This was a paper given to the Jubilee Group, 1 February 2000

Good evening everyone. I would first of all like to thank James for his paper, and particularly for letting me have sight of it before tonight, so that I could make sure that we didn’t overlap! I should begin my remarks with some general comments about the radical orthodox. I am, generally speaking, quite sympathetic to what they are trying to do, and I agree with James that they represent a significant step forward for Anglican theology. In particular, Milbank’s Theology and Social Theory is a marvellous, wonderful book, which, although difficult, is essential reading for anyone wanting to understand the present state of theology in this country, and perhaps more widely. The Radical Orthodox are saying something important, and I believe that much of their analysis is correct. I am not qualified to say whether their treatment of, for example, Duns Scotus and the univocity of being is either fair or credible, but their overall story is one that I find compelling.

Now, my talk is going to be both more general and more specific than James’. I am going to concentrate on one aspect of the Radical Orthodoxy project – their understanding of language – and critique it from a Wittgensteinian point of view. I will first outline what Wittgenstein’s understanding of language is; then I will summarise the radical orthodox critique of Wittgenstein, and show the place of that critique in their overall project. Finally I will show how their misunderstanding of Wittgenstein throws into relief a much larger point about radical orthodoxy as a whole, relating to their methodology and their overall approach to theology. So you could say that I am wanting to look at Radical Orthodoxy through both ends of a telescope, leaving out most of the material which lies in plain view. I just hope that I can keep each argument in focus…

The easiest way to get a quick grasp of Wittgenstein’s view of language is to talk about the difference between what he calls surface grammar and depth grammar. Surface grammar is the explicit content and form of a sentence: the division into nouns, verbs, adjectives and so on. It is what we normally think of as grammar. Depth grammar is the function that a sentence plays within the life of the person speaking the sentence. (For the purposes of this paper I am just going to consider the spoken word). In other words, an investigation of the depth grammar of a word will indicate the use that the words have. Think of the expression ‘I need some water’. This seems quite straightforward, but depending upon the context and the emphasis placed upon different words, it could have all sorts of different senses. For example, it could be a straightforward description of thirst, or an expression of the need for an ingredient in making bread, or preparing water colours. So far, so straightforward. But think of something more interesting. Perhaps it is an insult: I am a mechanic, and I am working on fixing a car radiator. My assistant knows that I need some fluid, but passes me some left over orange squash: ‘I need some water’ – where the expression also means: why are you being so stupid? I am sure that given some time, you could think up all sorts of contexts where this one phrase had significantly different meanings. In other words, where the surface grammar of a comment was the same, but the depth grammar was radically different.

Now, for Wittgenstein, the point of this grammatical investigation was that you achieved clarity about any questions that are at issue. If there is a philosophical discussion, then the way to proceed is to conduct a grammatical investigation of the words and concepts that are in dispute. To look at how different words are used in their normal context. For Wittgenstein, philosophical problems are the result of conceptual confusion and to meet these problems what is needed is conceptual clarification. The task of the philosopher is carefully to depict the relationships between different concepts, in other words, to investigate their grammar. The concepts are the ones used in our everyday language, and it is the fact that the concepts are used in our language that gives them their importance. A grammatical investigation in the Wittgensteinian sense is one that looks at how words are used within a lived context. Hence there is the need to investigate the nature of language games and forms of life, which are the usual phrases which you hear when people talk about Wittgenstein. This is a method, and it is with this method that Wittgenstein’s true genius lies. In contrast to almost all philosophers within the Western tradition Wittgenstein was not concerned with providing answers to particular questions. Rather, he wished to gain clarity about the question at issue, in order therefore to dissolve the controversy. He wrote: ‘Philosophy can in no way interfere with the actual use of language; it can in the end only describe it.’

An example might help to make his view clearer. A traditional metaphysical question might be ‘What is time’? We want to know what the word means, and because the word is a noun we look to see what it is that is referred to. Yet there is nothing to which we can point and say ‘That is time’. Thus philosophers are puzzled, and trying to answer questions such as this is the classic job of a philosopher, or more precisely, a metaphysician. For Wittgenstein, though, the question is without sense. Wittgenstein would say, why do we assume that there must be something to which the word refers? Look at how the word is actually used in our language, and see if that enlightens your consideration. Thus, when we look at the contexts in which we use the sentence ‘Time flew by’ they would tend to describe times when we are particularly absorbed in a piece of work, or where we are with friends having an enjoyable evening. The phrase derives its meaning from that context. To then ask, ‘What is time?’ would be absurd. What we must always have at the forefront of our minds is the organic basis of the language that we use. Language has evolved for particular purposes, it has various distinct uses, and there is no necessity that there is a clear and logical basis for it. One of Wittgenstein’s best images is to suggest looking at language as like a tool box, with different tools to perform different functions. Why should there be something which all tools have in common? And why are you so concerned to find it? Wittgenstein is very concerned to ease the philosophical mind away from its tendency for abstract theorising, and to focus it on everyday details, to see what language is actually doing in a given situation.

Perhaps it is now time to examine what the philosophers of the radical orthodox make of all this. Conor Cunningham’s critique can be quite simply summarised in the following way. When Wittgenstein makes the distinction between surface and depth grammar he is developing a neo-Kantian philosophy, where certain intellectual distinctions, for example terms like language game, govern your understanding of the world. In Cunningham’s words, “What Wittgenstein does in his later works is to provide what could be called an ‘ad hoc transcendentalism’.” Wittgenstein, therefore, has an unstated theory of meaning. That theory of meaning is not one that takes account of God – it is not therefore a theology – and as such it is open to the radical orthodox critique that any account of reality which excludes God is nihilistic.

Needless to say, I think this understanding of Wittgenstein is deeply flawed, and misses the very point which Wittgenstein is trying to make. Firstly, Cunningham shows no evidence of having absorbed what Wittgenstein’s method is, for his attack on Wittgenstein is concerned purely with its suggested status as a philosophical system – note, a system, not a method. Secondly, given the amount of academic effort that has gone into understanding and explaining Wittgenstein’s point of view, you would expect some engagement with the arguments that Wittgenstein makes, or that some of the major interpreters make. Perhaps you might expect some alternative conception of how examples like my one with water could be construed. Instead we have an argument, based primarily on two secondary sources, which conveniently places Wittgenstein into the secular philosophical context which radical orthodoxy as a whole wishes to criticise. My claim is that Wittgenstein won’t fit into that context. Wittgenstein is not advancing a theory, he is teaching a method.

Now, my purpose here, as I’m sure you will be relieved to discover, is not to argue through the detail of whether Cunningham’s paper is right or wrong about Wittgenstein. What I would like to do is examine why the radical orthodox want to put Wittgenstein into an intellectual box, to place him as a ‘neo-Kantian’ and so on. The radical orthodox position is that theology evacuates metaphysics, that is, it completely absorbs metaphysics – philosophical speculation about existence – within the subject matter of theology. Milbank writes: “…the domain of metaphysics is not simply subordinate to, but completely evacuated by theology, for metaphysics refers its subject matter – ‘Being’ – wholesale to a first principle, God, which is the subject of another, higher, science, namely God’s own, only accessible to us via revelation.”

Two things are problematic here, from a Wittgensteinian point of view. Firstly, on Wittgenstein’s view metaphysics is a type of pathology. It is an intellectual game with language that satisfies a desire for the infinite, the illusion being that if we can fathom the limits of the world then we can see beyond them. If Wittgenstein’s view of language is correct then large parts of the Western intellectual tradition will fall into disuse. Any account of the world, from Plato’s theory of the forms onward, is, at best, a form of intellectual poetry – Wittgenstein once called them the noblest products of the human mind. But however wonderful metaphysical speculation might be, if Wittgenstein is correct, they are always ultimately nonsense.

Is there an overlap here? For the radical orthodox also dislike metaphysics. In fact, the two positions are as far apart as it is possible to be. For the radical orthodox metaphysics is illegitimate because it doesn’t talk about God. If it does, then it is theology, and that’s OK, because it can therefore be liturgically consummated, as Catherine Pickstock describes. Her project for the liturgical consummation of philosophy only makes sense if both philosophy and theology are operating on parallel lines. For the radical orthodox, theology and metaphysics are therefore the same sort of thing philosophically. But as such, for anyone who understands language in the way that Wittgenstein indicates, they are equally nonsense.

So am I arguing that Wittgenstein is claiming that all theology is nonsense? No, not really. His position is rather more subtle than that (and it is all this subtlety that Cunningham misses). For Wittgenstein it is always action which is primary – ‘In the beginning was the deed’ – and our language gains its sense from being embodied in certain practices. Consider the following passage: ‘Christianity is not a doctrine, not, I mean, a theory about what has happened and will happen to the human soul, but a description of something that actually takes place in human life. For ‘consciousness of sin’ is a real event and so are despair and salvation through faith. Those who speak of such things … are simply describing what has happened to them, whatever gloss anyone may want to put on it.’ Or consider this passage ‘I believe that one of the things Christianity says is that sound doctrines are all useless, that you have to change your life (or the direction of your life)…the point is that a sound doctrine need not take hold of you, you can follow it as you would a doctor’s prescription. But here you need something to move you and turn you in a new direction’; and finally ‘A theology which insists on the use of certain particular words and phrases, and outlaws others, does not make anything clearer…It gesticulates with words, as one might say, because it wants to say something and does not know how to express it. Practice gives the words their sense.’

What Wittgenstein is trying to do is to get us out of our heads, and back into our bodies. His position is therefore much more incarnational than the radical orthodox, paradoxically enough. As I understand it, religious language makes sense only within the context of the religious life as a whole. The life of worship, repentance and changing of life. The religious language, with associated teaching and pictures, is primary. Theology and doctrinal development is a secondary characteristic, which relates to the practise of religion rather in the same way that literary criticism relates to the writing of literature. And of course, in the history of our religion, that makes sense. The basic motifs of the faith were present after the resurrection, and it took some 300 years for the intellectual account of those motifs to catch up.

To try and summarise the difference as I see it, then, I would say that Wittgenstein is aware that some of the most important things about life cannot be put into words, that there is a very important element of mysticism (in the sense of ineffable meaning) in his viewpoint. That side of life, which for Wittgenstein included religion, aesthetics and ethics, does not and cannot proceed from an intellectual basis. It’s much more important than that. However, that element of mysticism, of real religious experience, is what is missing in the radical orthodox. For the radical orthodox the intellectual battle is the heart of things. The primary channel for accessing God is through the intellect; if your understanding is correct, then you will see God. And in putting across this point of view the radical orthodox are aggressively academic, in ways that James has described. This, ultimately, is why they misconstrue Wittgenstein – Wittgenstein does not place the intellect at the centre of what it means to be human, and in a very real sense that is the hallmark of his approach – and to then try and understand him through the lens of intellectual primacy is to be led into the sort of mistakes that Cunningham makes.

Yet the academic method as presently practised in this country, the whole critical apparatus of citation and footnotes and the slow building up of evidence and argument, is the epitome of intellectual primacy, or secular reason as Milbank describes it. It is based upon a distancing of the writer from the concerns being discussed. It is, ultimately, an abstraction. To put it in more classical terms, the academic method is scientia, reason. Whereas faith is about sapientia, wisdom. The two are different, and theology is first and most importantly about the latter. It is something of an irony that the radical orthodox are proclaiming the end of secular reason while still being subservient to its forms.

Another Westcott post. This one doesn’t need to change though 🙂

In 1931 Ludwig Wittgenstein went with his friend Con Drury to sit in the Chapel of Westcott House where Drury had begun training for the priesthood. Drury recalls:

‘We then went and sat for a while in the college chapel. There was no organ in the chapel but instead a piano in the loft. While we were sitting in silence, someone else came in and started to play the piano. Wittgenstein jumped up at once and hurried out. I followed. [He exclaimed] ‘Blasphemy! A piano and the cross. Only an organ should be allowed in a church!’

One hesitates to consider what Wittgenstein would have made of a present day Federation Eucharist. More seriously however, this vignette points up the difficulties that are involved in any attempt to bring together music and the sacred. It is an arena in which strong feelings can be aroused and consequently it is an arena in which strong theology is required.

It would seem as if music has always been associated with worship. We read in Psalm 71: ‘I will also praise thee with the harp for the faithfulness, O my God; I will sing praises to thee with the lyre, O Holy One of Israel. My lips will shout for joy, when I sing praises to thee’ and this brings out the close association between the act of making music and the act of giving praise to God. We know from Acts that when Paul and Silas were imprisoned at Philippi they ‘were praying and singing hymns to God’ which presumably acted to help them sustain their faith. Moving forward we can consider the development of plainchant, which came about in order to help the faithful hear the words of the liturgy which became acoustically confused in large spaces if they were not sung. We then of course have the stunning achievements of Bach’s Mass in B Minor, or Handel’s Messiah, which give exquisite expression to the perspective of faith. In our own time on any particular Sunday we could hear in different churches anything from Victorian hymns to Graham Kendrick choruses to the ambient beat associated with alternative worship. Clearly in our contemporary culture there is a plethora of musical forms from which to choose. The real concern is to establish the grounds which should guide our choice.

The first point to be made is that music is something that reaches very deeply within us as human beings. We can quite literally be moved to tears by a particular melody, or alternatively we can be motivated to achieve victory in battle – think of the use to which martial music has been put, and the development of particular instruments, such as the bagpipes, for this purpose. Of course, we have recently had the striking example of the music used in Diana’s funeral, both Elton John and John Tavener, which served to express some of the powerful feelings which had arisen following her death. Music has developed its own language which can be used to express a vast emotional vocabulary. It is difficult to offer a completely objective and detached analysis of the role of music in worship given this close link with our feeling nature, and this is a theme to which I will return.

As well as this level of emotional response to music there is clearly an intellectual dimension to consider. For example, Bach wrote his forty eight Preludes and Fugues for the Organ in order to ensure that all the musical keys were used, each one having a slightly different character (as a church organist himself doubtless there was also the practical consideration of having more interesting music to play). The overused phrase ‘the harmony of the spheres’ could perhaps be used with some effect here, because the intellectual appreciation of music can become an aesthetic appreciation which can give rise to contemplation of the divine harmony underlying the musical one.

A further level to consider in music is the meditative which has a very popular contemporary form in Taizé chanting. Silence can also be a form of music, and silence can take very different forms according to the musical and liturgical context within which it is placed. The rhythmic and repetitive forms of Gregorian plain chant or Taizé can inculcate a quiet and restful spirit, which has obvious spiritual benefit. As well as these more individual aspects of musical appreciation there is the crucial dimension of community. In singing together, or in making music together, a particular group fosters its corporate identity and songs can develop a sense of fellowship. What we have then is a medium which has profound links to our humanity, in all its aspects: emotional, intellectual, spiritual. It is unsurprising that music has always been part of worship in any community.

This leads to a consideration of ways in which music can be used within a community. This has a number of aspects:

• Firstly, as mentioned above with regard to the development of plainsong, the use of music in worship can allow the ‘content’ of a service to be more effectively absorbed. Within a large church music can allow words to be heard clearly, and it can be used to give dramatic colouring to a service. For example, in a sung Eucharist the fact that there is a sung Alleluia to accompany a gospel procession can enhance the sense that this reading needs to be accepted in a different way to the previous ones, as it is in this context that one encounters the Word of God.
• Following on from this there is the way in which music can encourage a greater retention of, for example, the poetry of a great hymn. I remember once reading about the comfort that a dying man gained from being able to recollect the hymns that were sung in his school when he was a child, and to be able to gain a measure of insight from the theology that was contained in them. Another example may be the use of Christmas carols which are in many instances the principal exposure to church music. It is not an accident that Christmas services are more well attended when one considers the facility and beauty of these hymns. Another aspect of this is that singing can be used to great effect in teaching. It is likely that many of the great books of the Bible were originally preserved in this way as the memory is enhanced by the use of a melodic rhythm.
• A more important use of music, of course, is to enable the expression of the sense of worship within a community. Music provides a way of saying things that cannot be said in words. To refer to Wittgenstein once more, he once said that ‘It has been impossible in my book to say one word of all that music has meant to me in my life. How then can I hope to be understood?’. Music is not simply a means of expressing verbal forms with a greater sense of drama and occasion. It allows for a wider expression of what is within us. There are certain occasions when an emotion can be too deeply held to be expressed in a normal fashion and in these circumstances only music can suffice, Diana’s funeral might be one example. In a very important way music can be seen as a way of enlarging the soul, for it allows the expression of something vital. Foremost amongst this is the desire to praise God, for hereit is perhaps easier to understand how after a time words fail and music must take over. Music should not be considered just for praise however, for as we can see in the Psalms, which represent our oldest hymn book, all of our emotional response needs to be included. In a requiem mass for example, whilst there is of course the need to place everything within the sacred context, there is an overwhelming need to articulate the grief associated with such an event. Similarly, at an infant baptism or a wedding, there would be a need to articulate a sense of joy. Music can allow this to happen. What is important is that the music allow the congregation to speak directly to God, and express what is within their hearts.

However, it is clear that there are dangers involved, and it is to those that I will now turn. There are at least three potential pitfalls that need to be avoided in any use of music in a liturgical context. Clearly a service of worship (or an occasional office) needs to be distinguished from a musical performance, where the focus is on the musical quality of what is done, rather than the liturgical efficacy. In our decadent Anglican culture the receding tide of faith has left the high peaks of our past musical achievement as cultural relics operating in splendid isolation from the faith which gave them sense. The performance of Evensong in King’s College Chapel, to an audience of tourists eager to gain an experience of something quintessentially English, is not necessarily an act of faith. The commercial development of such performances, which reduce this liturgy to a packaged product, is also not something which develops a sense of the sacred. In contrast to this there is the opposite failing of having poor quality music in a liturgical setting. Instead of having an isolated high achievement there is the clinging to the forms of a triumphal church in a context which requires a penitent church. For example to attempt a sung Eucharist where there is a congregation numbering in the low teens, most of whom have no musical training, is to place a blind obeisance to tradition above a pastorally and liturgically sensitive expression of faith. In such a context the echo of a dead faith drowns out the expression of a living one.

My final point relates to a sensitivity to modern cultural forms. In our contemporary state of media saturation most people are highly musically aware, even if that awareness is not an explicit one. By this I mean that the exposure to music of both high quality and diversity has enlarged the musical vocabulary of most people. If we accept that music allows the expression of emotion then I would assert that in their daily life people are offered a very highly developed ability to express themselves. In terms of articulating grief joy, anger or any of a myriad other emotions our present culture allows a very effective and democratic participation. If a person is feeling in a particular way then they can play a particular form of music which will allow them to engage and express those emotions. This development of a broad popular culture has meant that the expectations of a congregation are now significantly different to what they have been in the past, and the mode of musical expression, the musical vocabulary, is now much larger. In such a context it is appropriate to use that vocabulary in a liturgically effective way and not simply attempt to ape such forms in a fatally misguided attempt to become ‘relevant’. The key point here, of course, is what is meant by ‘liturgically effective’ because it is not clear that the ability to express a sense of reverence is equally available.

So far my discussion has been conducted at a very general level, indeed it could be characterised as simply an articulation of theological common sense. I believe, however, that there is a more significant issue with regard to music that needs to be taken account of by our Church, and that relates to the prophetic task of the Church within our present culture. As Walter Brueggemann put it in his text ‘The Prophetic Imagination’ :

‘When the new king rules it is new song time. It has always been new song time when the new king comes and there is no more calling of the skilled mourners who know how to cry on call. The funeral is ended for now it is festival time. It is time for the children and for all who can sing new songs and discern new situations. The old songs had to be sung in the presence of mockers and they were an embarrassment because they spoke about all that had failed. But new song time is a way to sing a new social reality as the freedom songs stood behind every freedom act. The energy comes from the song that will sing Yahweh to his throne and Babylon to her grave. As Abraham Heschel has seen, only people in covenant can sing. New song time is when a new covenant that becomes the beginning for another way of reality is made.’

I believe that in our present context, the church in its prophetic ministry is not simply called to use music in particular ways to express the sense of a worshipping community. It is called to affirm the importance of music as being itself a sign of the Kingdom, which subverts the secular mentality by its very existence. This point will need a little further explanation (!).

We live in a society and culture that is conditioned by a deep division between what is rational (and therefore affirmed by our culture) and what is emotional (and therefore denied by our culture). It would not be appropriate in this essay to explore the way in which this division has wounded our culture and effected a deeply dehumanising and irreligious economic and social reality upon us . My point is this: the role of music in worship needs to be one that affirms and upholds the emotional elements within us, and not just the rational. This leads to the following considerations:

• In worship we affirm our relatedness to God. This is something that is inescapably emotional (and as such this is a subversive act within our present culture). The music that we employ in order to do this more effectively is such that can (done properly) deepen and integrate this emotional reality into our wider life. This can strengthen the faithful to resist the blandishments of what Brueggemann calls the ‘royal consciousness’;
• The key to this royal consciousness, which Brueggemann picks out, is that it denies the reality of suffering, of pathos. The role of any prophetic community is therefore to cut through the numbness that is consequent on the rational/emotional division and to allow an articulation of the grief felt by the excluded. This is something that can best be done in a musical form. The use of music allows a more fully developed expression of the emotional circumstances of the community.
• Consequently, the form of music that is needed by this prophetic community is not one that is primarily amenable to an intellectual or aesthetic appreciation. It is one that will connect with the vitality and feeling nature of the dispossessed, and can articulate their emotional response. The important thing is not necessarily to have music that will satisfy aesthetically so much as to have a musical form that will allow the emotional side an outlet. In this context a Dionysian rite may be more Christian than a choral Evensong.

A consideration of the role of music in worship, therefore, must not only consider the aesthetics and liturgical appropriateness of musical forms. With respect to that the way forward is fairly clear and uncontroversial. What is more important is that the role of music as a prophetic weapon against secular worldliness needs to be acknowledged and embraced. The Devil must not be allowed to have all the best tunes.

This is something I wrote whilst training at Westcott, posted for historical
interest – see also my comments at the end, in case you think I’m losing my
faith!!

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In this essay I shall be arguing that spirituality has indeed changed since the time of Newton and that, whilst spirituality is an inherently dynamic
activity, the changes involved are such as to question the very viability of Christian spirituality. I will begin by outlining the understanding of
spirituality that I will be using in this paper and examining the impact that Newton’s thought had. I will then broaden the scope of my inquiry to talk about the wider changes inaugurated by the scientific revolution (of which Newton is the prime representative), before considering the possibility of a Christian spirituality today. My conclusion will be that a Christian spirituality is possible, but that it is one which has significant differences from its precursors within the tradition.

The definition of spirituality that I will be using is one given by Philip Sheldrake in his Spirituality and Theology: ‘Spirituality is the whole of human
life viewed in terms of a conscious relationship with God, in Jesus Christ, through the indwelling of the Spirit and within the community of believers’ .
Whilst spirituality is something that is difficult to pin down, this definition puts the relationship with God in Christ at the centre of spirituality for the
Christian, and that concern with relationship will be my main consideration here.

In early Christian thought the relationship of the believer to God had the following characteristics . Firstly it was (inevitably) highly Christocentric in focus; secondly it was eschatological, in that believers felt that they were living in the end times; thirdly it was ascetical, in that it concentrated on a development of the virtues; fourthly it was liturgical in that the spirituality was embodied, above all in the Eucharist; and finally it was a communal
activity, in that it was not a way of life that could be experienced by an individual on their own, but only by sharing a common life with others. By the time of the Reformation period this form had undergone massive development in different directions, becoming part of the common cultural fabric of each nation in the West: Christendom. With the wars of religion, however, Christendom began to collapse, and this was the milieu into which Newton was born in 1642.

Isaac Newton was quite possibly the greatest scientist ever to have lived, even though some two-thirds of his writings were not on scientific topics. He was born in Lincolnshire and studied in Cambridge where he was appointed the Lucasian professor of mathematics in 1669. His magnum opus, the Principia Mathematica was published in 1687, and has been described by Stephen Hawking as ‘probably the most important single work to have been published in the natural sciences’. Newton died in 1727. He was responsible for four major developments in our understanding of the natural world. Firstly in optics, he showed that white light could be split into the different parts of the spectrum; secondly he invented the calculus (independently of Liebniz) which he used to investigate nature through mathematical analysis; thirdly he proposed three laws of motion to account for the movement of objects in space; and finally he developed his theory of gravitation which offered a universal account of the way in which matter interacts.

Newton was recognised as a genius within his lifetime, and his influence was widespread; that influence had a malign effect upon Christian spirituality
in three main ways:

a) Firstly in Newton’s world-view there is absolute space and absolute time within which the laws of physics operate. As Angela Tilby has described it, ‘Space and Time now had an absolute status which were linked to God. They provided the boundaries to the universe and ensure its rational character.’ Although there was an unambiguous role for God within the Newtonian system, that God was of a very distinct character, and the consequences for religious life have been significant. As spirituality is concerned primarily with the relationship between believer and God the change in the understanding of God that followed from Newton’s theories had definite spiritual consequences. The role of God within the Newtonian system was primarily to be that of a creator of a system; and that system, whilst it may sometimes need adjustments, could essentially be left to develop on its own. This conception led to the development of deism, the idea that God had created the world but was no longer directly involved in it, and is a direct consequence of Newton’s own Unitarian beliefs.

b) Secondly, the mathematisation of our understanding of the world, particularly through the laws of motion and gravitation, meant that the universe was understood in a predominantly mechanical fashion. This had the consequence of undermining belief in human freedom, for which there was no room within the system: the universe was both wholly material (which undermined belief in the soul, amongst other things) and deterministic. This view also had the corollary of emphasising the role of law in human life, which ultimately led to the great nineteenth century conflicts between science and religion .

c) Finally, a particular effect of this conception was to move the understanding of miracles even further away from the ‘signs’ of, for example, John’s gospel, towards an ‘intervention’ account, ie that God intervenes within the world to change the course of events. These developments worked to undermine the central Christian claim concerning Jesus’ divinity, and, in the long run, were significant factors in the rise of atheism.

However, it would be wrong to lay the responsibility for the rise of atheism (and the undermining of Christian spirituality) entirely at Newton’s feet. Newton, whilst undoubtedly a genius, was a product of his time, and there were deeper changes going on than can be brought out by the focus on this one man. If we therefore take Newton to be the symbol of an age, and ask whether spirituality has changed since that time, then we can begin to see the much more important developments that have happened.

Newton’s mathematisation of the world, which he moved forward massively with his development and use of the calculus, was something that was first developed by Descartes . Indeed, Book 2 of Newton’s Principia was devoted to a detailed examination of Descartes’ own theories of planetary motion. This method stems from Descartes own use of formal analysis in the fields of geometry, meteorology and optics, and was a part of the Cartesian search for certainty in the scholastic category of scientia , which has become modern science. This search for certainty was itself religiously motivated, in that Descartes was horrified by the violence of the thirty years war and wished to establish a way of obtaining knowledge that was open to independent justification . While Newton took forward the application of Cartesian method in the scientific sphere, its application in the sphere of religious belief was taken forward by John Locke who argued that the beliefs that we can hold should be those which can be rationally demonstrated, either by appeal to self-evident first principles, or to empirical evidence. Beliefs must, in either case, be shown to have a rational foundation. A major consequence of this development was the rejection of authority in matters of religious belief, which undermined both the institutions of the church and most visibly the ancien régime in France. It also led directly to the emergence of fundamentalism, in both science and religion.

Whilst the above is a very rapid survey of the changes that took place in Newton’s time it is clear that the consequences for spirituality are very great. I would like to pick out two things in particular. The first is the rejection of authority, and the consequent autonomy of individual opinion. The second is the confidence in human reason as a means to understand the world, with the various consequences that have gone with it. These two elements together can be looked at as characteristic of the scientific mentality, of which Newton was a prime example, and it is this scientific spirit that has had the greatest impact on spirituality. I wish to look at three areas: first, the way our view of the world has been changed, secondly, the way in which traditional forms of Christianity have been undermined, and thirdly the way in which contemporary culture has taken over many of the forms of religious practice.

A different world
It would not be an exaggeration to say that we live in a different world to that of the first Christians. The Ancient view of the universe had the earth at the centre of a Ptolemaic system, with hell beneath the earth and the heavens above. In this environment it made sense, for example, to speak of Jesus rising into heaven or descending into hell. More importantly, there was no sense of radical division between the world and God: God was continually active within the world and this was not something that was seen as a violation, it was simply the way that things were. This understanding is deeply foreign to our post-scientific world view. To begin with, the earth is no longer seen as the centre of the universe. It is seen instead as being a predominantly unremarkable satellite of an average star in the corner of one galaxy in the midst of myriad more. Our sense of the sheer scale of space has changed drastically. In addition, our sense of time has changed. Instead of the earth having existed for some few thousand years, starting from a divine creation, and of which there are records within the Bible, instead the Earth has existed for some four billion years, and the universe itself for some 15 billion years. What is more, not only has the earth existed for this length of time, but there has been life on earth, of the most exotic kinds, for many millions of years, and this life has been punctuated periodically by mass extinctions. The fact that there exists the species homo sapiens is a massive accident (albeit one that, given the scale of the universe, might be described as inevitable). Beyond even this, our geographical and archeological investigations have shown that the Christian religion is highly culturally conditioned, and the advent of historical criticism of the Biblical texts has shown the evolution of belief in Jesus as the Christ. In sum, the traditional Christian claims concerning the uniqueness, centrality and divinity of Jesus have been deconstructed. In the form that they have existed, from c.100AD through to c.1750 AD, they are no longer tenable. In what way can Christian spirituality persist today?

The previous paragraph has described the impact of the scientific mentality on what could be called the ‘scaffolding’ of Christian belief. The answer to the question above might therefore be one that distinguishes the form of Christian belief from the content. In other words, rather as contemporary non-realists do, one might argue that beliefs about the physical universe, or the time that life has existed on earth, are secondary to the practice of faith. The Christian life consists in a certain way of living, a certain way of relating to God which is then embodied in particular practices. While our understanding of God will change as the result of these developments the essence of the faith can be maintained. This answer is open to a number of objections, both in terms of its underestimation of the impact that these developments have, and also its assumption that Christian faith can be ‘privatised’ in this way, but most problematically of all, it ignores the way in which the internal practise of faith has been radically challenged by the scientific mentality, through the development of, in particular, modern medicine and psychology.

Central to the traditional sense of Christian spirituality are the notions of sin, grace and salvation, and implicit within these is the notion of guilt. The impact of the practices of psychotherapy (and also Nietszche) have completely changed our understanding of these personal experiences, such that this new understanding of sin and guilt ‘entails a new view of the God who judges and punishes, the God who saves and has mercy, the God from whom we beg pity and pardon, and whose goodness and grace we sing’. The overwhelming sense of personal inadequacy that was experienced by, for example, Luther is not something that would be experienced in the same way today. Whilst it may be true, as Jung implied, that ultimately all psychotherapeutic problems are resolved by spiritual means, it is also the case that the overwhelming sense of personal worthlessness that Luther worked through would now be first considered a case for therapy and then possibly psychiatric intervention. (This is not to say that this practice is correct, only that this is the way in which these problems are viewed). In a similar fashion our attitudes to the closest and most typically human experiences, for example of our sexual life or the fact of our eventual death have changed completely in the light of the scientific mentality. Whereas it might be claimed that this is a distorted expression of Christianity, in practice the dominant impression of Christian thought has been that sexuality is inferior to celibacy, and the monastic life was held as the ideal. This Stoic conception is now rightly held to be pathological. In a similar fashion, the understanding of death has been altered out of recognition by the impact of modern medicine and the increase in longevity that it has brought about (at least in the rich countries of the West). Whereas it used to be a universal experience that childbirth was inherently fraught with risk, such that the risk of death for the infant in the first five years of life was roughly 50%. As Pohier writes: ‘Because it primarily affected children and young adults, death necessarily seemed to be an accident, a brutal, unjust and unnatural break with life.’ Whereas now, the death of a child or young person is experienced as something which is in principle avoidable, and such deaths lead to the reaction that something has gone wrong. Furthermore, as more people live to the ‘natural’ end of their lives, the fact of death itself is now seen as an inevitable part of the human life cycle, one that is to be welcomed in its proper place. Thanks to evolutionary studies we now understand that our form of life would itself not be possible without death.

More than anything else, however, the practice of prayer, particularly intercessionary prayer, within contemporary Christianity is under siege. Whereas it may once have made sense in both physical and moral terms to pray for a particular event to happen, it is no longer morally credible that there is a particular divine response to prayer that has an effect other than on the person praying. Or, to put it another way, an interventionist theodicy is not possible after Auschwitz. As Ivan Karamazov puts it, ‘What good can hell do if they have already been tortured to death?…We cannot afford to pay so much for admission’.

The undermining of the Christian world view
We can see, therefore, that the impact of the scientific mentality is profound, both in terms of the framework of beliefs and the way in which our lives are experienced. I would like to develop this point by looking at particular elements of Christian spirituality, in three of the five areas outlined at the beginning of this essay:

1. The understanding of Jesus: if we look at the traditional understanding of Jesus then it becomes clear that this perception has irrevocably broken down. What John Robinson called the ‘traditional orthodox supernaturalism’, which saw Jesus as a divine emissary, is no longer acceptable, as much on theological grounds as on an acceptance of scientific developments . To claim that Jesus was the Son of God begs many more questions than it answers – what do you mean by God? What do you mean by Son of God? Is it the same as what Jesus meant? (And did he in fact use the term?) Whilst a cogent case may be made for seeing Jesus as divine the way that this is understood is a significant step from, eg, ‘He took our flesh and our flesh became God, since it is united with God and forms a single entity with him…Here below he is without a father; on high he is without a mother’ . Beyond this, the understanding of Jesus’ resurrection changes with our understanding of death: in what way does death need to be conquered if it is seen as a necessary and beneficial element of creation? As Pohier points out, throughout the history of Christianity, belief in the resurrection has often functioned to suppress a pathological fear of death. If nothing else, the popular forms of devotion to Jesus are incompatible with a contemporary Western cast of mind.
2. It is indisputable that early Christianity was formed within an eschatological framework that accepted an imminent end to the world. Whilst the crisis of this non-event was surmounted as Christianity developed, its presence still erupts occasionally with outbreaks of millenarianism, and in the practices of cults such as Jehovah’s Witnesses. Furthermore, it is clear that this had a profound effect on Christian teaching (eg Paul on marriage) which cannot simply be removed without consequence from the practice of the faith. Although the expectation of an imminent end to the world has been ‘indefinitely postponed’ the greater awareness we have of geological time makes the notion of a God that would act in such a way massively problematic, and this also has consequences for Christian teaching. If we don’t expect God to act in this way with us, does this give us greater freedom within the world? What becomes of the notion of judgment? And even if such a God did act in this way, is it a conception of God that we can love (ie find in any way morally admirable)?
3. As hinted at above, the practice of early Christianity focused on living in a particular way, particularly given an eschatological horizon, but even once this had been surpassed the dominant conception of Christian virtue (ascetical practices) requires overhaul. If we focus on the monastic vows (poverty, chastity and obedience) which were held to be exemplary for the Christian, then each can now be broken down. In a world where each purchase has direct economic and political consequences the vow of poverty is a refusal to be engaged in the struggles of the world (one might even describe it as anti-incarnational) and is a letting go of individual responsibility. This might be thought a good thing for the spiritual development of the individual (and certainly possessive materialism needs to be countered) but to leave the world to the big battalions of the military-industrial complexes and to leave the broad mass of humanity embedded in structural sin is not a straightforwardly positive act. Questions of sexuality were treated earlier, suffice to say that whilst a true calling to celibacy can be a genuine gift from God, the idea that we are called to renounce our sexuality (with the historical consequence that it becomes a source of shame) in the name of Christ is a pathology (and is also un-Biblical). Finally, the question of obedience is again not something that can simply be embraced as virtuous. Whilst it is true that the vow of obedience allows for the exercise of the individual conscience, while releasing the person concerned from worries about too many worldly matters (and serving to combat the sin of pride), in the aftermath of Nüremberg one must question the mentality that makes this sort of vow desirable. Whilst it can be made to be something that enhances the Christian life this ceding of authority runs counter to the democratic spirit which emphasises individual responsibility: obedience per se is no longer possible as a virtue.

Substitutes for Christianity
According to ‘The Independent’: ‘The real priests of the future are scientists, as they have been since the Industrial Revolution’ . Whilst such a comment shows an absurd ignorance of the nature of priesthood it does point up the widespread way in which the clothing of religious truth has been usurped by the scientific establishment. This has gone so far that Paul Davies is able to claim that ‘In my opinion science offers a surer path to God than religion’. According to Richard Dawkins, ‘Intelligent life on a planet comes of age when it first works out the reason for its own existence…Darwin made it possible for us to give a sensible answer… We no longer have to resort to superstition when faced with the deep problems: Is there a meaning to life? What are we for? What is man?’ . The way in which scientists have begun to usurp the traditional role of the church in terms of being a bearer of transcendent values is something that has been exposed quite well by Mary Midgley. These scientists are attempting to clothe their work with some of the lustre of religious truth, purveying the message that in science it is possible to find salvation. Certainly some of the best of scientific writing does work to satisfy the ‘Immortal Longings’ that we have as human beings, in that it allows a sense of something beyond our immediate understanding, but when it does so it is operating at the level of metaphysics, not science. Contemporary Christians therefore live in a world in which there is a dominant culture claiming to provide many of the traditional Christian benefits, eg salvation and relationship with the divine.

Another fundamental way in which the culture has changed is in terms of the competition for attention, and the way in which that attention is fixed. For example, in medieval times a high mass would have been radically distinct from normal life: instead of being in cramped conditions, you would be in a place of space and light; instead of being surrounded by foul odours there would be incense; instead of cacophony there would be sacred music. All of this would have enhanced the experience of worship as being a way of connecting with God. In contrast, in the contemporary world, the situation is reversed: in the world there is uplifting architecture, in church you are cramped and cold; in the world there is a variety of entertainment and stimulation of high and developing quality, in a church there is obscure amateurism; in the world there are a thousand sources of inspiration, in the church there are often none; in the world, especially, there is an acceptance and celebration of the body (eg in dancing) whereas the church is a remarkably disembodied experience. The way in which people experience cultural events has changed drastically, and consequently, even if, for example, a eucharistic liturgy faithfully follows the pattern laid down by history, the way in which it is experienced is markedly different. The same words and actions now have a different meaning, for the context is different.

The practical consequence of this for Christian spirituality is that we are returned to a pagan culture, but a pagan culture which is in many ways superior to the spiritual experience of Christianity, and one in which (it is believed that) Christianity has been tried and found wanting. In my concluding remarks I would like to offer a few brief comments about the way in which a viable Christianity can be proclaimed in such an environment.

The possibility of kerygma after Newton
At the heart of Christian spirituality is the relationship between the faithful and a God revealed in Jesus Christ. We have seen that our understanding of all the parties to that relationship has changed: ourselves, our God and the person of Jesus himself. In such a context it is inevitable that the relationship will need to express itself in new forms. It seems to me that there is a possibility of proclaiming the gospel in this new situation (it does, after all, bear many resemblances to the situation that the early church found itself in) but that the proclamation will have to begin by letting go of some cherished elements. The following are some suggested lines of development:

a) Firstly a focus on Jesus as one who reveals the nature of God. This should not be expressed in the terms conditioned by Jewish history and Greek metaphysics, ie to claim that Jesus is the Son of God, as that situates the kerygma in an abandoned cultural context, but perhaps a re-interpretation of Logos theology, concentrating on Jesus as the purpose of God revealed in human form, would be more easily digestible today.

b) Secondly, the liturgical practice of the Eucharist, in which we meet the character of Jesus and absorb his teaching, is essential, once we can rid it of the metaphysical and cultic baggage that has accrued to it in the last thousand years .

c) Thirdly, the autonomy of modern human culture, and the extent of control possible to it, needs to be recognised and affirmed theologically (and therefore given direction). Whilst there is still scope for a doctrine of divine judgment we do not live in an environment where it makes sense (either theologically or scientifically) to expect divine action to resolve our problems. I think that this is a corollary of both the ‘dominion’ bestowed in Genesis 1 and also our adoption as children of God (see Romans 8 and 1 John).

d) Finally, the concentration on orthodoxy (radical or otherwise), so prevalent within Christianity thanks to (amongst other things) the nature of the papacy and the rise of evangelical fundamentalism, needs to be countered by a lived emphasis upon the nature of Christianity as a way of life, which has certain results. As Wittgenstein put it: ‘Christianity is not a doctrine, not, I mean, a theory about what has happened and will happen to the human soul, but a description of something that actually takes place in human life. For ‘consciousness of sin’ is a real event and so are despair and salvation through faith. Those who speak of such things (Bunyan for instance) are simply describing what has happened to them, whatever gloss anyone may want to put on it.’

In this essay I have tried to make as strong a case as possible for the changes that have taken place since Newton, and indicate the effect that they have had on spirituality. Primarily that effect has been a corrosive one – the form and content of Christian faith have been changed irrevocably by the scientific revolution. However, there is a clear distinction between the historical practice of Christian faith and the claims of the Christian gospel, and I am confident that the creation still waits with eager longing for the glorious liberty of the children of god.

Bibliography of works cited
Jordan Aumann, Christian Spirituality in the Catholic Tradition, Ignatius Press, 1985
Olivier Clément, The Roots of Christian Mysticism, New City, 1993
Paul Davies, God and the New Physics, Penguin, 1990
Richard Dawkins, The Selfish Gene, 2nd Ed, OUP 1989
Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Penguin Classics, 1958
Stephen Jay Gould, Wonderful Life, Penguin, 1989
Mary Midgley, Science as Salvation, Routledge, 1992
Catherine Pickstock, After Writing, Blackwell, 1998
Jaques Pohier, God in Fragments, SCM, 1985
John Robinson, Honest to God, SCM, 1963
Philip Sheldrake, Spirituality and Theology, Darton, Longman and Todd, 1998
Angela Tilby, Science and the Soul, SPCK, 1992
Stephen Toulmin, Cosmopolis, University of Chicago Press, 1990
Rowan Williams, The Wound of Knowledge, Darton Longman and Todd, 1979
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, Blackwell, 1980
Nicholas Wolterstorff, John Locke and the Ethics of Belief, Cambridge University Press, 1996

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There is a lot in this essay that I would now renounce – it is striking a) how far I have come, and b) how the depression I was experiencing at the time (January 1999) comes through in what I wrote (maybe only I can hear it). I was very influenced by Jacques Pohier, whom I read then – and eventually moved away from. What now comes to mind is how trapped in a Modernist frame of reference I was – particularly with regard to eschatology and the supernatural. Another post on that to follow shortly.

I’ve been exploring Johnny Cash a lot over the last year, since being given American Recordings 1-4 by a mate (thanks Al). In the last few weeks though, I’ve watched the film, read his autobiography and Dave Urbanski’s ‘The Man Comes Around’ – and been listening to American Recordings 5 & two live albums. So, some various thoughts from all that.

1. That voice!

2. I’m very interested in songs about life, the human voice detailing human experience. I see the singing voice as more basic than the spoken voice, the latter being derived (and in some ways diminished) from the former. The folk song tradition – of which Johnny Cash is an inheritor – is something I’d like to explore.

3. Singing as such is on my mind a lot at the moment (see here). I might even start taking lessons to play the guitar.

4. Picking cotton – that is what oil has saved us from. Peak Oil looks even grimmer on reading about the life he grew up with.

5. The film was good, but I wanted it to explore more about his religious faith, which was only really hinted at. The Urbanski book goes a little way to meeting that need, but it is the autobiography that says much more. I am very intrigued about a) his closeness with Billy Graham, and b) the film that he made about Jesus.

6. I’m also intrigued at the gospel songs he has recorded, which I am probably going to have to obtain somehow. Some of my favourite songs of his are the religious ones (Man Comes Around, Personal Jesus – and yes I know that the latter is a cover version of an Essex band original).

7. “I’m not one of those public personalities who ‘can’t’ go to the movies with everyone else. I walk the streets and shop in the stores and buy my movie tickets at the box office. People don’t ‘leave me alone’. They recognize me, and when I’m standing in line we talk, and if they want an autograph I give them one. Then we all say ‘bye and go watch the movie. Of course, if I’d turned out to be Elvis or Marilyn Monroe, or Michael Jackson or Madonna, I might not want to do things that way. Comparatively speaking, being Johnny Cash isn’t that tough a job.”

BBC NEWS | World | Asia-Pacific | China acts on funeral strippers:

As China moves past the US as #1 world power, we can expect all sorts of Chinese influences to work their way around the world…

Jason Clark » “Where have all the good men gone..?”: “I’m a man and I really value church but I find myself agreeing that I am not very engaged by it. The most engaging thing about church this morning for me was arranging to go out on friday to drink Guinness and talk theology with another man.”

What does it mean for my vocation that I can really identify with this sentiment??? (and with much of the post)

I’m back, thoroughly refreshed.

Lots of blogs to write.

“The commonly held understanding of hell remains trapped within the apocalyptic imagination, that is, it is the result of a violent separation between the good and the evil worked by a vengeful god. It seems to me that if hell is understood thus, we have quite simply not understood the Christian faith…”

(James Alison, Living in the End Times)

In Remarks on Colour, §317, Wittgenstein writes: “When someone who believes in God looks around him and asks ‘Where did everything that I see come from?’ ‘Where did everything come from?’, he is not asking for a (causal) explanation; and the point of his question is that it is the expression of such a request. Thus, he is expressing an attitude towards all explanations. —But how is this shown in his life? It is the attitude that takes a particular matter seriously, but then at a particular point doesn’t take it seriously after all, and declares that something else is even more serious. Someone may for instance say it’s a very grave matter that such and such a man should have died before he could complete a certain piece of work; and yet, in another sense, this is not what matters. At this point one uses the words ‘in a deeper sense.’”

This is something that I would like to have read at my funeral.

FEMME MENTALE / San Francisco neuropsychiatrist says differences between women’s and men’s brains are very real, and the sooner we all understand it, the better: “Thoughts about sex enter women’s brains once every couple of days; for men, thoughts about sex occur every minute. Women use 20,000 words per day; men use 7,000 per day.”

Fascinating. (HT Arts and Letters Daily)

In our gospel reading today, we have the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain. Jesus and three disciples, Peter James and John, ascend the mountain, rising up into the heavens both literally and metaphorically. And Jesus is transformed in their sight, so that his glory is revealed. He is joined by Moses and Elijah, representing the law and the prophets, whom Jesus is unifying in his own person. And you are free to imagine the heavenly choirs of angels singing, for this is a foretaste of the glory of the resurrection: Jesus is revealed in his true nature, the light shining in the darkness.

Today – paradoxically – I would like to begin by saying something about the darkness – for being exposed to the blinding light of Christ can be painful – imagine waking up, opening the curtains and having the sun shine straight in your face – if you’re not expecting it it dazzles, it hurts the eyes. Or even walking along the beach recently, in the middle of a summers day – brightness hurts the eyes. It’s why we use sunglasses. What I’m trying to get at is something which has been understood within the Christian tradition from the very beginning – that sometimes the light hurts, and sometimes people turn away from the light.

So now it is time for the Rector to come out – this has been growing on me for quite some time as my experience compels me to consider it – amd now I’m going public – I believe in hell! But this does need a little unpacking – two ways in particular:

The first way that I would like to unpack a little relates to our present choices, for the language of hell can rapidly become a spiritual burden. Sin is not the sun around which the Christian system circles, indeed, for the Christian, sin is always fighting a losing battle. More than that, a focus on sin tends to lead to self-obsession, and we presume too much responsibility onto our own shoulders – Jesus said ‘come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light’. We never earn our way to salvation – nothing undermines the truth of God’s grace – but grace enters in when we recognise the truth that Christ is Lord of heaven and earth – when we see him transfigured, as both human and divine – it is the light that sets us free, to concentrate on the promise of the kingdom, of life in all its fullness.

The second thing is that an exclusive concern with ‘eternal consequences’ is wrong, that is, thinking of hell as something which only kicks in after we die. Hell is part of life in the present as well as life to come – just as the kingdom is something that is breaking in upon us at this very moment, so too is hell, and some people endure hell in this life – I’m sure you can all think of examples. And it is this very present-day sense which I think Jesus was concerned with, as often as not. Let us not get too distracted with the literal language of fiery furnaces and torments etc. The Inuit have an understanding of hell that sees it as being incredibly cold; whereas middle eastern cultures saw it as incredibly hot – because in each case what was associated with hell was what destroyed life. It is not the imagery itself that is crucial so much as the underlying reality – that what we do matters, that it is of eternal significance – and that the consequences of a wrong life are indeed terrifying and horrible. Jesus uses the language of gehenna – the rubbish tip outside of Jerusalem – also place of child sacrifice – represents all that is opposite to God, opposite to kingdom.

The thing is that this language of hell offends against some modern sensibilities – the idea that we are all victims, so really nobody deserves to go to hell – in part that’s sentimental nonsense, in part it is simply a biblical insight – Ps 130 “If you, LORD, were to note what is done amiss, O Lord, who could stand?” – we cannot judge where people are, but it is possible to turn away from the light, to refuse the truth – and the consequences of that are painful, in this life and in the next. That is what I understand hell to be – and I don’t believe it is possible to believe in the kingdom without also believing in gehenna

For this language does describe the concrete outcomes in our lives – revelation 20.12: we will be ‘judged according to our deeds’. Again, this is not about earning salvation – the point is that salvation is something present and real and shareable within this life – it is not just pie in the sky when we die – it is the bearing of fruit that will last. The point about hell is that hell too is present and real and shareable in this life – and in the life to come – the righteous works of the faithful, which Revelation refers to, are the working out in them of the light of Christ, in whose image we are made; in other words, the process of sanctification – when we are transfigured, when we become the creatures of light that is God’s intention for us.

Because that is the positive side – today talked about the darkness, but only because of the light is that revealed – God is light and in him there is no darkness at all – the disciples have the windows opened and they see the glory of God revealed in the face of a human being. They are able to see this glory because they have fallen in love with Jesus. That is what makes them disciples – they love the Lord, they have responded to his call, their hearts are on fire with love for him. They see the truth, and they accept the truth.

That is our calling too. For the miracle of the transfiguration isn’t just that it reveals who Jesus is. The transfiguration is something which happens in us. We are the ones who are transfigured – if we see the face of Christ revealed then the face of Christ within our deepest selves wakes up and seeks expression too. If we accept the pain of turning towards the light – if we allow God’s searching light to reach in to our innermost hearts and unearth all the things which disfigure and wound our souls – then God will work with us – the grace of God will go before us and help us share in his glory. For remember what St Paul writes – the creation waits with eager longing for the glorious liberty of the children of God. That’s us. That’s you and me here and now. Glory is what we were made for, Glory is what we are called to, Glory is what we most want to be.

We do still have a choice, a freedom to choose between sleep and wakefulness. The world would like us to sleep – to continue to spend our days working all the hours God sends, to raise the money to pay the bills which keep the wheels in motion. To spend our time consuming – and that need not involve too much time spent in the shops. To not pay any attention to what comes for free in life. To pay attention to our wants and desires rather than our needs. That is to sleepwalk through this life, to not notice the things that are truly important, to fall into a rut of comfortable habits, safe from the bracing fresh air of reality. To stay within our tents. To not see the light.

This is not the life that God has planned for us. For God sent his Son in order that we might see the light, that we might start to share in the glory that is promised to us on a mountainside, on a hill far away. Then – and only then – we might start to take responsibility for this glorious world we have inherited, and work to make God’s glory manifest in the world. If we let God do his work, if we don’t try and capture it in forms that we feel comfortable with, if we hold fast to the light that has been revealed to us – then we shall see God, and we will truly be his children.