I recently posted some musings in this conversation post for work. It stemmed from a recent podcast episode I hosted: ‘Listening to echoes of hope: Evidence-based climate stories and a hopepunk God’, which features Dr Steven van den Heuvel and Dr Elin Kelsey. Pasted here.
In one of our recent podcast episodes, our guest Elin Kelsey made passing reference to the idea of hopepunk, a term coined by Alexandra Rowland in 2017 with a Tumblr post: “The opposite of grimdark is hopepunk. Pass it on”. The term describes a sense, first observed in the narratives of various books, tv shows, and films, that humans aren’t monsters, and that we should and can cling to our humanity and actively, continually pursue kindness, compassion and hope – the ‘soft and strong’ qualities, as it were. Hopepunk, as Rowlands notes, is counter-cultural, hence the ‘punk’. The term reflects the disruptive, rebellious nature of believing in an underlying goodness to the world and a stubbornly optimistic view of humanity. Hopepunk reflects the disruptive, rebellious nature of believing in an underlying goodness to the world and a stubbornly optimistic view of humanity. The term is set in contrast to other hashtag-friendly compound words, grimdark and noblebright, the former reflecting a view of human nature as essentially evil or bad, and a situation that is hopeless (exemplified by shows such as Walking Dead or the awfully watchable characters of Succession). In a grimdark world, the thing with feathers (as Emily Dickinson described hope) is stuck in an oilspill. Noblebright refers to the special, singular individual who saves the day and provides a telos, a happy ending, thanks to their heroic qualities, single-handedly plucking the thing with feathers from the oilspill. For a hopepunk outlook, in contrast, “There are no heroes and no villains. There are just people”. It is not in denial – there are still oilspills – but there’s also the thing with feathers and hopepunk means we try together to save it. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t, but we try. It’s difficult to tell if a hopepunk life requires effort because humans are essentially originally sinful, individualistic monsters motivated by cynical schadenfreude and so we’re constantly pushing ourselves to rise above that nature, or if it’s hard because humans are essentially good, relational, hopeful beings motivated by love who are trapped in bad systems or at the mercy of brokenness. Perhaps we feel a resonance with both of these possibilities at different times. A hopepunk approach attempts to yoke together a loving, joyful, persistent hope for humanity with a realistic grit that knows this involves counter-cultural, live-or-die activism against an apathetic or antagonistic norm. Which seems like a good description of the life of Jesus. And there’s more to explore. Discussions of hopepunk often use battle imagery to represent the method of promoting itself. We find phrases such as “weaponising hope” or fighting the good fight, with kindness.[5] We see battle language in some theologies (and indeed in scripture) and the ‘noblebright’ Jesus as the hero in defeating death. But this kind of language can be used to perpetuate the systems that hopepunk is trying to counter, and can seem more than a little sinister, especially if we try and tie that to theologies that justify harmful church practices. So, I’m curious what it would mean – theologically and practically – to go deeper, enhancing the rebellious, disruptive nature of hopepunk by moving beyond battle imagery towards drawing on non-violent and transformative notions of power and influence (also found in scripture) that seek to mutate aggression and don’t weaponise anything. This would truly be radical – tapping into muddy roots of relational energy and a dark mycelial love, what Wesley calls the “greatest medicine of life” (p3). I often return to a quote from Ignatian writer Margaret Silf that illustrates this: “All the fire-power that the world can muster is not capable of pushing a single crocus through the frozen winter soil” (p118). Hopepunk theology, then, sees “[d]eath on the cross,” as Jim McDermott writes, “not as some brutal cosmic math equation but a personal choice to continue to love and give and believe even when your life is at stake”. Hopepunk theology doesn’t focus on winning the fight – “there’s no such thing as winning” – it imaginatively transmutes the fight, redefining strength to transform swords into ploughshares. It focuses on Jesus’ life as living out a disruptive belief in the power of hopeful faith to heal and reunite. Hopepunk theology doesn’t focus on winning the fight…it imaginatively transmutes the fight, redefining strength to transform swords into ploughshares. It focuses on Jesus’ life as living out a disruptive belief in the power of hopeful faith to heal and reunite. It doesn’t emphasize winning in the end, nor does God fix, solve or remove suffering, but rather it persistently believes in the potential of the present, equipped by a God who presents hopeful possibilities at every turn, with every choice and in every unchosen situation. Through birth and growth, and even decay and death, “[o]ur salvation lies in hope,’ argues Miroslav Volf, “not in hope that insists on the future good it has imagined, but in hope ready to rejoice in the kind of good that actually comes our way”. Hopepunk theology would say that God offers a prevenient hope that never stops singing, inviting us towards corporate sanctification, giving us eyes to see and enter the fullness of both the heaven and the hell all around us. We are called to a continual and communal process of stumbling and striving to love creatively enabled by an awareness of our shared humanity as we embody the resurrected Jesus’ hands and feet in each moment. [1] Hopepunk theology would say that God offers a prevenient hope that never stops singing, inviting us towards corporate sanctification, giving us eyes to see and enter the fullness of both the heaven and the hell all around us. In our podcast episode, Steven van den Heuvel relates the legend that when asked what he would do if the world were to end tomorrow, Luther responded that he would plant an apple tree. The fact this persists as a story despite probably being factually inaccurate makes it even more hopepunk. Our “wild and precious” hope invites us to just take action, to do good, believing that “if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing badly” (58m33). Or, as adrienne marie brown puts it, “less prep, more presence” (p42). Hopepunk: a useful, motivating concept to ponder for thinking about our lived-out theology in relation to others, in our faith communities, in our neighbourhoods, in our political action, on our planet. To end, a hopepunk poem from Mary Oliver. ******** Wild Geese by Mary Oliver You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things. [1] I’m indebted to Tony Appleby for the idea of us embodying the resurrection of Jesus.
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I somehow cobbled together some thoughts around (peri)menopause and theology, a ridiculously under-researched area considering it's such a fundamental part of most women's lives. I wove in yoga and centred on process theology. Find it here (open access). Abstract: I have a new article published in the Journal of Practical Theology. It's my first published theology piece so I'm quite chuffed to get over that hurdle! Some free pdf copies are here (or by institutional access). And if that link doesn't work and you don't have institutional access and would like to read it, contact me. Abstract: Practical theologies that help us manage change and uncertainty give us the foundation to flourish in a shifting, uncertain world. Here I place open and relational theologies alongside the awareness-based change framework of Theory U. I explore how they embrace change as a constant part of our lived experience, with particular focus on the underpinning concepts of time, human agency, relational freedom and embodied, shared power. I examine what the intersection of these livable, practical theories offers in thinking about transformational change and leadership in community that is formed through responsible, relational agency and hopeful creativity. I recently reviewed 'Embodying Authenticity' by Eunice Aqualina. The original review is here and it's pasted below. Short story, it's a great introduction to somatic practice. "Somatic transformation…places the body at the centre of the change methodology, focusing primarily on working through the body to facilitate learning and change." Take a few deep breaths, noticing how you are aligned left to right, front to back, observing without judgement where you are holding tension in your body. This simple practice – connecting our thoughts with sensations in our body – is the first step of a somatic practice, the central theme of Embodying Authenticity by Eunice Aquilina. In Embodying Authencity, Aquilina draws on descriptions of her own practice and research as a leadership and executive coach and somatic practitioner, trained through the Strozzi Institute. Through this overview of her work, she argues that since thinking never takes place independently of the rest of the body, a raised awareness of bodily habits, postures, actions, breath, tension, and so on, should be integrated into an effective – authentic – practice of leadership and teamwork. The somatic domain represents not just our physical body but the “sum total of our experience” (23), recognizing how memories and habits of movement, thought and experience are formed together. This is not a step-by-step manual (although there are two helpful centring practices, one of which is summarized above) nor an academic review, but rather reflections on decades of work in somatic practice with leaders. Aqualina is aware of the cynicism towards the integration of somatic practices into leadership work, noting participants’ initial ‘eye-rolling’, preference for tasks and projects over work on their own inner lives, and a clinging to the known hierarchy of roles over collaborative, relational, vulnerable work towards becoming a learning community. With a philosophy related to aikido principles of blending with and transforming the energy of an attack, she describes working compassionately rather than combatively with clients resistant to engagement through a groundedness of self and belief in the process. Crucial details of exactly how cynical clients are lured into participation are not given but a sustained authenticity of this kind on the part of a facilitator seems to be the key. Aquilina blurs the line (if there is a line) between therapy and leadership/executive coaching in the context of change. She prioritizes an awareness of the inner condition of a leader, adding how this is felt physically as well as mentally or spiritually – the somatic approach integrates all three towards a holistic understanding. This has parallels with the work of Otto Scharmer and his Theory U (she begins by describing a session with Arawana Hayashi of the Presencing Institute, which is based around Scharmer’s work). One distinctive emphasis within the book is that, as an ‘outside’ facilitator of transformative change, she engages not just with clients and their journeys but also in her own somatic practice of inquiry, examining herself and how she interacts with her clients individually and in groups. This sharpens her ability to read the room, to sense when to intervene, “neither pushing them too far nor letting them off the hook” (144). Consultants focused on the condition of their clients should take note to explore their own inner life and embodiment practices, and their willingness to learn and change, as crucial habits for working from a place of authenticity and embodied presence. It’s perhaps ironic that those that work with somatic practices often use metaphorical language to convey their meaning and this book is no exception, with appeals to the ‘deep’ ‘inner self/wholeness/wisdom/rightness’ and instructions to ‘hold a space’, ‘drop into our feeling self’ and ‘tune in’ to one’s ‘energetic patterns’. These references to one’s ‘energy’ (or ‘presence’) may be seen as metaphorical visualisations or literal descriptions depending on one’s perspective – the former approach does not diminish the value of metaphorical visualization for its effect on the physical body/mind. Aquilina argues that such awareness enables choice, as conditioned, embodied habits (of body and speech) are made visible and challenged where necessary. “Cognitive awareness is not enough. We need to shift our psychobiology…which shifts the action that is possible for us” (182) Aqualina cites Strozzi-Heckler’s ‘arc of transformation’ which entails a progression (again similar to that of Scharmer’s Theory U) from awareness through uncertainty, vulnerability, “learning to swim in the waters of conflict” (107) and disorganization through to a ‘new shape’. This results in authenticity, which for Aqualina means embodying a connection between one’s most important values and one’s embodied experience, without pretense, shame or fear. It entails a perpetual practice of “ongoing enquiry” so that we “show up in the wholeness of who we are” (197), embodying authenticity. “When we get in touch with our authentic self and speak from that place our message lands powerfully with those listening to us” (45) At a fundamental level, the somatic approach simply urges leaders to pay attention to the sensations, postures and movements in their body as they think and speak, and to those of others they connect with, integrating that feedback into an ongoing reflective inquiry. While important for everyone, a leadership that is willing to undertake this vulnerable work visibly will create through demonstration the necessary atmosphere of trust and agency for others to follow.
Throughout Embodying Authenticity, Eunice Aqualina offers a clear introduction to the efficacy of somatic practice in leadership, and change management in particular. Through case studies from the perspective of both facilitator and participants at different levels of leadership, she provides examples of the principles she describes – awareness, vulnerability, being with unknowing, collaboration, ongoing reflection, and more – all necessarily embodied. She includes helpful further reading for more details on this approach. "There are two ‘safe’ places: one is to be fearful and shameful and not free. The other is to be fearless and without shame and free. The challenge of faith is to navigate the move from the first (which may be ‘safe’ but is not ‘saved’), to the second where life is lived in full colour, embodied and psychologically healthy" I recently wrote an essay that's been posted on the Center for Open and Relational Theology website. It just fell out of my finger tips so I suppose it was the right time for it. It's long for a blog post really, but it fits on this website too, so here it is. There are arguments over whether deconstruction is a good tool for Christian theology to use. Sometimes, however, deconstruction is a process that just seems to happen of its own accord. There may be some who sit down and say, ‘Right, I shall now deconstruct my faith’. More commonly, I suspect, life events and new questions whip the theological rug out from under one’s feet and it’s not clear what, if anything, is underneath. To shift analogies, once crisp theology cracks apart, oozing love starts to matter more than truth, the game changes, life changes, faith changes, and one’s feet get sticky. In this paper I describe something of my own journey of deconstruction and towards a newborn, creative faith, a journey that could be described as a move towards open, relational theology. In that move, observations from psychologist Abraham Maslow provide a descriptive correlation for the kind of faith that emerges, and towards which I continue to toddle. Though best known for his hierarchy of needs, psychologist Abraham Maslow writes in his later book ‘Towards a Psychology of Being’ about what characterizes ‘creativeness’ in his clients.[2] Maslow’s discussion of creativeness resonates with my journey into an authentic, poetic, healthy faith centred in love and it works as a metaphor for that process when viewed through a theological lens and in conjunction with the psychological development of creativity. This is surely no coincidence. It is perhaps ironic then that Maslow takes pains in the preface to describe his work as following a scientific method towards truth: he argues that while, “poets, prophets, priests, dramatists, artists or diplomats…may have wonderful insights, ask the questions that need to be asked…may even be correct and true much of the time…Science is the only way we have of shoving truth down the reluctant throat”.[3] In a therefore intriguing collaboration with this approach, his findings nonetheless provide a fascinating correlation with a return to faith, to a practical theology that is grounded in a relationship with a God of relational love. While I have always had (and am grateful for) what I was told was a ‘spirit of questioning’, the theological rug got finally pulled out from under my lifelong evangelical feet when I was presented with the fact that there is more than one Christian theology of hell, thanks to work I was asked to do as background for a documentary on the subject.[4] I started pulling at that thread that was already loose, and now I am surrounded by a big, beautiful pile of multi-coloured threads. I say it’s beautiful now but at the start it was a disturbing, massive mess that, I quickly understood, could never be re-woven the way it was before. The next realization was that I believed in a God of relational love through experience but I believed in hell just in case it was true: if you believe in hell and it turns out not to be real, you’ll be okay, but if you don’t believe in hell and it turns out to be real, you certainly won’t. That is the wager: it’s a trap.[5] And what came to matter – the way out of that trap – was not whether it was doctrinally accurate but the fact that that is no way to live: it stopped feeling like a practical, livable theology. A God of love doesn’t threaten hell in order for us to believe. A God of relational love will not, cannot, send people who have never heard of Christianity and never prayed the right prayer to be consciously tortured for all eternity. Maslow describes how what he terms a ‘self-actualizing’, creative character development can lead to a, “special kind of perceptiveness that is exemplified by the child in the fable who saw that the king had no clothes on”.[6] This resonates with the feeling that a switch was flipped and eternal hell went quite quickly from being a cornerstone of my theology to a ridiculous idea. ‘But the Bible says’, voices cried. I have learned that the Bible says a heck of a lot of things as its writers grappled with ways to understand and write about this very journey. The ongoing shift, then, was from a faith with ‘Truth’ (and fear) at its centre to a faith with uncontrollable, reliable, abundant, creative, vulnerable, relational Love at the centre. While safe in its constancy and nature, unconditional love is still a fearful, awe-ful, overwhelming thing that we will never fully grasp. But a God of love is relational, not legalistic. Once Love is at the heart of faith and theology, it cannot exist alongside a belief in a supreme being who condemns people to an eternity of pain. Apart from the limitation that places on God, it just makes no sense; it had no resonance. God cannot allow torture throughout all eternity and be loving (or powerful). It made no sense for eternity and, crucially, it wasn’t practical theology for this life – if everything is predetermined then there was no real point to prayer, no answer to evil, and I had no real free will. In his study on creativeness, Maslow writes that he soon realized that he had to look beyond traditional art practices and products to find true creativity, to locate, “that more widespread kind of creativeness which is the universal heritage of every human being that is born”.[7] He observed that that “some of the greatest talents of mankind were certainly not psychologically healthy people, Wagner, for example, or Van Gogh or Byron. Some were and some weren’t, it was clear”.[8] He instead found creativity in social activists, administrators, athletes and homemakers: “one woman, uneducated, poor, a full-time housewife and mother…was a marvelous cook…She was…original, novel, ingenious, unexpected, inventive. I just had to call her creative. I learned from her and others like her that a first-rate soup is more creative than a second-rate painting.”[9] In a similar vein, while cracks appeared and things fell apart, what emerged of my theology and spirituality began to be sourced more widely, more creatively, in a more embodied way that tapped into innate, original goodness – indeed it’s no coincidence I began to play at painting during this time – I still wanted a faith, but one that tasted like first-rate soup. I was blessed to be in a faith community with flex at this time; I was facilitated in my wandering rather than warned back into the doctrinal fold. I was even encouraged to air my meandering theology and my artwork in half-baked sermons. Maslow describes “neurotic people” who “wall off from fear, much that lies within themselves. They control, they inhibit, they repress, and they suppress. They disapprove of their deeper selves and expect that others do, too”.[10] If we have a theology based on the disapproval, even anger of God, it seems likely that this kind of unhealthy profile will be the result. With a faith centred in approving, relational love, rather than externalizing our angels and demons, we are theologically and psychologically equipped to accept these parts of ourselves and not only face but befriend them, becoming less afraid of ourselves – we come to understand that we can make a hell of heaven but also a heaven of hell, to paraphrase Milton.[11] This is another place where spiritual and theological development meets the psychological. Maslow observes the importance of his clients’, “lack of fear of their own insides, of their own impulses, emotions, thoughts”.[12] He continues: “They were more self-accepting…This approval and acceptance of their deeper selves then made it possible to perceive bravely the real nature of the world and also made their behavior more spontaneous (less controlled, less inhibited, less planned, less ‘willed’ and designed). They were less afraid of their own thoughts even when they were ‘nutty’ or silly, or crazy. They were less afraid of being laughed at or being disapproved of. They could let themselves be flooded by emotion…They waste less of their time and energy protecting themselves against themselves.”[13] A faith based in relational love rather than fear will thus work for corporate healing in every sense, a salve on the wounds that fear and shame cause us both individually and together. Holistic, integrated healing may be physical, mental, spiritual, social, and/or ecological. We see through Maslow how a practical theology grounded in creative love has psychological parallels and ramifications. He notes that his self-actualizing creative clients demonstrated a relative absence of fear and this freed them to be “spontaneous and expressive”, something I saw reflected in my own life.[14] They were “more ‘natural’ and less controlled and inhibited in their behavior, which seemed to flow out more easily and freely and with less blocking and self-criticism. [They possessed the] ability to express ideas and impulses without strangulation and without fear of ridicule”.[15] There are two ‘safe’ places: one is to be fearful and shameful and not free. The other is to be fearless and without shame and free. The challenge of faith is to navigate the move from the first (which may be ‘safe’ but is not ‘saved’), to the second where life is lived in full colour, embodied and psychologically healthy, a life that Jesus modeled. As Maslow describes, this journey is as much about trust in oneself as trust in God, and of course the two are connected: “The normal adjustment of the average, common sense, well-adjusted man [sic] implies a continued successful rejection of much of the depths of human nature, both conative and cognitive. To adjust well to the world of reality means a splitting of the person. It means that the person turns his back on much in himself because it is dangerous. But it is now clear that by so doing, he loses a great deal too, for these depths are also the source of all his joys, his ability to play, to love, to laugh, and, most important for us, to be creative. By protecting himself against the hell within himself, he also cuts himself off from the heaven within. In the extreme instance, we have the obsessional person, flat, tight, rigid, frozen, controlled, cautious, who can’t laugh or play or love, or be silly or trusting or childish. His imagination, his intuitions, his softness, his emotionality tend to be strangulated or distorted.”[16] The work of a practical theology embedded in a faith community is to support each other in this saving, healing journey. Such a theology, such a community, will not manipulate, control, or direct, any more than God does these things. In a safe-to-risk space, each will lead and serve the other by offering grace, showing mercy, demonstrating forgiveness towards oneself and others, and teaching responsibility. We will be free to serve because we will no longer have to be so defensive; we don’t need to all be the same, and indeed shouldn’t be because we have unique relationships with God. Discipline and duty will follow naturally from gratitude and a desire to serve, again reflected in Maslow’s observations: “Duty became pleasure, and pleasure merged with duty. The distinction between work and play became shadowy…But this is precisely what the great artist does. [She] is able to bring together clashing colors, forms that fight each other, dissonances of all kinds, into a unity.”[17] This resonates with the idea of Emmanuel, God with us, us with God. In an open, relational theology, God works and plays with our cooperation in the world; we are a team. As William James suggests, we can believe that this life is worth living, and our belief will indeed help create the fact.[18] God is so much more than us but respects us and gives us this gift of vocation to live out the loving image of God; our lives have meaning, purpose, and we act from a place of being held by Love, rather than being threatened with a stick or enticed with a carrot. Jesus says, ‘No, really, you take the wheel, I’ll navigate. Let’s pick a destination. I am with you to the end of the age’. If God is the interconnected power of Love involved in creation, then it makes sense that theology of this kind can have decent, life-giving conversations with artists and with quantum physicists alike, with psychologists and with activists, even with atheists. Each works to understand and work with the interrelated nature of the universe, helping us to perceive and live out our interconnectedness so that we flourish together. We will all have different lenses, different metaphors, but where this Venn diagram overlaps is this underlying interconnected web. We all seek to understand our purpose as conscious human beings, and to work on ways to transmute suffering, weaving it into this web. The measure of faith and theology then becomes primarily and precisely whether it is practical: in other words, whether it works, whether it is useful in nurturing love, as Jesus did. In other words, the assessment is whether it is true in its subjective integrity and objective usefulness: I want a first-rate, tasty soup, not a second-rate, doctrinal painting. My conversation with you is no longer to establish whether you are In (sound) or Out (unsound, backsliding heretic, fun though that label might be) or to establish whether your theology is internally consistent from the perspective of an ivory tower, but rather to hear your story and look both for the places where our stories are different and also where they overlap, anticipating relational love at the centre since that is your deepest essence, your divine spark. The ways you are different from me are gifts, not threats. We can collaborate with each other and with God in order to participate meaningfully in the unfolding of God’s will. The practical measure of faith and theology is not about words but about actions, actions we are moved to make from a place of unearned grace. Belief in a God of Love at the centre is not about a legal transaction that God is obligated to meet provided we say the right prayer but about enjoying a relationship with God and having that shine from us in our actions as a human fully alive. The God of love is not inherently angry with us from our birth, just for being us, but I am sure God gets all kinds of angry, frustrated, and agonizingly sad when humans don’t take up the ethical slack and live lovingly with one another and in cooperation with the planet. In this life there is unexplainable suffering. There is no one, good theology of suffering, especially when such a theology focuses on explanation. There are only ways of transmuting that pain, and only the person who suffers can co-create and live that theology along with God. On the other hand, I can imagine God being full of joy when we do live from a place of love, living out God’s will. A key attribute of a practical faith and theology is in its creativity. A theopoetic, open faith is future-orientated, not in (or not exclusively in) an afterlife sense, but in the sense of allowing for the emergence of the new. Many faith journeys involve a ‘second naïveté’, a mid-faith-life crisis that can sometimes result in a darker, richer faith; it is a process that can feel as if it is unearthing something that was there all along but which had been buried. Maslow uses this term second naïveté (which he attributes to George Santayana) to describe his clients’ rediscovery of an innate yet self-aware creativity: they either “retained or regained…a potentiality given to all or most human beings at birth, which most often is lost or buried or inhibited as the person gets enculturated”.[19] Maslow observes the difficulty of creative “improvisation”,[20] in a world accustomed to enculturation, a difficulty which applies equally to theological improvisation in a religiously-enculturated world: “succeeding upon the spontaneous is the deliberate; succeeding upon total acceptance comes criticism; succeeding upon intuition comes rigorous thought; succeeding upon fantasy and imagination comes reality testing. Now come the questions, ‘Is it true?’ ‘Will it be understood by the other?’ ‘Is its structure sound?’ ‘Does it stand the test of logic?’ ‘How will it do in the world?’ ‘Can I prove it?’ Now come the comparisons, the judgments, the evaluations, the cold, calculating morning-after thoughts, the selections and the rejections.”[21] A practical theology allows and indeed enables someone to explore how their innate spirituality and sense of interconnectedness with the God of love might have been “buried or inhibited” by religious enculturation, and to nurture its growth.[22] The measure of faith and theology is in its dynamic creativity rather than fixed, unbending certainty. A vital faith embraces doubt because it also carries with it a felt sense of potential and possibility that in turn lead to hopeful, dare I say exciting theology. Such a theology is thus practical in terms of its ethical impetus and also for its correlation with psychological development. In parallel, Maslow describes at length how self-actualizing creative people manage the unknown by positively embracing it. They are, “relatively unfrightened by the unknown, the mysterious, the puzzling, and often are positively attracted by it…They do not neglect the unknown, deny it, or run away from it, or try to make believe it is really known, nor do they organize, dichotomize, or rubricize it prematurely. They do not cling to the familiar, nor is their quest for the truth a catastrophic need for certainty, safety, definiteness, and order…They can be, when the total objective situation calls for it, comfortably disorderly, sloppy, anarchic, chaotic, vague, doubtful, uncertain, indefinite, approximate, inexact, or inaccurate (all at certain moments in science, art, or life in general, quite desirable).” “Thus it comes about that doubt, tentativeness, uncertainty, with the consequent necessity for abeyance of decision, which is for most a torture, can be for some a pleasant stimulating challenge, a high spot in life rather than a low.”[23] His description here could equally apply to a theopoetic, open, relational stance on theology which expects and welcomes the unknown as an authentic part of the faith journey. One critique of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is that it is individualistic, neglecting the social context. In the later work we are referencing here, social interconnectedness is more visible and he explicitly notes the ability of creative people to “integrate and…play back and forth between integration within the person, and [their] ability to integrate whatever it is [they are] doing in the world”.[24] This provides an ethical impetus that open, relational theology and theopoetics share. A practical, useful theology that I seek will be embodied. As I learn, feel, listen, create my way to a greater experience and understanding of divine Love, I trust it will, like Maslow’s creativeness, radiate, while no doubt also being misunderstood by ‘ungrowable things’. It will hopefully (in every sense) be, “‘emitted,’ like radioactivity, and hits all of life, regardless of problems, just as a cheerful person ‘emits’ cheerfulness without purpose or design or even consciousness. It is emitted like sunshine; it spreads all over the place; it makes things grow (which are growable) and is wasted on rocks and other ungrowable things.”[25] It will liberate a creative, innate faith that is “spontaneous, effortless, innocent, easy, a kind of freedom from stereotypes and clichés…made up largely of ‘innocent’ freedom of perception, and ‘innocent’, uninhibited spontaneity and expressiveness”.[26] I am still asked whether I ‘still believe’ in this or that, as if that will give any indication as to my spiritual wellbeing. Those are not the questions to ask. Ask me for my recipe for first-rate soup. [1] Written by Emma Pavey. Also published here. [2] Abraham H. Maslow, Toward a Psychology of Being (Mansfield Centre, Martino, 2010[1962]). [3] ibid, p. v. [4] Hellbound? Feature-length documentary produced and directed by Kevin Miller. Available here: https://vimeo.com/ondemand/hellbound [5] A good place for an Admiral Ackbar gif https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F4qzPbcFiA [6] Maslow, Toward a Psychology of Being, p. 129. [7] ibid, p. 127. [8] ibid, p. 127. [9] ibid, p. 128. [10] ibid, p. 132. [11] John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I, Lines 234-235. [12] Maslow, Toward a Psychology of Being, p. 132. [13] ibid, p. 132-133. [14] ibid, p. 129. [15] ibid, p. 129. [16] ibid, p. 133-134, emphasis added. [17] ibid, p. 131. [18] William James, The Will to Believe (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2014 (orig. Longmans Green, New York, 1897)) p. 62. [19] Maslow, Toward a Psychology of Being, p. 130. [20] ibid, p. 135. [21] ibid, p. 135. [22] ibid, p. 130. [23] ibid, p. 130-131. [24] ibid, p. 132. [25] ibid, p. 136. [26] ibid, p. 129-130. ‘I uniquely, lovingly embrace every image I have made out of the earth’s clay. Tensions are high, bodies are tight, spirits are valiant but tired. In my country (UK), as in so many around the world (except New Zealand, lucky bastards) we are facing complicated and wearying lockdown measures. So many countries are facing civil unrest, elections, the global movement of desperate people, and fear. A lot of fear. It can feel like fear is at the heart of it all. It is not. So I offer this simple, two-minute meditation. Let’s give our inner cynic a bit of a sit down, and allow our whole selves – our fiery spirit – to be comforted and strengthened by the source of Love. Take a pen or pencil and draw a circle, over and over in the same place. Listen to the sound that the drawing motion makes on the paper, like a rhythmic wave. Consider matching the movement to your breath, perhaps eight to a breath. There are times to open up wounds for deep examination and times to bind up wounds to let them heal from within. And so there are times to be vulnerable and open, and times to reconnect with your self, your ‘earth’s clay’, and to be sure of your own boundaries; to feel wrapped, to feel safe, in the storm. Breathe in and out deeply. Invite your anxious, fearful self to be brave and to stand down for just a moment. If you are able, reach out your arms and wrap them as far around your body as you can, pressing your fingertips into the back of your shoulders. Let your head fold forward and breathe deeply for a few breaths. Know that you are loved by your own truest self.
Sense that your rich, inner divine spark is always alight. Feel that you are held and loved, because you exist. In this moment, in this breath, in these arms, you are held. In this breath, in these arms, the waters have been calmed. Take heart. Be uniquely, lovingly embraced. Serve the world. Over the past few months I've been drip-feeding eclectic quotes I've collected over quite a few years, along with some new finds, onto my work social media feed since our theme for 2020 is flourishing, a theme which has become somewhat complex in the current situation. I collated the 50+ quotes together and have formatted them into a pdf, which is now downloadable and offered freely. This one is one of my favourites:
A piece originally posted here written about uncertainty as we stumble around sort of post pandemic lockdown but still mid pandemic. “[A time of] fruitful chaos, a place of incubation for new ideas and lifestyles, of resistance and creativity” – Victor Turner This is how anthropologist Victor Turner describes times of ‘anti-structure’ which cultures engage in, as opposed to the normal times of ‘structure’ (1). The former consists of legitimised periods of liminal time when the rules are set aside or subverted, when everything is challenged. Once this rebellious instinct has been vented, we return to ‘structure’ at the determined time quite readily, having had enough (2). Charles Taylor gives the example of the medieval Carnivals, when paupers would pretend to be kings, and argues that such pressure valves have been lost (3). He also highlights Turner’s notion of ‘communitas’ – essentially the sense that we all belong together and are bound together – that is brought to the surface during times of anti-structure. When the pandemic lockdown began, it felt like this – not the party of Carnival, of course, but a temporary time of ‘anti-structure’ when practices and routines were disrupted, an unpredictable virus wandered our streets along with goats and penguins, workers often neglected were recognised as vital, and we all took gulps of fresher air together. We knew everything would be turned upside down for three weeks, but then, when it was over, we would go back to normal life. We would be left with the tragedy of death and the immense challenge for those on the front lines, but also with the lockdown bucket list of things we did during this liminal time that were unlike us, whether shaving our head, actually talking to our neighbours, bunny hopping around the living room with Joe Wicks, or simply working in our pyjamas all day. How many of these activities were our attempt to turn chaotic anti-structure into something we controlled? What we face now is that this period of time-bound ‘anti-structure’ is bleeding into structure. The ending of what was supposed to be a temporary measure is not clear cut – we have had enough, we’d prefer a return to ‘normal’, but we are uncertain about every step of what comes next. We are being asked to rethink almost every aspect of our lives on a long-term basis, to make some kind of new structure, order from chaos. You may have seen circulated Maslow’s hierarchy of needs), with food and safety at the bottom and self-realization at the top. An arrow points to the bottom of the pyramid, to ensuring food and safety, and says ‘we are here – don’t try to be heroes’. So how can we possibly talk about flourishing when we are focused on surviving and getting through the day? What do we do with this constant uncertainty and how do we guide others who are struggling? Uncertainty is a feature both of our faith and our life at all times – whether in terms of not knowing what the future will bring, or in terms of the beliefs and practices we usually hold dear. So a part of flourishing, especially now, is what we do with that uncertainty. We could try to ignore it, but from the science of mindfulness to the spirituality of Buddhism, we learn that the received gift and practiced skill of both stillness and acceptance are key to a flourishing mind/body/soul. Christian religious tradition has often tried to wrangle uncertainty to the ground, boxing it into dogma and control. Some theologies declare – with certainty – that God has a predetermined sovereign plan, which means that uncertainty is simply our unfamiliarity with said plan or inability to commit to said dogma. Other theologies create a virtue of uncertainty, relishing an anarchic freedom – we’re all (God included) making it up as we go along. We may wander and visit both these towns from time to time depending whether we feel drawn to predictable structure or the chaotic Carnival – they both belong as places in a world grounded in Love. Uncertainty sits hand in hand with patience and trust and serves as the balance to control, as the counterweight to faith, if you will. We can learn more about befriending uncertainty now than we could have in ‘normal life’, and this will richly feed our flourishing for the long term. If people look to us as leaders for comfort and guidance in these times, our acceptance and befriending (not ‘management’) of uncertainty will influence how we counsel them. Can we help create spaces outside of any box where people can befriend uncertainty? Can we together breathe into the feeling of panic, see how uncertainty shows up in our bodies, ask any question of it (or yourself, or God), write or draw or sing an uncertain psalm (there is biblical precedent), or even give our uncertainty a name (less precedent, but why not)? Could we try placing all worries about uncertainty into a scapegoat sunflower seed, plant it and watch it grow? How can we uncertainly flourish together? This is the question. ‘If you will cling to Nature, to the simple in Nature, to the little things that hardly anyone sees, and that can so unexpectedly become big and beyond measuring; if you have this love of inconsiderable things and seek quite simply, as one who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier, more coherent and somehow more conciliatory for you, not in your intellect, perhaps, which lags marvelling behind, but in your inmost consciousness… Sources:
(1) Victor Turner The Ritual Process (Piscataway: Aldine, 1995 (1966)), quoted in Kees Waaijman Spirituality: Forms, Foundations, Methods (Leuven: Peters, 2002). (2) I discuss solitude as a type of anti-structure in my 2014 Finding a Place for Solitude in Contemporary Trinitarian Theology (2014), p98. (3) Charles Taylor A Secular Age (Cambridge: Belknap, 2007) p45-49, and following. (4) Rainer Maria Rilke Letters to a Young Poet (New York, Newton, 1993 (1934)), p34-35. Here is a piece I recently wrote during the lockdown for the coronavirus pandemic. In essence, cut yourself some slack. (Originally here). JOY Have you noticed that nature is carrying on regardless during our crisis? Here in the northern hemisphere leaves are appearing, the air is warming, and shoots of new life are emerging from the soil. With the reduction in pollution there is trembling joy in spring growth, in clean air, in birdsong. I have taken to watching a live feed of an African elephant park from the corner of my eye as I work from home, and while my leek, pea and bean seedlings push up out of the soil on the window sill. Life wins. May we take time to 'en-joy' nature as it persists. May we preach to the birds, and may we also take time to listen to them preaching to us. May this glimpse of a cleaner, quieter world change our actions and teach us how to inhabit this planet with greater care. PEACE Do not be afraid. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Suggesting ‘just stop being anxious’ to a troubled soul is rarely well-received, but let us not hear these ‘do nots’ as startling, guilt-inducing commands but rather let us allow the soothing tenor and comfort of the voice to convince us into responsibility. Peace, whether of our own minds or in our communities and countries, never just drops into our lap. It has to be built, 'peace by piece' as it were. It takes discipline of thought, the quiet, consistent sitting-alongside of others, and the will to believe that peace is possible. May we nurture the seed of belief in peace by our thoughts and our actions however small, however unseen. May we learn to move and stretch our bodies so that peace percolates from our heads to our toes. May we consider deeply our acceptance of the cycle of life and death, and know that the roots extending from that seed of peace extend into both. PATIENCE I saw a tweet recently that read something like, ‘My wife and I are playing a lockdown game called “That’s not the way we do that”. There are no winners’. For those in some degree of lockdown with others, even (especially) immediate family, the rules have changed. Negotiation of space, noise, time, food, and managing anxiety take immense energy, grace and patience. And then on the other hand, those self-isolated alone are being forced to develop the patience to wait for a time when they can again be hugged or share a cup of tea with a friend. May this experience teach us grace with each other and imagination to find ways to accompany those who have to be alone. May it also prompt us not to turn a blind eye to those trapped in abusive homes or living isolated and alone as part of their ‘normal’ life. KINDNESS Reaching out in kindness has become a feature of this time. We see neighbours speaking who have never spoken, offers of help between strangers, hundreds of thousands volunteering their time, rainbows in windows, clapping, and the many, many phone calls and attempts to teach video calling to those who can barely operate their TV remote control. These are familiar stories. May we also be aware of the need for kindness towards ourselves, not underestimating the impact of living through a time of global trauma, and allowing ourselves to rest, to be less productive, to not compare ourselves to others, and to care for our own souls so that we are better placed to care for others. GENEROSITY Our energy, brain space, money and time are all limited. We have to make considered decisions as to how we use all of them and so it can be a challenge to be generous. This time is making us think more carefully about how we spend our money, and which companies deserve it. We are also thinking anew about how to be generous with the skills and time that we have, seeing truly that we receive more than we give in uncountable ways. May we be thoughtful and generous in supporting companies, charities, ideas and movements that serve the common good and promote the wellbeing of the earth. May we look for new ways we can serve that common good in a manner that brings us deep gladness. FAITHFULNESS The disruption of routine, practices and presences in places that are sacred to us forces us to consider what signifies the essence of our faith. Celebrating Easter from home meant the loss of physical presence in church along with the connection and rituals that brings. What does it mean for us to be faithful to a tradition or particular theology in these times? What does it mean to be faithful to God? Are these the same or not? How might we keep the faith amidst change, allowing flexibility and uncertainty to feed our faith rather than threaten it? May this time of adaptation give us confidence in the consistency of a loving God. May we be granted imagination and creativity to express worship, and to connect with that Love, in unexpected and life-giving ways. GENTLENESS Goodness but don’t we need gentleness at this time? Change and uncertainty makes us spiky, and we can end up hurting others and ourselves. Any trip to the supermarket can cause fear of scarcity to bubble up and make us aggressive and irrational. None of us is immune to that virus. May we forgive ourselves when we mis-speak or mis-step, or take too many bags of pasta. May we not ask too much of ourselves, and yet ask just enough to give us pause before speaking, typing or acting out of a place of fear. May we know the gentle hand of Love upon our shoulder and may we breathe deeply into the gentleness that resides within us. SELF-CONTROL Are you learning a new language? Baking home-made bread? Creating artistic masterpieces out of household objects? If not, why not? Are you proud of being more productive during your lockdown? Are you defiantly less productive? One thing we are learning from engaging with others about their experience now is that we are all managing it differently. What is helpful for one person may be entirely unhelpful for another. We can be quick to look at what others are doing or not doing at this time, and presume to know the burdens they are carrying, the complexity of their minds and lives. May we be self-controlled in responding to others’ activity or lack of activity in this time, avoiding judgement in favour of grace and an appreciation of our different wiring. May we be charitable in our thoughts and responses. LOVE The greatest of these. We wonder if and how our lives, relationships, beliefs and practices will be the same after the pandemic. We wonder if there will even be a definitive ‘after’. Amidst the challenges, may we look for the opportunities. We are outside the box – how can we now think and move differently? New relationships and communities are springing up – how will we now love more richly? Which issues will become unimportant and which will we discover to be the real soil where we are rooted? We are experiencing just a mere taste of the fragile, uncertain and dangerous life that many displaced and oppressed people of our own country and across the world cope with long term, with no ending in sight. How will we turn the challenges and disruption we are experiencing outward to give voice to an empathetic, fervent call for justice. How will it impact the way we live, relate, move, give, and love? May love be the wolf we feed. There is now a video of the workshop I facilitated in June that I mentioned in my last post, part of a conference entitled 'Creating Compassionate Communities of Inclusion'. Check it out on youtube. |