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Ironically enough, the belief systems most susceptible to self-destruction are those most coherent, self-consistent, and easily-defensible. The vulnerability of such systems arises from a fundamental part of human psychology. Because such belief systems appear to their adherents to be problem-free, all-explanatory, and equally convincing in all their components, any actual objective weakness in their explanations potentially poses a threat to their entire validity. When one’s ideas hang together perfectly and without need for re-examination or self-doubt, a challenge to any component belief can domino into every other aspect of the system. The sense of certainty and psychological security fostered by coherency puts all aspects of a worldview at risk when any part of it is challenged.

Consider Christian fundamentalism. This religious system comes packaged with extensive apologetics that render it almost entirely self-consistent and apparently coherent. Fundamentalism offers an answer to every challenge. But though Christian fundamentalism does contain some ideas that are meaningful and true, its contains many significant flaws that represent neither the true message of Jesus nor the nature of broader reality. Awareness of these flaws does more than cause an adherent to change specific beliefs; rather, such awareness can challenge the entire coherency of the fundamentalist system and by implication cause the former adherent to reject all aspects of his or her religion, both the good and the bad.

Thus, because virtually every human belief system is flawed in some way, the very coherency of such a system can in the end lead to the rejection of all its components, regardless of their individual merit — a sort of “guilt by association” of beliefs. Anecdotal evidence for this claim is found in the many stories of Christian fundamentalists who eventually become atheists, rather than, say, moderate or liberal Christians, after they are forced to recognize the error of some component of their fundamentalism.

What we need most then in our worldviews is not total coherency and self-consistency, with the resultant false security of certainty. Rather, we should be willing to let paradox, mystery, and doubt break into our faith, lending us humility and the willingness to not have it all figured out at once. The willingness to accept uncertainty or even apparent contradiction will give our faith a different sort of coherence, a fluid coherence that allows our ideas to adapt to our changing experiences of God and of people. When we accept paradox as a means to the end of truth, our religious worldviews will be more mature, more resilient, and more effective as methodologies for understanding and knowing God.

[note: I wrote this last January. I would write it differently now, but I still find it thought-provoking and think it offers insight into some of the stuff I've been thinking about.]

I will tell you that I am a Christian. I am not an orthodox one. I am so far gone into what I hope to be heterodoxy (and fear, at times, to be heresy) that many would say I am not a Christian at all. But I identify myself as one because at the core of my world is Jesus of Nazareth.

I’m agnostic more often than I’m comfortable with. I might even say that I’m an agnostic Christian. I have faith in many stories and many people, but I don’t have beliefs about some propositions that are central to many people’s conception of Christianity. I have faith in the story of Jesus and faith in “God”, but I’m not sure what it means to believe that God “exists” or to believe that the supernatural is “real”. I’m not a dualist – I don’t accept the strict distinction between soul and body, between spiritual and physical. (Indeed, I argue that the fact of the Incarnation, which is the starting point of my theology, politics, etc., necessitates the rejection of ontological dualism. This is connected, at some level, to my somewhat panentheistic understanding of the Trinity. My theories about the nature of God are of course in tension with my feeling that at some level saying that God exists (or doesn’t exist) is meaningless or useless or irrelevant.) I might even be a materialist, in the ontological sense. At any rate, I’m not comfortable saying that I’m not a materialist.

Mysticism is an important component of Christian religion. Obviously a central challenge for non-dualist, materialist, (pseudo-)agnostic Christians such as I is the question of how to make sense of mysticism and make mysticism relevant in our own religious lives. What is the nature of spiritual experience, which cannot in itself be discounted even as most frameworks for interpreting it are rejected?

I propose a materialist mysticism, a mysticism of symbol and metaphor. For the non-dualist, the material is the spiritual; no distinction can be made, no separation posited. Thus, all material experiences can be understood to be spiritual ones. (This act of understanding or of seeing in a different way, with the result that we orient ourselves different toward that which is ultimate, is what we call “faith”.)  This is why, as poets have long understood, the contemplation of nature is an intensely “spiritual” experience that reveals to us whatever it is that we know as “God”. This is why living in poverty or walking down a street at night serve as vehicles for theological reflection.

Tonight I meditated in a Buddhist chaplaincy, sitting on one of a circle of pillows enclosing a group of shimmering candles. (My prayer was that a parable, or story, or metaphor about these candles might come to me.) I understood the candles to be like stars, shining in the night. I saw them as universes going in and out of existence. They were atoms, tiny particles, constituents of something grander. They were moments in time, infinite futures stretching from the present, infinite pasts converging to the now. They were both cosmos and microcosmos. I saw in them the glory of something that I have elsewhere called “God”, but any conception of God or Brahman or universe or humanity is inadequate to express fully the mystery and truth that we call by so many names.

This was of course a metaphor. Just a story, or a product of linguistic associations of meaning. It was material and physical. This means of course that it was spiritual and mystical.

It is critically important in theological discussion to carefully distinguish between the terms belief and faith. These terms are used in multiple (often conflicting) ways among various thinkers, but for my purposes I generally distinguish them as follows.

Belief is a mental state of confidence in the factuality (or lack of factuality) of a fact-claim about “the way things are”. I can believe that the world is roughly spherical and not; I can believe that the sky is red (though that would be an incorrect belief); I can believe that the Gospel According to Matthew is literally historical, word-for-word (almost certainly also an incorrect belief, though); and so on. Faith, in contrast, has little to do with belief in a fact-claim per se, but has everything to do with orientation towards or ultimate concern for a person, event, or story, independent of the validity of any fact-claims about that subject. (The idea of faith as “ultimate concern” comes from Paul Tillich, who in Dynamics of Faith makes the point that idolatrous faith thus occurs when one’s ultimate concern is oriented towards something that is not in fact ultimate, like the nation-state). Thus, we have beliefs about propositional statements regarding reality, but we have faith in narratives and in people.

Any definition of “being”, “existence”, “actuality”, “ousia”, “essence”, etc, etc, etc, is inadequate as a description of the mystery that we call “God”. Thus we must be extremely careful in believing that “God exists” or in believing that “God is real”. Perhaps, in fact, we must remain agnostic about the “existence” of God, if only as a way of coping with this divine transcendence of human ontological categories. But as the above discussion makes clear, holding belief (and disbelief) in suspension in no way rules out the potential for faith. It is fully possible to have faith in this God, the question of whose existence is meaningless. For we understand that the idea of God as a person has been made relevant though the powerful narratives we tell in order to understand the world in a God-oriented way (such as the Gospel According to Matthew, which thus does not need to be factual (belief-worthy) to be true (faith-worthy)). We can have faith (as defined here) in the “person” of God, in the narratives about God, and we can use this faith as a lens to understand the world and guide our actions in it. We can have faith in God without belief in God’s existence.

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