our fear of death and uncertainty of what lies beyond the curtain. Or our constant nagging sense of guilt and the question of how we can feel spiritually clean. Or our anxieties about life, when so much is outside of our control and we long to know if anyone is hearing our prayers. These, and so many other thoughts that keep people awake at night, are the very reason we mustn't stifle conversation.
And even if none of these questions is bothering you, there is the more fundamental issue of whether, in fact, a particular religion could be true. I'm not a Christian simply because it feels right, but rather because I have become totally convinced that it tells a true account of the life, death, and subsequent resurrection of Jesus; an event that has sent shockwaves through history and convinced many an honest skeptic [2].
To be frank, I don't expect people to easily accept any of this as true (or, indeed, the claims of other religions). But I find it baffling that we are so hesitant to even engage. Personally, I welcome the challenge. I encourage the debate. I would rather a person grill me and try to poke holes in my worldview than that they simply avoid the subject altogether. My belief in Jesus is the deepest part of me, so how can we truly know each other unless we can broach the subject?
Let me lay down a challenge for you: if you know anyone who says they're a Christian, why not sit them down for a coffee and ask them a simple question, 'Why?' It's quite possible that they won't know how to answer (which is sad, but not uncommon). In that case, your question may well help them to think harder, rather than blindly go along with their faith.
On the other hand, you might have one of the best and most stimulating conversations you've had in a long time.
If you don't know anyone who can speak to you in this way, then why not simply contact us at Salt?
[1] www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/nov/04/christianity-evangelical-embarrassment-jesus-religion
[2] For example, Lee Strobel's excellent book The Case for Christ tells the account of the things that persuaded him despite his prior atheism