Modern Myths about Christianity Series

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A few years ago, I wrote another three-part series of posts in my old blog, Pulse Like Water, addressing some "myths" about Christianity that often circulate among modern Pagans. The posts were in large part provoked by reading a few "beyond-Wicca-101" type books (such as Currat's Wtichcrafting and Sylvan's The Circle Within) which still persisted in making broad statements about what Christianity can and can't be. At the time, I was still very strongly Christian and identifying myself as a member of the Catholic Church (mostly in an attempt to prove that not all Catholics are unthinking, patriarchal, anti-nature, intolerant jerks, and to live the example of Catholic mysticism as an acceptable and legitimate alternative).

The other week, while visiting my parents for my birthday, I had a conversation with my father about the difference between what it means to be a Catholic now, versus what it meant to be Catholic back when he was growing up in the isolated and impoverished back-end of the Pennsylvania coal region. He told me about his education in a Catholic school, where in "religion class" they actually debated difficult philosophical questions about the cold war, communism, violence and tolerance, instead of just preaching anti-gay, anti-abortion rhetoric. He told me that, when he first moved to Lancaster and began traveling often to Philadelphia on business, he was shocked at how conservative Catholics were expected to be. I guess that explains a lot about my own view of Christianity as much more diverse and more complex than most people believe it to be, or have experienced it as in their own lives. That conversation with my dad reminded me of these old posts that I wrote a while back, in which I took on various accusations often leveled at modern Christians and tried to explain how I thought they were inaccurate, misunderstood, or simply open to interpretation even among Christians. I cited a lot from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, as one of the few documents that does a fairly good job of outlining just what exactly the current theology and philosophy is behind certain Catholic beliefs and practices.

So I thought I'd post a few links to the three parts, to kind of "clear the air" before I go on to talk about other Christianity-related topics. That way, if at some point, I begin to talk about the feminist or panentheistic or internal consistency aspects of Christianity, I can refer back to these handy essays as examples of what I'm talking about.


Part 1: Something Borrowed, Something Blue

In this post, I address two of the most common "myths" among Pagans about Christianity and its fundamental flaws: that Christianity is inauthentic and inconsistent, and that its most basic teaching is that human beings are utterly cut off from the Divine.

• Myth # 1: Something Borrowed. Christianity "borrowed" or stole a great deal from the pagan culture it was attempting to replace, and to this day most things of value or benefit within the faith are not Christian, but pagan in nature.


• Myth # 2: Something Blue. The most tragic aspect of Christianity is that it teaches that God is unreachable and unknowable, wholly absent from the world and from humankind, which is isolated by its sinful nature.

Part 2: No, Faith, No Sin, No Giving In

In this post, I address the way terms like "faith" and "sin" have come to be so narrowly defined by the very people rejecting them, and look at how a broader and mode complex understanding of these words help to shed light on their theological implications for Christian believers.

• Myth # 3: No Faith. The Christian idea of faith is defined by absence--the absence of proof, the absence of thoughtful analysis, and the absence of any doubt or questioning. Neopagans do not need faith because they experience directly the Presence of the Divine.


• Myth # 4: No Sin. The concept of "sin" is unhealthy and is just a way of threatening and controlling others. Nature teaches us that there is no such thing as "sin" or "evil."

Part 3: I Can't Even Save Myself : So Save Yourself

In this post, I look at the very complicated idea of what "salvation" means from the Christian perspective--the process by which a person might be "saved" and the idea of "hell" as what they're being saved from--with a focus on the implications for Christian tolerance or intolerance of other religious traditions.

• Myth # 5: Christianity insists that only Christians can be saved and all other non-Christians are condemned to hell; this means that Christianity is fundamentally an intolerant religion eager to claim the privileges given to them by their Savior, Jesus Christ, who is the one and only legitimate savior of humankind (all others being false gods and demons).

Ducks & Happiness

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Walking home from grabbing lunch with my best friend, I decided to take a detour through the park. Sure, it looked like rain, but I could make it home in time--and it had been so long since I'd walked through Panther Hollow, with its skinny little creek slipping through the deep green woods. And, you know, as long as I was walking through the park anyway, I might as well take the Lower Trail instead of the Upper Trail, since it's just a little bit longer and it skips along over all those gorgeous, aged stone footbridges that I just love to linger on, running my fingers over the pocked, rough rock and the bits of moss and wildflowers that have somehow wound their roots down into each crack. And, you know, as long as I was taking the Lower Trail home anyway, I might as well follow that skinny creek to its mouth, where it opens out into the wide reservoir, and maybe take a quick stroll around--as I just love the smell of a pond in summer, the muddy scent of algae and the sapphire dragonflies circling the murky waters. Sure, it looked like rain, but I could make it home in time.

Last night I saw an interview on the Colbert Report with Daniel Gilbert, author of the book, Stumbling on Happiness. According to Gilbert, people are generally very bad at predicting what will make them happy, and planning to bring about that happiness for themselves in the future. Since watching the interview, I've been thinking.

I think that I am, in general, a rather happy person. One trick that I learned in high school--those long, scorching summer days on the parking lot macadam, learning how to march, breathe deeply and hold my flute steady at the same time (yes, I was a band geek) while "dressing front" with my feet pointed awkwardly at ninety degrees to my shoulders (not as easy as it sounds.... seriously--get up right now and try it.... and hold it... and hold it... ... hold it...)--ahem that is, one trick I learned in high school is that if you act happy, you can fool your body into being happy. If you smile, skip quickly back to your mark, cheer along with the band director, and tease the sun, taking him on with plenty of SPF 100--you actually start to enjoy a process that would otherwise be, well, awful.

One thing I also learn is that this only works for about three days--and then you hit the wall. Every year. And you never see it coming. But on that first Wednesday of band camp, after three hard ten hour days in the hot sun learning how to all lift your feet at the same time and walk exactly five yards in two measure of 4/4 time, you go home sobbing and telling your parents you can't do it anymore, you just know this year will be the year you forget all the music and forget all your marks and end up slipping in the grass and falling on your ass ...uh, butt, or wandering off into the end zone and crashing into some unsuspecting refreshment-stand attendant or creepy still-a-high-school-football-fan-even-though-his-kids-all-graduated-ten-years-ago old man.

So you go to bed. And you wake up feeling great and going right back to that sticky, sweaty parking lot and screaming "FUN!!" as if your life depended on it every time the band director prompts you with, "BAND IS..?"

So I've been thinking about how exactly Gilbert's theory of happiness and its elusiveness fits into this picture. After all, psyching yourself up through psychological-physiological tricks is only one way to "get happy." It's only one way to make the present moment just as much of a "pay-off" as that first time you step onto the field in front of an indifferent football crowd and feel the energy sizzle through all your fellow band members, turning a march into a dance and your breath and tongue and lips and fingers transforming simple air into a music that echoes and vibrates through every common body... You don't need any psychological tricks to find happiness in those moments of connection, creativity, camaraderie and play. And after a few weeks, you don't even need to trick yourself into looking forward to those long band practices after school, either. In fact, you kind of miss them.

But this is about ducks.

Strolling leisurely around the concrete edge of the reservoir as gray clouds skirted across the sky, I noticed a family of ducklings, newly grown out of their down and in that funny adolescent stage that even animals seem to go through, when everything is a bit too long and skinny and awkward. Eight of them. And as I approached, slowly and almost silently in my sandals so as not to startle them, they looked up and began to waddle towards me eagerly, greeting me with low-pitched peeps that seemed to crack sometimes into quacks the way a young man's voice cracks when he asks a pretty girl to a middle school dance. Today, I got to be that pretty girl. Surprised at their forwardness, I stopped walking and stood still for a moment, allowing them to approach. When they'd come within a couple feet of me, and I'd made no motion to throw any tasty bread crumbs their way, they settled down in the grass still damp from the morning showers, as if I were just another duckling spending this muggy afternoon in the shade on the bank of the pond. And, you know, as long as they were all settling down around me, it would be a shame to disturb them by suddenly walking off, and since I was here anyway... I slowly sat myself down in the grass with them to watch.

Sure, I was wearing a skirt just short enough to make sitting on the ground a bit awkward and possibly earning me a fine for public indecency--but there was no one around to see anyway because, after all, it looked like rain--and I could still make it home in time.

I've been thinking that I am, in fact, a happy person, which is not to say I'm not also a sad person. It seems that I've spent a lot of time crying these past two years--but I've also spent more time laughing, dancing in the rain, making bad puns and sometimes just staring deadpan at a person in just the right way until they lose it entirely and snort Pepsi through their nose (which is just as funny and painful as it sounds). I've been thinking that I am much happier with my life and the choices I've made and that, in some ways, this happiness itself serves to deepen my sadness when I feel frustrated, rejected or isolated. Not because these things are unexpected or unpredictable, but because they are all symptoms of a failure to connect, to commune, to share. Those aspects of my life which make me happy don't stop being a source of happiness on lonely nights. I didn't wrongly predict that writing poetry and studying Druidry would make me happy simply because I'm not happy all the time I'm doing such things. Sometimes I write poetry because I'm lonely and I miss my ex (these are usually bad poems--go figure). Can joy and sorrow comingle? Can the tension between longing and fulfillment push a person towards a peak experience beyond mere satisfaction with the daily ins and outs of life?

Is it just me? I wonder about research like Gilbert's--if it's about "how people are" naturally or essentially, or if it's more a reflection of how people have taught themselves to be in our modern Western society. After all, our consumer culture benefits from that kind of confusion over what happiness is and how to "get it"--people are always moving from one thing to another, trying to predict what will make them happy without giving any one thing a chance to do so. Maybe they treat happiness like a buzz, as if they'll know it right away when it happens, and if it doesn't happen right away, they move on... If something does give them that buzz right away, they want to count on it always giving them a buzz--and upping the doses or varying the stimuli a bit to keep it always fresh and new. But is that really what happiness amounts to--predicting exactly what new thing you'll want and exactly when you'll want it? Is it possible that the very act of predicting such a thing flattens the experience, tames it into just an expectation of newness that, in having already been imagined, always disappoints once it's been realized?

Have you ever really watched ducks? I mean, sure, you see them paddling across the water, scooping up bread crumbs and bits of floating plant material from the water, or nestling down in that perfectly symmetrical pose, webbed feet tucked neatly up under their feathery, oval bodies. You see ducks as amusing bread-eating machines or scenic backdrops to complete the pond that reflects the sun behind the pretty young couple kissing on the screen, or maybe even that gorgeous mallard in flight above the field of brown grasses which always implies the hunter leveling his gun and the yellow labrador poised to chase it down as it falls. But have you ever really watched ducks being ducks, when they're completely ignoring you?

I sat still in the damp grass, only occasionally hoping I wasn't getting too much mud on my skirt that I'd have to strategically hide with my purse for the rest of the walk home... watching. Some ducklings settled down to nap right away. Others kept shifting, preening first their fanned tail feathers, then under one wing, then running their leathery bills through the freckled feathers on their pillowy breasts. A duck preens in a way entirely unlike a beaked bird such as, say, a parakeet. Watching a duck preen is like watching someone comb his hair with a spoon.

Eventually, all the ducklings settled down to doze off in the warm afternoon. Have you ever seen a duck stretch, or yawn? (Do ducks even yawn, or was this something else that just looked a lot like yawning?) A duckling who'd been sitting nestled politely in the acceptable bird-sleeping posture we all expect, would roll slowly to one side, bracing himself up with his right wing while stretching out his left leg as far as he could, all his little webbed toes spread wide, his left wing opened and fanning out, too. Then, tucking up the wing again, he'd slowly drift off to sleep, one leg still outstretched, as if propped up on his elbow, head resting on his shoulder. Who knew ducks had such personality? One duckling, I swear, began to snore gentle or murmur in his sleep, his peeping sometimes cracking into a quack like an adorable teenage-duckling. Once, he quacked so loud, he woke himself up, startling all the other ducklings so that a few sprang to their feet, looking sleepily around for the source of the noise.

Maybe happiness is, itself, a process--not something that exists once and for all that we can obtain and hold on to, predict and plan for. Maybe that's why we imagine ourselves happiest when we're looking forward into a bright future, or reminiscing about a golden past. Do we seem happier over these courses of time because we are seeing happiness for what it is--something that happens, something that can only be seen as a whole over time, not all at once?

As I sat there watching the ducklings, it began to rain. The rain moved over the water in invisible flocks of raindrops, leaving patterns of speckled ripples in one place while, just a few yards away, the water was still, shimmering only with the light breeze. It was hot enough that I didn't mind getting wet, and peaceful enough that I couldn't have wanted anything else. At that moment, the happiness that I had slowly been cultivating all day caught up with me, a wave tripping on the shore of the present moment and sweeping me up in its momentum. I slowly stood up and began to walk home, listening to the murmur of the ducklings objecting to the sudden disruption of their naps, then stretching like awkward, unabashed ballerinas in the rain.

Today, the feeling of contentment that I often feel overtake me when in the company of my best friend--the sense that everything is perfect, being and doing exactly perfectly what it was meant to be and do--today that feeling just settled down like a little duckling in the wet, shady grass of my soul, as if to say, "I'm not going anywhere, so relax and enjoy." If I hadn't made the whimsical choice to allow it to happen, I would have just walked straight home and an opportunity for noticing happiness would have slipped by. And maybe that's why people don't know what makes them happy--because they think it's about control, about controlling all the circumstances and variables to the best effect, instead of allowing happiness to happen... Maybe that is why Gilbert's study found that having kids doesn't make a person happier, whereas Colbert argued that the feeling is not "happiness" but a sense of the sublime. What is sublimity except something that awes and overwhelms us, something of which we are not in control, and yet we can still participate in and be intimate with?

In the end, I don't think I've ever really tried to be happy. I've just tried to be a good person, to do what I think is right, and to make time for the things I believe have value and meaning, even if they are difficult or dirty or unpredictable. To let happiness happen if it's going to... and if not, to let it not happen, too, and be okay with that. I think that if I tried explaining this whole duck experience to most people, they would see it as a kind of quirky novelty or funny story--not as something that actually just happens naturally if you let it. They'll go out to the pond tomorrow, wanting the ducklings to stretch and model for them, and they'll be disappointed. Because it wasn't the ducklings at all--it was the slow process of centering myself within the world, allowing myself to move gently into a sense of time that didn't demand I have direction or purpose, that didn't worry about how unhappy I would be to get caught in the rain, that didn't worry that a passer-by might think I'm a weirdo for settling down among the ducklings and fixing up my own hair in the heat as if I, too, were some adolescent aquatic fowl. Happiness isn't sitting with ducklings in the rain--it's sitting with yourself in the present and giving the process of sublimity a chance to catch up and carry you forward. Into that next moment, when you turn the corner onto your street and realize you're soaking wet and dancing all the way home.

Playing Catch-Up, Taking Stock

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Hello, dear readers. I know I've been strangely quiet the last week or so. The reason is that, for my birthday, I went to visit my parents for a few days, and, as blogging is such a new habit for me, it's been hard to get back into the swing of things now that I've returned. But don't worry, I have plenty of ideas brainstormed to write about and I promise I'll be back to posting regularly soon enough (that is, until I leave for my vacation in Acadia at the end of July).

As I've had several days now to look at this blog from a more distanced perspective, I notice that once again I find myself slipping into a particular niche--that of the Christo-pagan or Druidic Christian. My last (and failed) blog experiment, Pulse Like Water, was specifically focused on the conflict between Christianity and the Craft of witchy magic, back when I was first getting my feet wet with occultic nature spirituality. I had hoped that I could avoid the pitfall of such specificity in this new blog, and write more generally about Druidry, its practices and philosophies, from first-hand experience. Instead, it seems I've fallen back into the habit of writing long, theoretical, apologetic-like pieces on the complexity of the modern Christian-Pagan relationship. I guess that's no surprise, as I spent a summer researching and writing a thesis on that very topic back in college and, in some ways, the relationship is one that still fascinates me. Still, I'd like to keep this blog fresh and engaging on all levels, not merely the theoretical/analytical. I imagine this space as one in which I can explore the myriad ways my spiritual life expresses itself and affects me practically. Posts like "Swimming the Sunlight," "Metaphors for Love & Death," and "Adrift" are the kinds of entries I'd like to fill this blog with, not just because they let me stretch my poetic muscles (which are my favorite muscles, right up there with the tongue, the heart and the brain), but because they are themselves manifestations of a spirituality that emphasizes the depth and intimacy of each moment and which integrates philosophical ponderings with direct experience of the Divine.

On the other hand, I can't escape from the fact that I occupy that infamous spot between a rock and a hard place (between Stonehenge and the Cross, you might say). I won't be able to avoid discussing the conflicts that arise from being in such a position, or the challenges that readers and other writers lead me to confront. To try to avoid addressing those things would be P.C. and unfair in the worst way. The truth is, I've always been a fan of the liminal--the twilight, the shore, the fog, the trance and lucid dream--and in many ways, walking the Druid path as a Christian puts me right back in one of those in-between states: between a structured, mainstream, "revealed" religion and an organic, counterculture, intimately personal spirituality. Exploring this relationship and the liminal, peripheral place within which it functions is itself an expression of that triple focus so often found at the heart of Druidry. It is, in a way, its own startling triad:

Three creatures which carry awkward burdens:
the Christian with her god's cross;
the Druid with her ancestors' stones;
the Christian Druid with her wide, heavy enthusiasms and weak little arms.

Or something like that.

So, for the next month or so, I'm going to fully embrace this discussion of Christianity, the place I see myself within it, and how it all relates back to my Druidry. This is also partly a method for me to look more closely at my relationship with Spirit through the deity of Christ (the defining aspect of Christianity, after all, right?) and to see how this expresses itself "Druidically." I hope that by taking the initiative, my posts will become more creative and active, rather than reactive and reactionary, and in this way they will be more interesting and helpful to a wider community of readers (in other words, they won't piss as many people off).

So, that's the direction I plan to explore for a little while. Of course there will be random bursts of purely Druidic or even purely personal "all-Ali" posts to liven things up. So, dear readers, please stay tuned. Don't touch that dial mouse!

Spiritual Goals

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I’ve been tagged by Nathalie to participate in Alex Shalman's Gotta Get Goals meme. This actually ties into the gwers that I'm currently working on in the OBOD Bardic course, so I figured I'd list a few of my spiritual goals (this being a spiritual blog and all).

Esablish a self-sufficient, eco-friendly, spiritually-rich community. Nathalie actually mentioned in her goals that she would like to one day live in an eco-friendly, energy-efficient house, where she could grow much of her own food and raise her own livestock, closer to the wild outdoors. I've actually had similar yearnings ever since I was little, but over the past few years, I've started to understand how much value I place on community and interrelationship. I live a rather solitary and largely self-sufficient (if not ideally eco-friendly) life right now, and sometimes I find the isolation frustrating or even detrimental to my spiritual growth. I would like to be a part of a real-life community built on the notion that by working together on mundane tasks to provide for simple, daily needs, we also free up enough time to pursue more esoteric intellectual, artistic and spiritual studies, either individually or as a group. The community (or "tribe," if you will) wouldn't have to be specifically Druidic or even Pagan--in fact, there are a few people in my life right now who are neither but whom I'd very much like to include. I imagine it as a collective of individuals and families, sharing the care of land and animals as well as other tasks, all committed to living a life of respect for and low-impact to the earth, while pursuing the advancement and enrichment of the arts, philosophies, sciences and politics of the larger world. Think "hippie commune" meets "Buddhist monastery" meets "home-schooling" meets "college campus"... sort of.

Become an ordained priestess in either AODA or OBOD (or both?), and actively participate in a local Grove and/or study-group. Ever since I was old enough to ask my dad, "Who's the old man in the funny dress talking at the front of the church?" I've wished that the Catholic tradition allowed for the ordination of women. Since then I've become almost wholly disenchanted with the Church as a social and political institution, steeped in hypocrisy and clinging to rather bull-headed and narrow definitions of what it means to be "life-affirming" and spiritually loving. However, I still feel that call to step into the role of priest(ess), even though I no longer conceive of it as that of the sole arbiter between an individual and the Divine. In the end, I suppose it's just that most of my passions, talents and skills are not "practical" or useful in the modern, capitalist sense, and being able to turn those passions towards the service of others within a supportive spiritual community has always seemed like the ideal option. There is a part of me that wants to share and teach, but insists on doing so in my own unique way, not as a part of an institution focused primarily on indoctrination and practical-skills training (i.e. almost every high school or college in the country). Ideally, I would like to run study-groups and workshops focused on things like poetry as a spiritual practice, eco-living, nature study and hillwalking as meditative techniques, etc.; I would also like to continue to write about such subjects, and be involved regularly in community spiritual acts of ritual or worship.

Continue to improve on my meditative skills and intuitive relationship with nature and its spirits/Spirit. Meditation has always been difficult for me, simply because my mind is so active most of the time--"monkey-mind" always hopping from one thing to another. On the one hand, projects that allow me to indulge in this way of thinking are the most fulfilling (poetry, with its leaps in metaphor and imagery; political philosophy and spiritual theology, which allow me to pull diverse examples and synthesize them into coherent patterns of meaning, etc.), but on the other hand, meditation is a struggle because it asks me to stay still and quiet, mentally as well as physically. Working with the AODA idea of "discursive meditation" as well as techniques of "active" meditation involved in hillwalking and the martial arts (not that I do martial arts, but I do stretch and exercise as a spiritual practice) has proven fruitful, but I need to develop the self-discipline to stick with such methods as a matter of principle, and not merely when I desire some immediate benefit. The same goes for my interactions with nature--I need to make a concerted effort to get back into the "flow" of nature by seeking it out and attending to it on a daily basis. I remember when I was little, being able to smell a storm coming, or calling whole flocks of birds to me, or sitting down to "talk" with rabbits without them skittering away. Reading Abram's book, The Spell of the Sensuous a few months ago reminded me that a harmonious and integrated relationship with nature is very much possible, but it's something I need to immerse myself and work towards. Ideally, my goal is to be centered and peaceful throughout my daily life, and to find community in nature as readily as I find it in other human beings.


Discover an area of specialization to focus on. At the moment, I'm still fairly new to the Pagan community (I always find it amusing when I find my blog listed among the "Pagan Writers" links on people's webpages, since I still consider myself Christian for the most part), and I haven't really begun to specialize in anything in particular. I know certain Pagans who have specialized in or concentrated on healing, divination, herbal lore, particular crafts or arts, historic, language or archeological academic studies, working with the spirits of ancestors or the recently deceased, etc. etc. etc. I haven't really felt a pull to specialize in anything in particular, but my interests and passions in general have always focused primarily on the art of poetry, and a philosophical approach to politics, culture and social theory. It is difficult to claim a specialization in poetry within the Druid/Pagan community, since it seems almost everyone writes and reads it (at least as part of self-designed or improvised personal ritual). It's equally difficult to bring my interest in politics and social theory to bear on a spiritual community that is admittedly atomized and somewhat fragmented, due to patterns of social organization and the omnipresence of communication technology common to modernity. I've always had vivid and sometimes premonitory dreams, but I haven't yet figured out a way to utilize them consistently. (The other night, I had a dream that somehow, someone had gotten hold of an early copy of the last Harry Potter book and was threatening to tell everyone the ending; the very next evening, Stephen Colbert teased the audience with just such a threat, waving his advanced copy of the book in front the camera--but tell me, exactly how useful or practical can such a silly premonition be?) Ideally, I'd like to find my "niche" within the Druid community, to be able to offer a unique talent or skill to a local Grove or group, even if that skill is the mundane task of efficiently organizing meetings or writing poetry to be used in ritual and meditation.

Study a few key areas of interest more in-depth, specifically: Qabalah, sacred geometry and pythagorean music theory, and phenomenology as it relates to and informs Druidry. There's not much more to say about this goal, except that it fulfills my nerdy, scholarly side. As usual, I have an urge to take Druidry seriously in an academic sense, and to study it as a religion or spiritual tradition with as much legitimacy as Christianity, Shinto, Buddhism, Islam, or any other religion. I'm intrigued as much by its more dusty-tomes aspects as by its green, solar-powered, intuitive aspects. I want to learn more, and I intend to. (If only I could go to grad school for such study!)


Pilgrimage to ancient sites in Ireland and England. I consider this a "must" along my spiritual path. I've always wanted to visit Ireland, since my family roots are largely Celtic, and I've also become fascinated by the ancient sites of power along St. Michael's Leyline in England (as well as the crop-circle phenomenon that occurs along it in the summer). I'd very much like to go on a pilgrimage with the express purpose of personal meditation and exploration, perhaps also writing a book of poetry or creative non-fiction based on my experiences.

Find a way of living peacefully and lovingly with my best friend, even if we never do get back together as a romantic couple. This is more of a personal goal, but it involves a certain amount of spiritual growth on my part. Although I hate using the term "soul mate," in some ways I do feel as though we bonded on a very intimate, even spiritual level while we were dating, although it has taken a long time of being "just friends" to truly appreciate it. Although petty insecurities about dying a virginal "old maid" who never succeeded in "winning him back" sometimes haunt me, I am committed to maintaining a friendship of unconditional love and support, even if it only ever remains a friendship from now on. I am also committed to a spiritual and emotional integrity that keeps me from pursuing other relationships based mostly on physical attraction or my own loneliness. Ideally, I want to really, truly mean it when I say that I just want him to be happy and to have a fulfilling life (and I want to be able to forgive myself for still wanting to be an integral part of it). ::deep breath:: Okay... that's going to be the hardest goal, I can tell.



Oops--almost forgot to tag a few people:
- Erik
- Cat
- Bob
- Mam Adar
- Fiacharrey
- Benn (aka "ColoradoCelt")

What We Know & How We Know It - Part III

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Texts, Truths and Traditions:
A Study in Three Parts

In a recent post, blogger Robin Artisson, proposed this intriguing question:

"What if the entire New Testament was a construct, a forgery, a fake? What if Jesus never existed, and was instead a composite figure cobbled together from the myths of many other Gods that long pre-existed Christianity?"

The Part that Passion Plays

I've had some trouble with the transition into this third and final part of the "Texts, Truths and Traditions" series for a few reasons. First of all, as I mentioned in an earlier comment, these posts were originally written in direct response to Robin's opinions as he expressed them on his blog. His post, "Why a Return to Indo-European Polytheism is Needed," was itself rather disjointed--the first half addressed the possible forgery of Biblical texts and the questionable historicity of the person of Jesus, but the second half was largely dedicated to his own passionate views of "Truth" as reflected in an "Old Religion" centered on polytheism and the various deities of ancient Indo-European pantheons. Now, I find myself somewhat stalled, for in attempting to address this latter aspect of Robin's post, I find myself too quickly abandoning an honest discussion of the role history and literalism play in Biblical interpretation.

With that in mind, I think the best course would be to first take a look back at some of the ideas I've discussed so far and to put them into a broader context, focusing on the question, "What role do sacred texts play in a spiritual tradition?"

So, where have we come? In Part I of this series, we took a look at the relevancy of the historic figure of Jesus within the Christian tradition. I put forward the possibility that it is the idea of Jesus Christ, and not the literal, historical fact of his existence, which functions most prominently within Christianity and its varied and sprawling system(s) of belief. The idea of Jesus may include a faith in his historical presence in a particular time and place--in fact, it may be central to the theology of the Divine-manifest-in-man from a Christian perspective--but this is still a matter of faith, not of fact. The relationship that a Christian develops with Jesus as deity does not grow primarily out of archeological or historical research, but out of an engagement with Biblical texts and a personal participation in activities such as prayer and communion, which are understood for the most part to be interactions with God.

In Part II, we explored how the Biblical texts, as one of the source springs of Christianity, can be viewed historically as texts written by human beings that evolved in focus and interpretation over time to address the changing needs of various communities. Historical research continues to give insight into and evidence for various theological interpretations, but the theologies themselves continue to function in the realm of faith for the individual Christian. For instance, in her book Written That You May Believe: Encountering Jesus in the Fourth Gospel, Sandra M. Schneiders looks at the historical and literary evidence to suggest that the Gospel of "John" was, in fact, written by a woman; however, a feminist theology of inclusion and respect does not hinge on this historical possibility, and if the authorship of the gospel were to be confirmed, it would likely have little effect on those who already adhere strictly to an anti-feminist belief system. Schneiders does not take on this possibility in order to convert all Christians to a pro-feminist interpretation, but to consider what new ideas, associations and possible interpretations grow out of such an interpretive perspective, as a way of both challenging and expanding upon the potentials for Christian tradition to support the need of a modern community concerned with gender-equality. Given this strange relationship between "sacred texts" and their historical context, it becomes increasingly important to look at how sacred texts in general function within religious or spiritual systems.

This is, perhaps, too large a subject to cover at the moment, especially if I intend to move on to address Robin's comments more directly. For now, I think it is important simply to recognize that texts can function in many different ways, and that the relationship between text and reader (not to mention writer, text and reader) is complex and multifaceted. Because the Neopagan community has, in general, so few texts that are considered "sacred" or "inspired" in the traditionally religious sense, it is easy to view all texts as functioning in a single and uniform manner, and thus to see any one aspect of that functioning as undermining all others. If a particular text fails to uphold itself on the level of historical accuracy, it can be easily abandoned for the latest book on the topic, which is sure to include all of the latest research. Starhawk's The Spiral Dance, a ground-breaking work and considered required reading twenty years ago, has been largely replaced in the Wicca 101 market by books which use similar poetic and psychological techniques, without resorting to unfounded beliefs in an historical matriarchal "Old Religion." Reading The Spiral Dance, while still sometimes considered essential reading for those interested in Wicca, is now less a spiritual task than a kind of historical work, looking back at the roots of Wicca and its subsequent development as a modern American religion.

On the other hand, there are plenty of examples of texts which hold spiritual value and are understood as "inspired," for the very reason that they do not claim to be historical. A good many Pagans seem greatly inspired by various science fiction and fantasy writers, whose works are free to delve into complex spiritual matters for the very reason that they do not talk about historical events of our own world that could be proved or disproved (my personal favorites are Tolkien, Le Guin and Pratchet). Likewise, many Pagans write and read a great deal of poetry, incorporating it directly into personal ritual or approaching creative writing as a magical act. The "sacred texts" of Neopaganism are, in some ways, as ahistorical as the spiritual beliefs that they address and express. While on one level this provides a cushion against the harsh materialist-literalist approach of historical and scientific "fact," I sometimes wonder if it also limits such sacred texts and their possible functions, pushing them outside the realm of real history and real time, so that they become just another kind of indulgent navel-gazing. Of course, Neopaganism as a self-identifying spiritual community is still so young, it may just be that we do not yet have the perspective to know which texts might come to play the role of both "inspired" and historical works...

In any case, Robin's final remarks in his original post provide an excellent example of the kind of passion that can grow within a person regardless of textual support. Indeed, some of the best know traits of Christian fundamentalists and creationists--their insistence on taking Biblical texts literally and on proving these texts to be "factually" true with often baseless speculations that make rather haphazard use of select bits of modern science and scholarship; their passion for the exclusive Truth of their own view and the uselessness of "foreign," "unnatural" or qualifying perspectives; their reliance on personal feelings of comfort, inspiration and fulfillment to justify their evangelism to others--are all echoed (if reversed) as Robin's critique of Christianity continues.

The heart of Robin's critique of (and disgust with) Christianity is not based on alternative authentic texts, scholarship or "factual" history at all; it stems, instead, from his passionate commitment to his own spiritual tradition. In trying to justify this passion in universal terms (rather than acknowledging it as personal, though still wholly authentic and fruitful), he resorts to some of the same techniques he has just finished criticizing. While Christians should abandon their beliefs because they are not based on "facts," he insists, "it is possible to believe and worship as our Ancestors did- modern Pagan religious reconstructions, from Germanic to Celtic, Greek, Roman, and Slavic, have been given much attention, carefully reconstructed in the spirit of the original faiths"--in short, the reconstruction of these faiths are, he claims, very close to being "factual" and therefore they can be trusted. (Of course, the Christian faith does not need to be "reconstructed" at all, since it is still a contemporary, living tradition, while the deities of reconstructed Indo-European faiths are even more obscure and difficult to study than the figure of Jesus--but this slips by unmentioned.)

Repeated exhortations to the "sanity" and "Truth" of the "Old Religion" of "Old Europe" (despite the widely-held view among many scholars and Neopagans alike that there was no unified Old Religion, per se) sound remarkably like Christian fundamentalists' claims that Christianity is the "original" and "True" religion of the human race (citing Genesis for support, of course), while the personal "comfort" Robin refers to repeatedly begins to sound eerily like the born-agains' stories of new-found security and certainty once they "found Jesus" and "accepted Him into their hearts." Even his story of ancient injustices and persecutions echo the Judeo-Christian mythologies of the struggling, repressed communities of believers that eventually gave rise to the traditions of martyrdom and sacrifice within Christianity. (And there is historical truth, if not exclusive Truth, to both of these identity-defining martyrdom mythologies.)

Like the Christians of fundamentalist and evangelical traditions, Robin's passion for polytheistic, Indo-European reconstructionist spirituality is not really based on what he can prove, but on what he feels passionately that he knows from personal experience and direct participation in the Divine. It is as moving as it is, at times, almost frightening. The same careful historical and sociological studies that have jeopardized the literal interpretation of sacred texts and forced modern Christians to confront the possibility that personal truth and "objective" truth may not be the same thing, have given rise equally to increased tolerance and open-minded personal faith, and to increased hysterical, xenophobic tirades against "insane" or "sick" alternative spiritual traditions. Modern Pagans are just as susceptible to this dual response to the intrusion of "facts" into the religious world as modern Christians are. It is a unique, but ubiquitous, aspect of a modern, globally-connected and culturally diverse world.

What We Know & How We Know It
Texts, Truths and Traditions:
A Study in Three Parts

Part I: Introduction & The Historical Person of Jesus
Part II: The Historical Nature of Biblical Texts
Part III: The Part that Passion Plays

A Bit on Hillwalking

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Having written a brief meditation on hillwalking last month, I thought I'd expand a little on the practical aspect of the technique. For those of you who've been following along in the "Texts, Traditions and Truths" series, don't worry, I still have Part III in the works and it'll be up soon. In the meantime, here's a bit about the movement-meditation practice known within some Druid traditions as "hillwalking."

"Hillwalking" is a technique within modern Druidry and other Celtic Pagan traditions, a form of active meditation. To hillwalk is to allow the body to interact intuitively and directly with the surrounding natural world, to follow whims and currents within the landscape. To move through the external, physical landscape of the woods, fields and hills as an interactive and revelatory form of exploring the internal landscape of the soul. Like the stillness of traditional meditation, the on-going movement of breath and body in hillwalking helps to blur the boundaries between form, spirit and space, transforming the perception of what was once opaque and solid into that which is fluid, interwoven and sacrd.

Over the course of my hillwalking practice, I have developed a few techniques and guidelines for myself:

(1) Wear comfortable, practical clothes. This might seem obvious, but for a long time I had the romantic notion of gliding through the woods in flowing skirts, a mysterious and faery-like creature glimpsed by other hikers only out of the corner of the eye. Delicate ritual wear may be appropriate and stimulating for quiet, personal ceremonies, but such clothes cause more distractions and snags out in the woods. Instead, wear something simple and comfortable, appropriate to the weather and the sun, that will let your skin breathe in the air of the natural world.

(2) Be prepared with simple things. Hillwalking can be strenuous and dangerous, but I have found it most beneficial when it is through an area in which I feel safe and familiar. Walking through the local park, I feel secure enough to bring only a cell phone (in silent mode, so as not to disturb me but there if I need it), a bit of drinking water and sometimes a snackbar or bit of trail mix. Beyond practical preparation, mental preparation is also important--I may notice rain clouds and decide not to bring an umbrella, prepared to experience and embrace whatever the weather becomes. As usual, it is important to use common sense and avoid situations that can cause injury or illness.

(3) Know your limits. Don't be afraid to push yourself sometimes--take on that steep trail, turn down that intriguing path though you may not know where it leads, or stop for a moment and center yourself into a more intense focus and openness to your surroundings. I have my own drives when I go hillwalking--I try to work up a bit of a sweat, I try to always find my way back without turning around and using the same trail to get home, and sometimes I use a simple fasting technique, putting off meals until I have returned from hillwalking. These techniques often wear away at and transform my ordinary consciousness, pushing me to delve more deeply into my personal reserves of endurance and ingenuity. But it's important to know your own limits, and recognize when your body gives your signals of distress. Water, rest and turning back are sometimes necessary.

What We Know & How We Know It - Part II

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Texts, Truths and Traditions:
A Study in Three Parts

In a recent post, blogger Robin Artisson, proposed this intriguing question:

"What if the entire New Testament was a construct, a forgery, a fake? What if Jesus never existed, and was instead a composite figure cobbled together from the myths of many other Gods that long pre-existed Christianity?"

Click here to read Part I: Introduction & The Historical Person of Jesus.

Part II: The Historical Nature of Biblical Texts

Which brings us to the second major issue that Robin's initial questions raised (and the one he focused most specifically on in his post). Even if we can set aside the question of the historical existence of Jesus, we find a difficulty around the Bible itself as it exists as a "sacred" text within the Christian religious tradition. Many Christians view the Bible as the "Word of God," and in this sense presumably treat it as a single, whole and static object, rather than as a collection of texts written by different people from different cultural perspectives and at different times. From here on in, I'm afraid the discussion will get a bit messier and won't be nearly as neatly and clearly laid out as the first half of my exploration, above. I hope you'll bear with me, nonetheless.

In his post, Robin spends some time rehashing various discoveries and theories regarding the historical development of the Bible as a collection of texts, in particular older and earlier versions of the four familiar Gospels. He quotes from an essay on "The Forged Origins of the New Testament," which seems to rely rather heavily on secondary sources written in the 1700s and 1800s, as well as statements from the Catholic Encyclopedia itself acknowledging the lacuna of definitive proof--in short, nothing new--while failing to cite any primary source evidence for the supposed forged documents themselves (here, I'll merely reminder readers of the familiar axiom: a lack of evidence is not evidence of lack). He also focuses almost exclusively on the relative age and authenticity of the gospels, without discussing the historical placement and analysis of the letters of Paul (which most scholars agree are the earliest records of Jesus, dating to as early as c. 10 C.E.), nor the tradition of Christian apologetics which was alive and kicking as early as c. 100-165 C.E.

Although it is true that our information about the historical person of Jesus comes almost exclusively from the collection of texts referred to as "gospels" (those texts which were written essentially for this intended purpose, to provide "the story of Christ's life and teachings;" the word "gospel" is a term applied generally to any such texts which propose to undertake this task, including the gnostic and apocryphal gospels), we have several authentic texts dating back to the first and second centuries that address the already developing Christian religious community and its beliefs, practices and traditions. (Here is an excellent resource for electronically published scholarly works on Biblical texts.) Since (a) we have already set aside the relative relevancy of the question of the historical person of Jesus, and (b) it seems clear that within these other available texts the role of Jesus Christ as a theological idea had already become central to the Christian self- and community-identity, and so it is unlikely that it was merely "invented" in the fourth century and inserted retroactively into the tradition, we can move on to the primary (and quite legitimate) concern: the complexities and contradictions found among these texts.

As Robin rightly points out, some of the earliest gospels (and even the codified versions of the four included officially in the New Testament) tell conflicting and often confusing narratives of the events in the life of Jesus. Certain doctrines and theological concepts that are now considered cornerstones of the Christian tradition (or at least select denominations of it) go unmentioned or entirely unsupported in these earliest documents. As he also points out, again quite rightly, "This may come as no news to many scholars of the Bible (and, it seems, to many Church scholars)..."

In fact, this whole discussion of the development of Biblical literature was covered very early on in my freshman year of college, and my degree isn't even specializing in Christianity or its historical development--it's a general Comparative Religious Studies degree. Furthermore, I would consider most of the people who took that class with me to be "average Christians" and other average people, few of whom went on to specialize in Biblical scholarship, theological scholarship, or even philosophical or religious studies of any kind (some of them were just fulfilling a "general education" requirement). I think this acknowledgment of conflicting versions and missing doctrines is generally much more widely known than Robin gives credit for--indeed, the only people who seem to find the historical development of Biblical literature, and all the complexity and lack of uniformity it entails, to be an obstacle to faith are (a) Christian fundamentalists, and (b) those who fundamentally oppose Christianity.

(Robin may object that he has spoken to Christians who were offended and/or skeptical of this viewpoint, but I would guess this may be because his presentation of it often boarders on a conspiratorial and sometimes even insulting tone, as it does in his post. I might counter that I have spoken to plenty of Christians who were fully aware of the historically diverse origins of the Bible, but then we might compare anecdotal evidence for hours on end and, as your friendly neighborhood scientist will tell you, anecdotal evidence is generally a very weak foundation for any argument. So let's move on.)

Christianity developed gradually and organically over time, just as most other religious systems in the world have developed (and just as Neopaganism is developing right now in modern society). The kind of organized, deliberate forgery and falsification that Robin suggests was, if not impossible, at least incredibly implausible, considering the wide-spread, structured social institution to accomplish such a feat simply did not exist until a good two to three hundred years after the supposed historical events took place and some of the first Biblical texts regarding those events (and the apologetic arguments regarding the theology of these events) had already been written and begun to circulate. This doesn't mean, of course, that particular individuals or groups of individuals didn't develop and pass on as "true" their own versions or stories of these events that were based less on "fact" as we understand it today, and more on the immediate philosophical, spiritual or imaginative needs of their local communities.

We see this process taking place even today within Neopagan communities, as certain Wiccan, Druidic and other occult traditions create, elaborate on and pass on "origin myths" about their histories. Wicca and Druidry, for instance, both base a great deal of their self- and community-identities on two admirable forgers, Gerald Gardner and Iolo Morganwg, respecitvely. It is a unique, perhaps even quirky, aspect of modernity that most Wiccans and Druids seem quite content to acknowledge the certain amount of "invention" at the root of their spiritual traditions (this is a trend Hutton treats in a number of his books), accepting that although these stories or sources may not be historically "true," they yet retain spiritual and social value as ideas, "invented" or not.

Even still, there are those within Neopaganism who indulge in the all-too-familiar urge to justify the authenticity of their beliefs and practices by making false or specious claims to ancient roots, unbroken traditions and even miraculous tales of heroism or martyrdom. If intelligent and well-informed modern individuals--living in a culture steeped in scientific "fact" and the careful academic study of history--still resort to such story-telling, is it any surprise that people two thousand years ago, in a culture utterly unfamiliar with the peculiarly modern notion of an objective and unbiased "history of what actually happened", would do the same? It takes no conspiracy theory of corrupt and manipulative religious or political leaders to explain such behavior. It is the result of ordinary people attempting to grapple with conflicting reports of difficult or painful events while seeking to understand how those events are philosophically, politically, spiritually or personally relevant. Knowledgeable, modern Christian believers are often fully aware of that different cultural and socio-political environments will lead to diverse and sometimes conflicting perspectives on a single event, and so they can accept and work with conflicting accounts within a single "sacred text" in this light.

Robin may be right in saying that, were the Bible to be proven factually "wrong," many Christians would take little notice and remain unshaken in their faith. In my opinion, however, this is not a reflection of a general stubborn ignorance on the part of Christians, but because very few Christians actually believe the Bible to be historically factual in the first place (Christian fundamentalists being the exception, as well as the minority). Theological concepts about the "Son of God," (and the phrase "son of man," which does appear in Mark), the "Word of God," the Resurrection and even the Trinity are recognized as exactly that: ahistorical, theological doctrines. Indeed, most Christians would most likely argue that such doctrines grew gradually out of a continuing, communal interaction with the Bible as a living, revelatory sacred text (its historical nature notwithstanding). In other words, new "revelations" of spiritual and theological meaning continue to be possible because the text is a dynamic, self-revelatory witness to the Divine; the "seeds" may be present in the original gospels and letters of the New Testament, even if all of their implications were not fully laid out and explored from the very beginning or from every perspective or viewpoint included. The Catholic doctrine of the immaculate conception, the doctrine of the eucharist, the various mystical and feminist implications of the Gospel of John and its ties to Neoplatonic philosophy, even modern "liberation theology" currently popular in Latin America--all of these can believably exist in potentia within the "inspired" (NB not "factual") recordings of historical events concerning the person of Jesus.

Although few Christians have the scholarly background to articulate it this precisely, I believe most Christians have an intuitive grasp on this non-literal and partly-ahistorical approach to the Bible, and are able to explain themselves if given the chance. Once again, I am excepting fundamentalist/creationist Christians from this statement, though they are sometimes an unfortunately loud and vehement minority. In the end, however, it seems that on the whole, the Christian community is both flexible and reasonable enough to continue to incorporate sacred Biblical texts as a functioning part of its religious system, regardless of continuing archeological and sociological/anthropological discoveries regarding their origins and historical context.

What We Know & How We Know It
Texts, Truths and Traditions:
A Study in Three Parts

Part I: Introduction & The Historical Person of Jesus
Part II: The Historical Nature of Biblical Texts
Part III: The Part that Passion Plays

What We Know & How We Know It - Part I

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Texts, Truths and Traditions:
A Study in Three Parts

Note: The following three posts are written in response to Robin Artisson's "Why a Return to Indo-European Polytheism is Needed." At one point, he writes, "I would personally like to see Christian apologists explain to me, and the rest of the world, why all mentions of the resurrection, as well as many other claims to the divinity of Jesus, and miracle stories, are not in these earliest manuscripts of the Gospels." And though I in no way consider myself a Christian apologist, I don't mind rising to the challenge.

Further Note: Just to put these posts, which will be rather verbose and "heady" (fair warning), into perspective, I just thought I'd point out that I sat at the computer writing for so long that I now have a cramp in my right forearm. On the other hand, this afternoon while sitting in mediation out on my bedroom balcony, I think I may have seen my first "faery." So there's that, too.

In a recent post, blogger Robin Artisson, proposed this intriguing question:

"What if the entire New Testament was a construct, a forgery, a fake? What if Jesus never existed, and was instead a composite figure cobbled together from the myths of many other Gods that long pre-existed Christianity?"

Now, as "a Christian on the Druid Path" (one day I will elaborate on exactly what this phrase means to me) and as a comparative religious scholar with more than a passing interest in the theological, ritual and spiritual uses of sacred texts in various religious traditions, I figured I'd take on the various issues that such a hypothetical question raises. (Plus, Erik ecently challenged me to consider more seriously my relationship with Jesus as a deity, and so I might as well address some of the more theological/intellectual issues that the figure of Jesus raises first, before moving on.) For me, these two questions incorporate (and perhaps confuse) two very different objections to the "truth" of Biblical texts within the Christian tradition: (a) what if Jesus was not an historical person (i.e. a person who actually existed in the time and place the Bible says he did); and (b) what if Biblical texts are inaccurate or intentionally misleading regarding the actions, words and ontological nature that it attributes to him. In the rest of this post, I'll tackle each of these issues separately (the one being much easier, in my opinion, to deal with quickly and cleanly than the other).

The Historical Person of Jesus

In general, I've found it very hard to collect a solid amount of thorough, serious and scholarly work on this particular subject. There are, of course, a few of those books out there citing evidence to prove or disprove the existence of an historical person, Jesus of Nazareth, son of Mary and Joseph, who was executed by the Roman state for perceived political rebellion. Every once in a while, I'll bug Nathan, a good friend of mine and my former faculty advisor when I was attending college, to make some recommendations about respectable or helpful books on the matter; inevitably, he replies that there just aren't very many because, quite honestly, it's not a topic that is considered to have much relevance in the study of Christianity as a religion. There are a few reasons for this.

• First, it is notoriously difficult to prove the existence of particular historical figures, especially if their cultural or social importance developed posthumously and within a minority community that was actively repressed or otherwise censored by the larger contemporary culture. Furthermore, it is simply impossible to prove that such a person did not exist; strictly speaking, it is impossible to prove the theoretical nonexistence of anything, and the best we can do is make statements about the relative likelihood that something or someone did or did not exist. (In case you were wondering, this is a very handy point to bring up when discussing the existence of God with atheists, as it makes clear how the belief in the nonexistence of a god is still, in the end, a belief, and not proof. The closest we can come to such a proof is Douglas Adam's excellent proof-by-contradiction regarding the "babel fish".) That said, the analysis of Biblical texts suggests that it is very likely that there was a person by the name of "Jesus" who lived in the time and place that the various texts claim and did at least some of the things they record.


• Secondly, the historical reality of this one particular person is not crucial to the understanding of the role such a person (and that person's death) played or would have played within the early social or cultural development of Christianity. This may sound a bit shocking, until we consider that, at this point in history, social and political tensions--both between Roman and Jewish culture, and within the Jewish religious community itself--gave rise to many such politico-religious "messianic" figures preaching various forms of alternative religious paths. When I was growing up, in fact, this was often presented to me as evidence that Jesus was the "real thing," since his death made such a huge impact as to be remembered two thousand years later, while other similar martyrs of the time faded into the obscurity of history. It could just as easily be argued that the idea of Jesus had such staying power because it developed as a compilation of and extrapolation from this common social figure. Either way, it is the idea of the person of Jesus which is most relevant to Christianity as a religious system, and clearly the idea did exist historically.


• Lastly, it is not the role of scholarly studies of religions to determine "which religion is true." The belief in an historical person of Jesus who is theologically identical to the deity-Person of Jesus Christ is approached as an aspect of the Christian faith or a part of Christian mythology. Scholars generally consider proving the historical existence of Jesus about as relevant to the study of Christianity as proving the historical existence of Krishna would be to the study of Hinduism, the Amitaba Buddha to Mahayana Buddhism, or Zeus and Athena to classical ancient Greek religion. Establishing definitively the existence of such people or beings does not necessarily give us much insight into their functions within the development, doctrines or practices of a given religious tradition. At best, disproving the likelihood of an historical person might raise the question, "Why did so many suckers believe it to begin with?" But then, this is more a matter for a sociologist or social psychologist to address (after all, there are plenty of examples even in modern society of everyday, reasonable people believing some pretty strange things--e.g. "fifty million Elvis fans can't be wrong").

With all that covered, it's understandable that, in some ways, the answer to this part of the original question, "What if Jesus never existed, and was instead a composite figure...?" would be a shrug and a so-what?. It wouldn't be the first time a spiritual or religious system grew up around a text or mythology that was largely "fantastical" and unlikely given what we now know through modern scholarly and scientific efforts. Indeed, most modern believers in any spiritual or religious tradition have come to accept this fundamental uncertainty and/or improbability as a "fact of life" about being a religious person. In the end, the historical existence of Jesus is as much a matter of faith for believers--through the perfectly normal and acceptable lack of definitive proof--as is the existence of any obscure historical figure. Heck, half the time I find it difficult to believe even Paris Hilton's real!

What We Know & How We Know It
Texts, Truths and Traditions:
A Study in Three Parts

Part I: Introduction & The Historical Person of Jesus
Part II: The Historical Nature of Biblical Texts
Part III: The Part that Passion Plays

Metaphors for Love & Death

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Sometimes, sadness and joy
       are so similar.
The palolo knows
       the sea's dark glory
       the dawn's bright dissolution
       the thin membrane between.

In her book, The Edge of the Sea, Rachel Caron writes about the Atlantic palolo worm, which inhabits burrows in dead coral rock. "The life of this strange little creature seems to be ruled by light. In its immaturity the palolo is repelled by light--by sunlight, by the light of the full moon, even by paler moonlight. Only in the darkest hours of the night, when this strong inhibition of the light rays is removed, does it venture from its burrow, creeping out a few inches in order to nibble at the vegetation on the rocks." As it reaches maturity, however, the body of this little worm begins to change, as its posterior end fills with eggs or sperm, growing increasingly distended, thin-walled and fragile. "At last there comes a night when these worms--so changed in their physical beings--respond in a very new way to the light of the moon. No longer does the light repel and hold them prisoners within their burrows. Instead, it draws them out to the performance of a strange ritual. The worms back out of their burrows, thrusting out the swollen, thin-walled posterior ends, which immediately begin a series of twisting movements, writhing in spiral motions until suddenly the body breaks at the weak point and each worm becomes two."

While the anterior of the palolo retreats back to the darkness of its burrow, its newly freed second-self swims upwards toward the waters' surface, carrying within it the creative potential for new life and joining the swarms of other light-seeking worms as the night wanes. "When the first rays of the sun appear, the worms, strongly stimulated by the light, begin to twist and contract violently, their thin-walled bodies burst open, and the eggs from some and sperm from others are cast into the sea," to merge and give birth to a new generation of palolo larvae, who continue their spiraling dance among the waves for three days more, before finally seeking dark burrows of their own as the process of life begins again.

"Imagine yourself exhausted in the middle of a desert... Sitting down will take away your pain, but it will kill you. The walk for water will hurt, but it may save your life."

- Daniel Gildenlöw, from Pain of Salvation

Excerpt from a letter:

This is not suicide. If we can imagine "death as an act of creation," can we not also imagine love as a kind of dying--a dying to the self, the breaking down of boundaries, the ecstasy of utter, creative union.

But dying is painful, and I feel overcome with sorrow and doubt, even though the longing for this loving-dying is not an escapist or fear-driven desire. I relate to the palolo worm, being torn in two by conflicting natures, driven wild by the watery beauty of moonlight, but also afraid. Even when that part of me manages to wriggle up into the light, it finds itself alone, just one little worm spilling its guts out into the empty, indifferent sea. Perhaps for a while, there is bliss and joy, the certainty of giving myself to the purposeful act of loving. But in the end, it is not union or creation, it is only death. I return to that surviving part of me hiding in its burrow, wondering, "What was the point of that?" If this were some actual life-giving process, I could embrace the struggle and the losing bits of myself to the light... But each time, the certainty dwindles, and the choice to love seems to make no difference.

I am the opposite of suicidal. I want life so much, sometimes I feel like I'm losing my mind in a suicidal world. I seem to pass by people every day, doing their best to play possum, to keep still and save their strength, to preserve their sense of self. I walk the desert in hopes of water, but sometimes I wonder if this isn't just another kind of death, a kind of chasing down the mirage of reciprocity. I see others walking the horizon, chasing their own ideals with nobility or grace--but I cannot overtake them, cannot even seem to come closer. We may only be "ugly bags of mostly water," but I can't help but think there is some grace, too, in loving one another. In holding still and drinking deeply of each other's dreams.


I visited the Conservatory recently, where they have a new exhibit of intricate glass sculptures in among the flora. In the Butterfly Room, the monarchs wove in and out among the delicate rays of the crystalline sunset, drawn to the echoes of their own holy colors suffused with light. You told me to look for "the one with the waters, and all the glass," you told me I would know it when I saw it. As I walked through every room, each time I came to a fountain or pool, I wondered, "Is this it? Is this the one you meant?"

Until I came to the East Room. For a moment, I hesitated, still uncertain, unsure if I had been fooled so many times before, if I was making myself the fool again. But when I turned to go, I discovered that I couldn't--the place held me still and gradually I began to understand, "Ah, yes... this is the one, with the quiet waters, and all that glass." I sat quietly on the low iron bench for a long time, thinking about how much time we spend talking, how little we say and how well we say it. The spiral dancing of our growing up, our words the painful walking through our private deserts. I wanted to stay, to be still, to seek the deep company of loving presence.

Who'll sit with me in the East Room
       silver seafoam mosses
       moonstone waters
       cobalt fiori
be silent with me
and watch the light move in?

God is Not Great, Neither are You

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I get increasingly annoyed with atheists/anti-theists/anti-deists who object to a theological system by arrogantly assuming they know everything about it. I've been studying religions (many different religions) seriously since I was in high school, and the more I learn, the more I realize "religion" is just as subtle, complex and confusing a realm of human existence as any other. Claiming that "religion is wrong" because a particular conception of deity is unlikely or inconvenient is akin to saying "politics is wrong because Bush is an idiot." As if the only form of "politics" is the modern American version of democracy and, furthermore, the only possible president of such a system is one of Bush's ilk. As if the only form of "religion" is the angry-irresponsible-father-God of fundamentalist monotheistic communities in modern Western society. Need I point out the narrowness of this assumption? The atheists who write the best-selling books on how "religion poisons everything" seem utterly unfamiliar with the rich tapestry of Eastern traditions, the intricate historical development of world religions in general, and even the more subtle distinctions between religious groups in their own backyard.

Religion is, of course, man-made because it is a cultural system; just like politics; just like science. Do we confuse science with reality? Or do we recognize it as an explanatory system based on particular axioms enabling us to develop a consistent and coherent view of reality? Likewise, "religion" is not a uniform, pre-existing phenomenon within reality, it is a cultural construct that develops historically, that reflects the many changing understandings about the non-material and/or spiritual aspect of reality. Philosophy is free to deal with similar matters, as well as addressing matters of the material or "scientific" realm, and in some ways it provides the "missing links" between the two which enable science and religion to function together to describe reality and our experiences of it. Indeed, the modern world's obsession with science has perhaps pushed the importance of philosophy into the background, so that we have lost perspective on the relationship among differing approaches to a common "real" world, whether those approaches are scientific, political, religious, or artistic, etc. In my opinion, there is no definite line between religion and philosophy, and the line between philosophy and science is entirely self-imposed through the consistent use of the "scientific method" to formalize research methods and data collection (the scientific method itself was first imagined and developed by a philosopher, and modern physics often seems to verge again on philosophy and even a certain kind of mysticism). I know a few Buddhists who see Buddhism as a philosophy rather than a religion, and a few philosophers who postulate theories of spirit or consciousness that resemble religious notions of the "soul" without relying on any formal belief in deity.

Yet you will often hear devout atheists today claim that religion is at odds with intellectual thought or reason. Would these individuals say the same of philosophy, that it is opposed to reason and the intellect? Doubtful. It seems these atheists stay safely towards the faith-alone end of the religiousness spectrum, rather than risk treading too closely to thoughtful theological concepts that might jeopardize the idea of the God in which they (don't) believe. It may be quite true that most "believers" do not honestly believe in the god these atheists name and reject--but then, does this mean such believers do not actually believe in any god at all? Is it possible they have a difficult time justifying their faith because their faith is not placed in the same "God" atheists accuse them of believing in? I myself would find it hard to justify a blind faith in a "celestial dictator," but then, that is not my conception of deity in the first place. Yet I do believe in God/Spirit/the Divine, very strongly, and in accordance with my intelligence and knowledge of reality, not in spite of it.

All of that said, I have a great admiration and appreciation for certain atheists--those individuals brave and humble enough to confront the struggles and sufferings of reality without seeking a constructed notion of comforting-father-figure in which to hide. I am reminded, for instance, of Maynard Keenan, lyricist for the band, Tool, whose earlier atheism was spurred by his mother's painful and crippling paralysis; and of Greg Gaffin, whose scientific-materialist philosophy is often complicated by his own questions of free will, creative consciousness and social activism. I am reminded of a boy I dated in college who very carefully explained that, as a scientist, he was forced to be agnostic (being unable to prove God didn't exist), but that "in his heart" he was an atheist--only to mention to me later the possibility that the natural world could itself be one huge, living being (at which point I laughed and said, "That's Gaia! You're not an atheist, you're a Pagan!"). It takes a great deal of honesty and courage to know oneself, to acknowledge when a particular religious system simply does not speak to you.

Then, of course, there are the "believers" in that celestial Father whose belief is itself a challenge and a struggle. Those who face down pain and hardship with simplicity, faith and humility, who survive on a sense of gratitude when others might find little for which to be grateful. I have great admiration and appreciation for these individuals as well, though I may not agree with their conception of the Divine or be able to justify it. If through their struggles they have come to the core of their being, and there they find the love and support, the guiding hand of Jehovah, Allah or Christ, then this, too, is honest and courageous of them.

What I do not understand, and cannot admire, is any person who seeks to condemn whole swaths of individuals and whole systems of thought or belief, without distinction or qualification. What makes the sweeping condemnations of the angry atheist any different from the sweeping condemnations of this or that intolerant religious person? Both claim that there is only one path to truth, and that they are its exclusive and enlightened guardian. God may not be great, but I'm not so sure I can bring myself to put that much faith in you, either.

The Empty Boat

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In his book Being Peace, Thich Nhat Hanh tells this story:

A man was rowing his boat upstream on a very misty morning. Suddenly, he saw another boat coming downstream, not trying to avoid him. It was coming straight at him. He shouted, "Be careful! Be careful!" but the boat came right into him, and his boat was almost sunk. The man became very angry, and began to shout at the other person, to give him a piece of his mind. But when he looked closely, he saw that there was no one in the other boat. It turned out that the boat just got loose and went downstream. All his anger vanished, and he laughed and he laughed.

I love this story, and I have taken it to heart. It always makes me think about the resilience of little children, who will get all banged up and dirty on the playground, who knock each other down and bounce right back up again without getting angry or holding grudges. When my brother was little, he broke both his arms in one summer--one after the other--and looking back we always laugh about how that first cast didn't stop him from climbing that second tree. I think that people are, for the most part, much tougher and more resilient than they believe themselves to be. When they feel surrounded by loved ones, people who support them and care about them, they can take their lumps and come out still standing, maybe even smiling.

Anger and Control

On the other hand, there's always that strange thing that happens sometimes, when people expect to be cared for or supported, to be protected or rewarded, and they aren't. I call it "getting angry at an empty boat." When a person expects life to conform to their own goals and wishes, and life disappoints, often anger and frustration are natural reactions. The man in TNH's story expects someone to be behind the wheel, to be looking out for him--and when that imagined person fails to behave properly, the man begins to vent his anger at that imagined person. This is a metaphor for what we do when our ego-selves run into obstacles and, in our anger, we assume that some other ego-self is responsible for thwarting our plans. (I am reminded of the quote from C.S. Lewis, "I was at that time living like many atheists; in a whirl of contradictions. I maintained that God did not exist. I was also very angry with God for not existing.")

TNH's story ends pleasantly, with the man realizing his mistake and laughing at himself for his foolishness. This reaction already takes a certain level of humility and self-awareness. In some way (maybe only on a "subconscious" level), the man recognizes a certain aspect of himself and his circumstances in the loose and unmanned boat. He comes to see the empty boat not as something "out there" under someone else's control, but a part of his own life and his own self. In a flash, he understands that no one could have prevented the boats from colliding except himself, and that he himself wasn't entirely in control. He comes to realize that his own ego-self is not really the whole story, that his life and the world in general are much bigger than the desires and aims of the ego. The reaction to such a realization is, I think quite naturally, joy.

But I often wonder what would have happened if there had been witnesses. How would the man have reacted then? Would he have laughed as openly? Or would he have been embarrassed by his unwarranted anger, revealed to others? Perhaps, suddenly gifted with a moment of self-awareness and subsequent embarrassment, he would have clung to his anger and tried to justify it... "The boat's owner should have tied it up more securely! Weren't they thinking about the damage their recklessness and negligence could cause?! And you--witnesses--you should have helped! You should have been able to prevent the accident! You should have warned me!" It would be so easy to stay angry, to cling to that anger and seek other ego-selves to blame, to continue to insist on a world that is entirely within our control.

Sometimes I think there is nothing more infuriating than when the person you're angry with remains calm and collected while your temper rages and worsens. Pulling another person into a fight can feel satisfying--it confirms our ego-selves in our understanding of how the world is supposed to work (we can agree that someone is to blame, now we're just fighting over who). On the other hand, feeling our anger grow out of control while someone else remains seemingly unaffected can make us feel impotent and helpless--not part of a larger world that extends beyond our ego, but trapped in an ego that seems weak and ineffectual against other, bigger egos with more control.

The Benefit of Doubt

People often talk about giving others "the benefit of the doubt." What we most often mean by this phrase is that when there is a question about a person's motive or intention, we should accept the possibility that the person "meant well" and had good reasons. When there is a doubt, in other words, we give someone the benefit, we favor the more positive assumptions and explanations. But I think it's also important to give people "the benefit of doubt." The ego-self is quick to dismiss doubt. The ego has no doubt about its own aims and its ability to act competently on those aims; thus, it has no doubt about the ability of others to act on aims of their own, and so it judges others by the fruits of their actions.

But giving a person "the benefit of doubt" means that we accept chance and circumstance as part of how life works. We are not so quick to assume that another person is in complete control, we are not so quick to blame others when things go wrong, and we begin to find forgiveness a little easier. When we give others the benefit of doubt, we can appreciate their efforts and intentions, even if they don't succeed; and we also begin to find it easier to forgive ourselves for our own failures and short-comings, for being quicker to anger or slower to recover. The man who laughs at his own foolish anger forgives himself for his foolishness.

Riding the Currents

Sometimes, though, it is hard work to put these ideas into practice. The more we are willing to let the ego-self take a backseat, to allow ourselves to ride the currents of chance and circumstance, and to begin working more intuitively and intentionally with these natural currents (which is what "magic" essentially is, after all), the more we may appear to others as just an empty boat or a passive witness. People may expect us to act as if we are in complete control, to respond to their anger with anger and self-righteousness of our own. They may accuse us of indifference or irresponsibility if we do not react the way they expect us to react. Sometimes we might even feel as though our efforts to keep a perspective and sense of lightness and joy (and even humor) about situations only helps to aggravate others' negativity more.

I know that, as I grow older, this seems to happen to me more and more, in politics, in debates about religion or art, and even in my mundane "real life" working as a waitress. Sometimes I feel utterly bewildered by the anger other people direct at me, or at how angry I'm expected to feel. Nothing I say seems to make a difference, each word somehow twisted to fit into and build up the other person's anger and blame. It's as if, my ego not big or bold enough to satisfy, they invent an imagined ego for me. I truly become an empty boat for them, as they fill me up with foreign motivations, projecting intentions and actions onto me that range from the woefully inept or ignorant, to downright malicious.

Meanwhile, my efforts to be a thoughtful and kind human being, living gently according to a principle of love, seem not only to go unnoticed, but to contradict reality. Sometimes I feel as though the laws of action and reaction themselves seem to be implying that I might just be a little crazy. After all, how could my perceptions and those of others be so different? How could I be so wrong, when I was only trying to do my best?

When I begin to feel like this, I know I can always rely on two solid foundations--my writing, and my friendships. Today, my best friend has his own stresses and obstacles to deal with, so I turn, thankfully, to my writing. Both of these foundations help to remind me of who I "really am," nudging me to identify not with the ego-self or the story of ego that others might tell, but with a more essential and connected part of my being. Whether I am opening up to the "muse" of poetry or prosaic ponderings, or I'm interacting with an intimate friend who has his own flaws and lovable eccentricities, either way, I am grateful for the reminder that there is a bigger world out there... A world that is larger than I am and often unpredictable or even unkind, but that is messy and beautiful and worthwhile nonetheless.

Thank You for Sharing - Some Guidelines

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Due to recent comments on this blog, I wanted to share a few simple, but non-negotiable rules:

• Racism, sexism, anti-semitism or any other kind of prejudice or bigotry directed against a person or group of people will not be tolerated, and all such comments will be removed immediately. As this is my blog, it is entirely my decision what qualifies as prejudiced or intolerant comments.


In order to avoid removal, please consider the following guidelines:


• Comments regarding other religions or spiritual traditions not practiced by the commentator should be either (a) referenced to original sources (e.g. "Farid Esack talks about the difficulties of balancing religious and secular concerns in modern politics in his book, On Being a Muslim..."); or (b) couched in terms of personal experience or prespective (e.g. "I have heard..." "I think..." "I believe..." "In my opinion..." "It seems to me..." "I have experienced..." etc.)


• Comments regarding one's own religious or spiritual practices and beliefs are welcome and encouraged, but should be expressed as personal views of truth or belief, rather than as statements of fact about reality (e.g. "I try to focus my spiritual practice on transcending 'systems' and seeking direct union with the Divine...", rather than, "Religion is about seeking direct union with the Divine, and x, y, and z religions are false because they don't do this.")


• Readers are asked to show the same respect to other commentators as to the writer of this blog.


• Anonymous posts are discouraged, but for the most part acceptable. If you don't happen to have a Blogger account, please feel free to sign your name/screenname (and website address, if you like) at the end of your comment.


• Parody, satire and humor are appreciated, as long as they are clearly facetious and supporting a general attitude of light-heartedness, tolerance and fellowship with the human community (all of it, not just the groups of people who agree with you) (e.g. mocking intolerance for the sake of supporting tolerance--okay; mocking a particular religion for the sake of demeaning its practitioners or converting them to your own--not okay).


• If at any time you discover that a comment of yours has been deleted for what you think are unfair or misunderstood reasons, please feel free to post a follow-up explanation or clarification of your original thoughts. I will do my best to consider such comments fairly and leave them uncensored, even if I do not agree with them--as long as they do not exacerbate the prejudices of the original comment.

Thank you for your understanding, and please do feel free to read and comment. Discussion and debate are encouraged, as long as comments remain respectful and tolerant of others.