Last night I handed my PhD thesis over to my supervisor. In theory this means I have crossed the threshold from darkness into light – I am now exiting the cave. What comes next? I’m not sure, I know at some point in the not too distant future there is somethign called “the submission” followed by something else called “the defence” but I long ago gave up trying to get a clear plan, a succinct vision of how this thing works from my University.

This morning for the first time in quite a few weeks, I did my morning trawl, not thinking about the thesis, not dreading that stack of paper 7cm thick sitting next to me shrieking for attention. This morning I could (and have) rest, and think about other things, other possibilities.

A few weeks ago I ordered Rob Angus Jones’ book Independent Sacramental Bishops: Ordination, Authority, Lineage and Validity I’ve been looking forward to sitting down and reading this. My scan through suggests that it is well done, and thoughtful.

I have a stack of other books that have sat there, patiently quietly waiting to be loved, and read. Its all theology (of course) but more importantly it is NOT a thesis.

I have half baked, partially chewed morsels of various research and writing projects (most of an indie nature) sitting quietly in the background of my hard-drive – now, perhaps some of these can be dusted off, and re-visited.

It is amazing how something that you envisioned working one way, and that worked in a completely different way, can be so disruptive, destructive even. But I’m standing before that fine line that shift in colour that is the border between the cave, and the filtered light of the green forest. I can hear birds, and a brook, and I can even see flowers. They are also NOT the thesis.

So this morning for the first time in weeks I could sit down and do my morning trawl. Ever since the origin of this blog I spend a little time each day looking through religious news feeds and other sites of interest to see if anything inspires a post from an OC/IC point of view.

I have often asked what exactly is that point of view – what is our point of reference. And today is not different. Visiting a couple of my favourite sites on simple/eco/creative living I’ve noticed perhaps for the first time that many of them have “manifestos” that is a small set of ideas that serve as a launch pad for action, what we in the “pray-trade” would call praxis.

The Anglicans have a manifesto – the 39 articles – the Lutherans too. In the 19th century the Old Catholic movement had a manifesto as well. But here we are the proverbial ugly step-sister of the Old Catholic movement, and over 100 years later, perhaps it is time to evaluate our ethos, our reason for being, and deliberately, thoughtfully consider a renewed manifesto.

My question then is – what points of reference, what diving boards of praxis would you include in your “Indie Manifesto” and why? I can think of a few but would rather not influence the outcome so am asking you to speak up first (grin).

Last night I began reading Alan Jacobs’ Original Sin A Cultural History. This should be an interesting journey. I’m making a concerted effort to wrestle with an idea, a concept, a theory of the human condition that has fascinated and horrified me ever since I first learned about it.

To my mind, Augustine’s theory of “Original Sin” is so antithetical to the teaching of the Gospels, and the later writings of the fathers as to be . . . . well . . . heretical actually. As I understand it, Augustine says that we are all guilty, that we are all condemned, we are all naturally evil.

I’m sure there is a nuance there that I’m missing but allow me to play with this “recieved” interpretation for a moment.

The problem is that this sets us up spiritually, psychologically, and communally, for failure. It starts from an extremely negative view of the human condition, making us, all of us, bear the guilt of Adam and Eve’s misadventure in the garden.

Traditional explanations for the Fall tell us a different story. Adam & Eve were decieved, they were tricked, and then poisoned, or infected, as such they were made subjects of Death and his oppression, rather than Life, and his liberation. We do not bear their “guilt” rather, because they set a series of events into motion, we are faced with the challenges presented by the consequences of that event.

As I begin this journey to once again attempt to understand this particular theory of Augustine’s – which has had a significant (negative) impact on Western Christian theology for centuries, I’m curious as to how other indie folk – particularly western rite indie folk, assimliate this “doctrine” into our otherwise (largely) very liberal tradition. Do you accept Augustine’s theory? If so how does this impact the theology and praxis of you and your community?

Last week my office was re-decorated. It was about time too. I’d never changed the colour of the walls which as you can see were a nausiating “Crayola Sunshine Yellow”. Preparing for the arrival of the decorator I had to empty the room in which I spend so much of my time. The bird had to come out, my books, my table, cushions, laptop – everything. At the end I paused to reflect on the emptiness of my room in the morning sun.

We often think of emptiness as a negative space – a lack, an absence of something important. It was interesting, even energising however, to take a moment and enjoy the moment of emptiness not as a “lack” of something but as “potential”, a joyful leap into the unknown.

If you’ve not already noticed I’ve been editing my thinking on the “spiritual but not religious” idea as I go along. Looking at the conversation developing here, as well as thinking about various tangents (thus my first post on it here).

Thanks to Sam Urfer I’m quoting from the Onion:

“Father Clancy Donahue of St. Michael Catholic Church told reporters Wednesday that while he believed in blindly adhering to the dogma and ceremonies of his faith, he tried not to get too bogged down by actual spirituality. “I’m not so much into having a relationship with God as I am into mechanically conducting various rituals,” Donahue said. “To me, it just feels empty to contemplate a higher power without blindly obeying canon law and protecting the church as an institution.” Donahue emphasized that although he did not personally agree with those who pondered the eternal, he had nothing against them.”

Funny as this is it hits the mark when it comes to thinking about a definition of “religious” and “spiritual”. Is being religious merly thoughtless ritualism? Is being spiritual all about the ethereal, the intangible elements of relating?

Working on my PhD thesis I had to come up with a sensible “working definition” for “cult” and “devotion” and was surprised at how difficult it was largely because there is so much overlap between them that a cut and dried, black and white definition becomes rather awkward. If the same can be said of “spiritual” and “religious” does the description “spiritual but not religious” have any concrete meaning?

Surely there is a Venn Diagram for this somewhere (grin).

Thinking about this possible overlap reminds me of a study published last year about the nature of people’s belief and participation in Christian faith communities. I’m afraid I cannot remember who did the study – I think it was Pew. One of the interesting features of contemporary Christian belief is that most people believe that Christianity is not the only way to God, and that many people draw on the practices and ideas of other non-Christian faith traditions. Based on the tongue in cheek definition kindly provided by the Onion; does this mean that a significant portion of the body of Christian faithful are more “spiritual” than they are “religious”?

Finally, following the same “working” definition. I wonder should I switch from describing myself as “faithful” to “spiritual AND religious”? I value the intangible sense of intimacy with the Divine, and I participate in, indeed perform the rituals of the cult of Christ.

This little “sapling” of a conversation deserves more than its getting.

Looking at not only my own initial response on Twitter, as well as the response of others (see previous post) I’m realising that these two words are very “loaded”. Huw, rightly observes that the underlying question remains unanswered – what is our working definition of “spiritual”? What is our working definition of “religious”?

But here’s the caveat to those questions – can we define them without reference to the ongoing liberal vs. conservative war within and among faith communities? If we do succeed what affect does this have on the self description “spiritual but not religious”? Honestly, I’m not sure I have a definition – at least not yet – that is not consciously, or unconsciously rooted in the existing loaded nature of “spiritual” and “religious”.

Can I throw a spanner in the works here and ask – is there a difference between “religious” and “being faithful”? I ask this because it is how I often describe myself. It seems to me that to describe one self as being faithful is to actively divorce one self from the liberal vs. conservative, us vs. them, divisions.

Last week my friend and fellow Indie-Easterner Huw posed this question on Twitter: “Define ‘Spiritual but not religious’.” My initial response encompassed two ideas that I’ve encountered over the years from a significant number of people who describe themselves as being “spiritual but not religious”. First is the idea that the “institution” of religion impedes communion with God. Second that “dogma” or “doctrine” also impedes communion with God. Both of these themes have some very interesting problems. For example, people who describe themeselves as “spiritual but not religious” and go on to discuss their dissatisfaction at what they percieve to be the overly dogmatic nature of religous communities – frequently go on to make very clear statements of belief (doctrine) themselves. Opening the jar of questions about what do we know, and what do we percieve about the collection of teaching involved in a particular religious identity or praxis.

Huw uncovered an article from First Things “Spirituality Without Spirits” while a bit of a rant – makes an interesting point about the quality of being “non-dogmatic” in relation to also being “spiritual but not religious”:

“I don’t think Ms. Gaga or anyone else who talks like this has really thought it through. That God who forgives everyone and excludes no one doesn’t object to debauches in Berlin sex clubs. A point in his favor, from one point of view. But then he doesn’t object to murderers and torturers and corrupt bankers either. A point in his favor from no one’s point of view.”

Miller (the author) makes a fine point when he later says: “The word “spiritual” has no useful meaning if it does not refer to a relation to a real spirit. . . ” This is very true of course because that spirit necessarily has an identity, one which demands a particular relational mode, and that in turn shapes and informs the individual relating to it – just as all of our relationships shape and inform us as individuals.

In this morning’s news trawl I happened across another article this time in the Telegraph reporting that Mark Hucknull, the Chancellor of Lincoln Cathedral (a fantastic English cathedral by the way), criticises the “spiritual but not religous” crowd as selfish:

“To say that ‘I’ am ‘spiritual’ here is on a par with saying that ‘I’ am patient or thoughtful or generous; it is a description that is all about ‘me’.”

In truth this is not an unfair criticism. Think about the two themes already mentioned – the underlying issue in both is a desire to not be accountable, to not be challenged, and to not be expected to do X or Y in conjunction with one’s religious identity and praxis.

I’m aware that I’ve over-taken my usual 300 or so word limit so please bear with me just a few lines more, as I tie this into an OC/IC context. Ihave often heard indie folk, clergy and laity alike insist on being “non-dogmatic” or “non-doctrinal” – in essence “spiritual but not religious” the reasons given are that they endured the abuses of the “institutional church” and its imposition of doctrine through the activity of church officials. But It seems to me that they have run to the exact opposite extreme. The extremes at both ends are heretical as St. Epiphanius says in the Panarion.

“Spiritual but not religious” has had a lasting impact on the shape of the indie community over the past 20 years at least – one effect of this has been the simple fact that indie communities are fickle because people are afraid of committment, and they are afraid to call one another to account – because it might make them unpopular, and thereby shrink the “numbers” within the community. The problem with this model is that there is no integrity in it. Many people who convert – who become OC/IC believers do so because they are seeking a stronger connection between the integrity of the community and the practice of their sacramental Christian faith. “Spiritual but not religous” – non-dogmatic, simply does not cut it.

Have a look at the two articles, and maybe follow the sapling exchange of this thread on Twitter, but certainly add your thoughts to the comments below here.

Here in the UK the Guardian has a regular column called “Bad Science” which exposes . . . well, “bad” science, pseudo science, and “popular science” ideas – like homeopathy. Maggi Dawn has suggested on her blog the brilliant idea of a “Bad Theology” column. So what bad theologies, or pseudo theological ideas would you include, and why?

I just realised this morning that we’ve been working on this project, we call the “Theo-blog” for four years and . . .one month (well 4 years, 1 month, and 3 days) now. Happy birthday blog!

When I started this experiment back in April 2006 I never imagined that it would have the staying power that it has had. Why? Because blogging is fickle and most blogs are created, and abandoned within the first year or so (at least that’s what I’ve read) – and I did not expect that our effort here would be any different from “the norm” in this regard. Try it, see what happens, learn from it, maybe make some new connections with other interested folk and move on. That was the attitude I had coming into this.

So has it worked?

Well, yes, after a fashion. Through the connections we’ve made we’ve made new contacts in the Indie community. Through the process of writing, reflecting, and engaging with others doing the same thing about the same topics I’ve come to better understand the “why” and the “process” of some elements of theology and the history of the OC/IC movement. It has also occasionally made me think about things in entirely new ways, as well as changing my mind on long held assumptions.

So here’s to another four years, one month and three days . . .

It’s finally here – today is “clean monday”, the fast has begun. So here’s the question: what is “the fast” all about anyway?

Athanasius writing in the fourth century said that a bit of moderate asceticism was useful for everyone – not just ascetics (read – monks, virgins, nuns and vowed widows). But the age of “asceticism” which has played an enormous role in shaping Christian praxis – is ostensibly over (something lamented by fifth and sixth century writers). Does this mean that the Great Fast no longer has purpose?

The fast before Pascha has taken on a life of its own – originating in an act of solidarity with those preparing for baptism it has grown from a one week communal event to a 50 day extravaganza. This is not a bad thing – rather it is simply the natural progression this practice took.

Similarly – in modern practice at least – many of the “mini lents” that preceded the major feast days are no longer observed – instead our communal act of asceticism and solidarity has been collected, sorted, and sunk into “Great Lent”. Are we not perhaps missing out on a valuable opportunity for re-investing in personal and communal praxis?

Stepping away from the mechanics of the when, and how of fasting – lets look at the connection between the act of fasting and the theology of food, and the relationship we as sacramental Christians have with food, and with one another through the symbolism of foods and eating. Without looking in your copy of the Gospels – recall some of the major “it” moments in the Gospels: the wedding at Cana, the feeding of the multitude, dining with Zaccheus, Jesus annointed by the woman with the alabaster jar, the last supper, the revealation on the road to Emmeus . . . Each of these major moments in the unfolding of the Salvation narrative happened in the context of a meal – of sharing food. Food, the act of eating together and alone has theological value in sacramental Christianity. If you missed that, what were you doing when you last went to liturgy?

But “food” and eating is something we in Western Europe often take for granted – it is unconsciously separted from our experience of the sacred. We rush out to grab a sandwich or a take-away during the working day – in order to inhale it at our desk, and continue ploughing through work. We attend lavish balls and parties because it is an expression of the host’s largesse (read – wealth and self importance), and it gives us a notch on the bed-post of our own accumulated status. Food is a means to an end, a means of aquiring status, but it has no overt or intrinsic link with our spirituality in day to day affairs. Periods of “fasting” throughout the liturgical year then can help us re-tune that link, restore awareness of the value and meaning of choosing, preparing, and eating a meal. Cooking and eating as praxis – who would have thought!

Revisiting the idea of solidarity for a moment – many of us are increasingly aware of how our consumer choices are having an impact on the environment, and on others. The recent mad dash for bio-fuel has meant that poor nations seeking to reap the immediate benefits of a cash crop switch from food production that is consumed locally, to crop production which is then taken away in exchange for money. The problem of course is that when you are no longer producing your own food – you have to buy it, possibly from a more expensive, non-local source. Throughout the Great Fast we can take the opportunity to choose differently, and in so doing perhaps make a positive contribution to those who have fewer choices available. This by the way ought not to be taken as a replacement for our duty to give alms during Lent.

For the reasons of solidarity with others, of re-investing in the relationship between food and praxis, I’ve wondered out loud for the past few years if it would not be better to resurrect the older model of multiple mini-fasts throughout the year. This would have the effect (in theory at least) of developing a year round awareness, and praxis rather than the mad dash to cram an enormous amount of meaning and activism into one month.

Have a look at this vid of behavioral economist Dan Ariely describing an interesting experiment involving fake fashion – you know the ones – you find “Gucci”, “Prada” handbags and sunglasses being sold for £5 at street vendors all over London. In the experiment he discovers that wearing fake fashion items seems to . . . . “empower” the owner/wearer to cheat more – to be less honest.

Hmmmm . . . .

I find this all rather interesting. Firstly I find the desire for, the need to buy “fake” anything – let alone “fashion” items fascinating. It is the search for status (often unnecessary status), it is the aspiration towards excessive wealth (which has its own negative social and personal effects), I could go on and on . . .

Two things pop out for me that, in this scenario, are directly connected to theology. First there is that bizarre desire to be seen, and to be seen as somehow out of the ordinary, or important. Jesus criticises the religious leaders of his day for wearing tassels, expecting to be greeted in the market place, invited to dinners, and offered the place of honour. It would seem that this particular defect has not yet been winnowed from our indie community at least. Second, there is deception . . . . no deception is not really the right word . . . there is a sense of not being wholly “real” or “honest” – something that from the reference point of the teaching of Christ is . . . well . . . . . just a bit dodgey, no?