Ash Wednesday: You Only Live Once

The Ash Wednesday words "From dust you came and to dust you shall return" have particular resonance for this Anglican agnostic. You only live once; you're here and then you're gone; therefore "turn from sin and be faithful to Christ."

It's a call to seize the moment, to begin a quest to make our own meaning out of life's meaninglessness, turn away from the things that hinder us, do what we know we should do, live how we know we should live, and be as we know we should be. Why? Because we only live once. It's our one and only shot.

I wish there were a literal resurrection and that life really were a journey towards an afterlife, but I don't have any reason to think it is. The Lenten journey -- from Ash Wednesday's brutal confrontation with life's fleeting nature, through the agony of Maundy Thursday and the death of Good Friday, to the resurrection of Easter Sunday -- is a journey from meaninglessness to meaning, from the bare bones of existence to a life that matters.

What the Archbishop did - and didn't - say

Ruth Gledhill reports that Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, made a "profound apology" to gays and lesbians in his presidential address to the Anglican Church Synod today.

Here is the relevant part of ++Rowan's speech:

The debate over the status and vocational possibilities of LGBT people in the Church is not helped by ignoring the existing facts, which include many regular worshippers of gay or lesbian orientation and many sacrificial and exemplary priests who share this orientation. There are ways of speaking about the question that seem to ignore these human realities or to undervalue them; I have been criticised for doing just this, and I am profoundly sorry for the carelessness that could give such an impression.

I am not sure the apology, or the apparent acknowledgment of gay priests and parishioners, extended to all gays and lesbians. For ++Rowan glides over the fact that the "many sacrificial and exemplary priests who share this orientation" also share their lives - and their beds - with same-sex partners.

Did he not include them in his apology? Or did he hope that by not mentioning them, he could escape the fact that this debate is not primarily about "sexual orientation," but about the actual day-to-day lives of gay Christians and priests and the partners they love?

It is a telling omission. I suspect the man in the middle has once again tried to please both sides, expecting the conservatives to say, "He's quite right, as he was only talking about non-practicing (ie celibate) homosexuals," and the LGBTs and liberals to say, "Look, he's said we're okay and he's on our side."

Unfortunately, by dodging the real issue, ++Rowan has only succeeded in insulting those on both sides of the debate.

Pentecostals lack basic hygiene. Discuss.

I came across an intriguing statement by the Episcopalian priest Morton T Kelsey. In his 1973 book Healing and Christianity, he wrote that "Pentecostal churches [have] orgiastic practices and disregard for the laws of hygiene."

I am not sure if he was simply paraphrasing the author (the interestingly named Dr Wade Boggs) he was discussing at the time, and assumed we would know that, or if it was his own opinion. Either way, I'm not sure what it means. "Orgiastic" is easy enough to read as a reference to the perceived chaotic, uncontrolled, emotional style of Pentecostal worship. But is that actually an accusation that Pentecostals are unhygienic? Here is the whole paragraph, putting the sentence in context:

Dr. Boggs points up the fact that in recent years most of the emphasis on religious healing has come from fringe groups about which there is reason to be skeptical. Christian Science (and Mrs. Eddy is certainly a controversial figure) is one example. New Thought with its dubious ancestry in the theory and practice of animal magnetism is another. The Pentecostal churches with their orgiastic practices and disregard for the laws of hygiene form yet another class, and he discusses such figures as Oral Roberts, Little David, Aimee Semple McPherson, and others. The implication is that, because the ministry of healing has sometimes been associated with ridiculous practices and foolish persons, therefore that ministry is itself ridiculous.

I am both amused and bemused that in 1973 an author could apparently get away with such a statement without feeling the need to elaborate. What could Kelsey be alluding to? One can imagine such a criticism in the early days of Pentecostalism. All those people crowding together, touching and embracing and waving their handkerchiefs in the air in the heat of the Deep South - and not to mention whites mixing so casually with Negroes!

Or perhaps it was a comment on the working class origins of most Pentecostals way back when? In the context of a discussion on spiritual and religious healing, the accusation could almost read this way: How dare the Pentecostals practice faith healing while they ignore the basic principles of good health and hygiene!

I am perplexed. I suppose it's likely that our Boggs, writing in the 1950s, had those views. It's Morton T Kelsey, writing in 1973 without challenging those assumptions, that rather baffles me. Did I miss something?

Coming out liberal: an open letter to my Christian friends

Peggy Campolo once wrote a wonderful short essay entitled In God's House There Are Many Closets. In it she describes how she once hid from others, afraid to be honest about who she really was, and she relates it to the experience of closeted gays and lesbians.

I can identify at least two closets in my own life, and although I with at least one of those I can point to a single moment of "coming out," at the same time I'm always having to come out of the closet. Every time a conversation turns in a certain direction, or every time I catch up with an old friend and face the inevitable questions, I come out all over again.

The first of those closets is of course my sexuality. I am (if it's necessary to put labels on these things) gay. I was over halfway into my twenties before I had the courage to accept myself for who I was, and almost in my thirties before I brought myself to tell others. And each time I am asked, "Are you married yet?" or "Do you have a girlfriend?", I'm coming out for a second, a third, a fourth, fifth, sixth and hundredth time.

The second closet is my faith. Or the ambiguity of it, lack of it or at least its strange metamorphosis over the last seven or eight years. Ten years ago I was a fiery born-again Christian, thoroughly evangelical and unabashedly Pentecostal. I studied theology and was an associate pastor for almost two years. I spoke in tongues, preached the Bible as the inerrant Word of God and condemned unrepentant unbelievers to an eternity in hell. Now I am a confirmed Anglican, too liberal for most liberals and pretty much agnostic on the question of God's existence.

It is unsurprising then that bumping into a Bible College friend, an old church pal, or someone who once knew me as Pastor Dave, is yet another coming-out. Coming out gay and coming out no-longer-evangelical often coincide, since the two journeys are closely intertwined.

The response from Christian friends varies. (Edit: Let me clear up some confusion here. I'm not eager to pigeonhole friends into the following categories. They're just broad categories based on my observations. Chances are if the issue of my sexuality has never come up in conversation, I don't expect a response.)

The most common response is simply to continue as if I never said anything. Some old friends and acquaintances seemingly pretend they didn't hear me. They don't affirm me, but nor do they condemn me; they just go very quiet for a while and then never bring up the subject again. It's odd, and in many ways I'd prefer it if they bit the bullet and just told me I was going to hell. It's strange to exchange emails with people and go through the motions of taking an interest in each other's lives when it's obvious they're avoiding the elephant in the room.

A related response begins the same way, but ends with me gradually dropping off their radar altogether. Eventually I'll notice they're missing from my Facebook friends list, or they've blocked me from their Messenger.

Another response is simply to live and let live. They don't affirm me, necessarily, and they don't go out of their way to condemn me, but nor is there an awkward silence as if I'd said nothing at all. It's not a big deal, and I'm not made to feel there are parts of me and my life that are off-limits.

Then there are those who patently don't have room for what and who I am. Perhaps surprisingly, this has been comparatively rare, but it still happens. These are the people whose only response is to condemn me, exhort me to repent, or worse, try to fix me. This response baffles me, since it indicates to me they haven't heard a word I've said. If after hearing my story you still think that quoting Bible verses at me is going to change my mind, you either haven't been listening or you think I'm a bit dumb. Frankly, when I get this reaction - especially after I've made a heartfelt effort to share my journey - I just feel patronized and insulted. This is what I hear: I don't care about your story, where you've been and where you're going. I'm not interested in hearing about you. I just want to fix you so your story fits my agenda again.

Lastly, there are those who affirm me. They listen to my story and they accept me for who I am and where I am. They affirm me for being who I am and being true to myself, and they know that even though many of the externals have changed, I'm still me. They know I'm still the same Dave and that inwardly I still have the same grace, love, character and integrity that I always had. It goes without saying that this is my preferred response.

Those who choose the last option prove that their hearts are spacious enough to accommodate me. They accept my story as I accept theirs. And you know the conversations I most enjoy? The ones I find the most gracious? It's not when an old friend lets me spout off all the arguments I have against their religion and then turns round and says, "Hey, Dave, you're totally right. You've convinced me. I'm going to be a liberal like you!" (as if it ever happens that way, anyway). The conversations I love most are those when a friend genuinely listens to my story and I genuinely listen to theirs. We compare journeys, share openly where we're at in life, and sometimes puzzle over how we ended up at such different destinations. But our differences? No biggie. Friends like that prove that it's not our churches or creeds, but our common humanity that binds us.

This week I took a big risk and stepped out of the closet on Facebook. I've never been secretive about the fact I'm gay or that I'm a (very) liberal Christian, but I've also never publicly revealed the pseudonym I write under. Outing myself as David L Rattigan opens up dozens of old church and college friends to the whole scope of my writings - and some might be offended, some might be shocked, and some might not really want to know me any more. It's a risk I take, but as others have already pointed out, those who can't accept where I am are probably not worth knowing anyway.

If you're a Christian friend or acquaintance, don't mistake the brutal honesty of my writings with a desire to reject you. If you're still an evangelical, I don't want to fix you. My heart is wide enough to love and accept you if you can open your heart wide enough to love and accept me. When I emerge from the shadows of my closet, that's the kind of welcome I love best.

Addendum: For anyone wanting to get to grips with my writings, here are a few links to get you started:

Fantastic Voyage: Surviving Charismatic Fundamentalism from Leaving Fundamentalism: Personal Stories, ed G Elijah Dann (Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2008)
Out and Cowed? Ex-gay in the UK from Third Way magazine (2006)
Leaving Fundamentalism (various articles from myself and others)
Rattigan Writes (my blog)
DavidLRattigan.com (my website)

In search of a theologian

In January 2008, something clicked, and the realization dawned on me that I was no longer a theist, and hadn't been for some time.

As a practising Anglican, I was a little shocked by this sudden self-awareness, since it threw into question the point of continuing to belong to a church. I did some soul-searching, wondering whether I was a hypocrite to continue in religion, and initially thought it quite likely I would sever my religious commitments altogether.

After reflection, I realized there were two factors at play, and neither was more real than the other. The first was that I was not a theist, I no longer believed any doctrine literally, and I basically agreed with the arguments for atheism; the second was that the words, symbols, images, stories, rites and rituals of religion still made sense to me on some different level as a way - the way - to think about life, to live life.

I wasn't ready to give up on religion. Nor did I want to throw out the doctrines, as such. I actually wanted to keep the myths as a way of thinking about the world. I wanted to keep reflecting on the Trinity, the Incarnation, the Life, Death, Resurrection and Ascension of Christ, and I wanted to keep up with and continue to be fed by the strange, dramatic rituals centred around them. I didn't want to abandon the myths because I couldn't believe them; I just wanted to reinterpret them.

I'm not naive enough to think I'm the first person to have taken this journey and come to these vague conclusions. I've poked and prodded in a few places - Tillich, Bultmann, Cupitt's Sea of Faith - to try and find a theologian that will help me to appropriate and articulate the kind of faith I think I now have. I'm looking for a theologian or a school of theology not to confirm what I believe, as if I want or need justification for it, but to articulate intellectually where I'm at. But who?

You might be able to help. Do you have suggestions for an author, a theologian, a book or a stream of theological thought? I'm eager to explore, but unsure where to begin.

I'm open to reading ideas that present different conclusions, of course, if you think they address the same questions, but be aware I am a long way past the stage of Lee Strobel and William Lane Craig, and probably can't muster the will to flirt around any more with Alister McGrath and Richard Swinburne. Sorry if that sounds harsh; just giving you some idea where I'm at.

So, thoughts? Fire away!

Christian and agnostic

I'm a Christian. I've been a confirmed Anglican since 2003. I'm a regular churchgoer and continue to be involved in all kinds of areas of parish life.

I am also an agnostic. I accept the intellectual arguments for atheism, and recognized about 18 months ago that I had long since given up on theism. I believe God is a human construct.

Where the mainstream arguments of atheists fall down, I think, is in assuming that because there's (probably) no God, there's no place for religion. In my experience, this just doesn't follow. I've had to radically reinterpret my faith recently, but its language, rituals, symbols and meanings have remained. To me it's all about metaphor, and the outward practice of religious worship is about acknowledging the sacred dimension of life and taking time to remind oneself to live in it.

Everyone has some way of connecting with the sacred. It might be nature, music, a relationship, an intellectual pursuit. Mine just happens to be a religion, and it's not inherently better or worse than anyone else's means of engaging the sacred. I frequently hear from atheists that we "don't need religion," as if "not needing" were enough of a reason to abolish it. "Don't need" is in itself ambiguous. What is need? Do you need a beautiful sunset? Do you need your wife? Do you need Beethoven's symphonies? There's a sense in which we don't need these things at all. We could live without them; we don't need art in the way we need oxygen, for example. Why must the next logical step be abolishment? There's another sense in which we can't live without these things.

I need religion only in the way other people need an art or a beautiful landscape or a loved one. An emotional crutch? Only if you can call Mozart or marriage or movies an emotional crutch. We don't all need these things, but we all need something.