Month: September 2010

Hauerwas on Christian identity, and on being sent into the world

‘”We’re all congregationalists now.” I don’t particularly like it, but we are. How to ensure given that reality that Eucharistic assemblies are not separate from each other is one of the great challenges before us. The role of the bishop is very important to make sure that Eucharistic assemblies are not isolated from one another. There are also other ways to do it. Certainly sending people from one congregation to another helps. But how we recover Christian unity in the world in which we find ourselves is a deep challenge. By “unity,” I don’t mean just agreement about ecclesial organization; I mean the refusal of Christians to kill one other. I think that the division of the church that has let nationalism define Christian identity is one of the great judgments against the Reformation in particular’.

‘Christians have to engage the world in which we find ourselves. We’re in love with the world because God is in love with the world. Therefore, we want the world to know what God has given us. Of course, I’ve never asked Christians to refrain from being politically engaged. I just want them to be there as Christians. What it means to be there as Christians is to be shaped by the body and blood of Christ, which has been done for the world. The closing prayer after our Eucharist celebration includes: Send us now into the world in peace and grant us strength and courage to love and serve you with gladness and singleness of heart through Christ our Lord, Amen. How could that be a retreat? I can’t imagine how the Eucharist can be self-containing if you’re sent out from it’.

– Stanley Hauerwas & Andy Rowell, ‘The Gospel Makes the Everyday Possible’.

On the cost and grace of parish ministry – Part V

Carol Howard Merritt’s recent piece on What Causes Pastors to Burnout? concludes with a sobering challenge: ‘It is clear’, she writes, ‘that we cannot continue to train so many people and have them leaving the profession after a couple of years’. And then she asks: ‘So can we begin to imagine churches in which pastors can flourish? How can we communicate these problems to our congregations? What can we do for pastors who are starting out that might ease some of these tensions? What do you wish someone had done for you?’

I recently posed these questions to a group of fellow Presbyterian ministers here in Aotearoa New Zealand. They spoke of churches having a ‘Christendom mindset, rather than a missional one’, of the need for better leadership development, of the benefit of team ministry and of the indispensability of collegiality, of not taking oneself too seriously and remembering that ‘ministry is not all about you and what you do, but about who God is and what God is doing in Christ’, about having a realistic sense of the time and of the times we live in, about the fact that ‘ministry is not at people but with people’, and about why conflict with, and grumbles about, others and ‘the church’ often escalate because of a leader’s ‘trying to bully people into something different rather than working alongside, building trust, and finding a way ahead that is appropriate for the people of that place and time’, and that ‘too often ministers (and sometimes the people) embark on a totally unrealistic set of expectations’. Others spoke of the need for time out, of study leave provisions fostering learning, reflection and refreshment in ministry, and of the requirement for professional supervision which ‘provides a useful context in which to reflect and if need be to vent off some of the pressures and experiences we have in ministry’. There was also the suggestion that there might be value in gathering ministers together in order to reflect together on ministry: ‘I wonder if a facilitated discussion might be a useful way to give us an insight into wider ministry and to identify common difficulties and challenges. Perhaps a small investment in this may be a real value to people in ministry and help avoid the personal loss they and their families feel, and the cost to the wider church of people leaving ministry because of burnout’. This latter point picks up on something else that I’ve been giving some brainstorming energy to of late; namely, the desirability of developing regional or presbytery-based workshops (say 3 times/year) for re-fuelling teaching/ruling elders and other leaders via facilitated discussions which address pastoral, theological, devotional and missiological topics and upskilling. I saw this work with much benefit in Victoria where the Baptist Union ran semi-regular Rev Up! seminars, and wherein the real value (as I saw it) was in the way the gatherings sponsored a stronger sense of community and mutual accountability in the church (and clergy) family, and discouraged the professional isolation, burnout, disconnectness, and what we might call a lack of stimulation or imagination in pastoral ministry. It also was concerned to encourage an increase in theological literacy among church leaders. All around copious amounts of good coffee and fresh muffins.

But I digress. One of the ministry interns that I have the privilege of teaching and learning from also weighed in on the conversation. He was concerned particularly with a quote that appeared in another piece that I had drawn attention to – Paul Vitello’s article ‘Taking a Break from the Lord’s Work’, which ran in The New York Times. This intern was particularly concerned with Vitello’s claim that pastors ‘tend to be driven by a sense of a duty to God to answer every call for help from anybody, and they are virtually called upon all the time, 24/7’. It is the sense of ‘call’, here secularised as ‘duty’, that grabbed his attention: ‘That word [call], I’m sure, has been central to all of us as we wrestle with what it means to be a minister of Word and Sacrament. My experience so far in my internship placement is that while a slightly nebulous understanding of call is spoken about with regards to ministers, members of my congregation at least do not associate that word with their own journeys.  Rather they speak often about their Christian duty (and that of others). Now, I’m not meaning to suggest that “call” and “duty” are mutually exclusive concepts, but I do wonder how much a sense of the call of God to all believers (ministers included) is replaced with a sense of individual duty where the roles of clergy and laity are qualitatively and quantitatively different’. Another suggested that Vitello moves ‘much too easily from the disputed and diverse causes of the problem to the very individualistic solution of “time out”‘, and that ‘often the pragmatic solution is the way to avoid the broader issues which surround the whole institution of ordination and the perspective on the world assumed by it’. These fellow ministers are onto something really important here; something that I think that Hauerwas too may be able to help us with (this recent address is just one example), and to which I hope to return to in a later post.

According to Brad Greenberg, ‘Part of the problem … stems from the fact that once a pastor has invested in his or her career, it’s exceptionally difficult to make a career change when burnout occurs. You don’t have to believe the law is just to be a high-earning attorney. But when a pastor’s faith slips, there really isn’t anywhere for them to turn’. By the way, Rowland Croucher has a helpful piece on Stress and Burnout in Ministry that’s worth checking out.

Another minister shared some findings from his own research on this topic undertaken a few years ago which suggested that there is a high likelihood of burnout when (i) the workload doesn’t meet the expectation/capability; (ii) there is a lack of reward (not just financial); (iii) there is a lack of control and autonomy; and (iv) there is a loss of a sense of community. Also, iIn her study leave project, ‘Ministry unplugged and restrung: Making time a sacrament – interior practice for ministry in the world’, Diane Gilliam-Weeks, a Presbyterian minister, argued that unless we build sound spiritual disciplines into our expectation of ministry then church leaders will continue to collapse under the pressure that these disciplines were given to combat: ‘The disciplined practice of contemplative prayer provides not only opportunity for increased intimacy with God, but daily time and space in an attitude of consent and surrender in which to rest, refocus and recharge batteries while God works on us’. She continues:

‘I observe that many of my brothers and sisters in ministry continue to be unknowingly driven, not by the model of Jesus who frequently went off by himself to a quiet place, but by cultural and familial programmes for approval and security. Consequently many feel haggard and victimised by the considerable demands of ministry and some are forced to take time off to recover from burn out or leave ministry in despair and disappointment.

Today our theological and ministry formation in the PCANZ is in my view outstanding. However, it’s my observation that while our ministers have a well integrated intellectual appreciation of the faith, they may lack the disciplines for developing an ever deeper intimacy with God that transforms the whole person. They have little or no familiarity with what the ancient church used to call ‘the three Vias’. [via purgativa, via illuminativa, and via unitiva.]

This is why I’ve come to the conclusion that any curriculum for ministry formation which does not have a place for the history and practice of contemplative prayer is incomplete and inadequate’.

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Other posts in this series:

On the cost and grace of parish ministry – Part IV

Andrew Irvine’s book Between Two Worlds: Understanding and Managing Clergy Stress (London: Mowbray, 1997) is a helpful study on a number of fronts. As the book’s title suggests, Irvine argues that ‘often behind the “masks” of office hides a person caught in two worlds between the authenticity of personhood and the role and expectation of office’. He asks, ‘With whom can this tension be shared? To whom can the inner doubts, fears and even “sins” be disclosed? Are others, whose masks seem more authentic than ours, invaded by these same realities in their lives?’ (p. xiii). The book examines the personal world of pastors and the factors which contribute to a ‘profession fraught with tension and subject to excess stress’ (p. xiii).

Irvine begins, in the first chapter, by identifying and discussing some of the biblical, historical, societal, and personal factors that shape the foundation for pastoral ministry before turning, in Chapter Two, to discuss both the positive and negative, and internal and external, features of stress. Among the internal features he names ‘success issues’, ‘sexuality’, ‘guilt’, ‘perfectionism’, ‘theological issues’, ‘identity issues’ and ‘authority dynamics’. I found his observations on the last two in this list, in particular, to be the most significant.

Irvine, who completed his PhD dissertation on ‘Isolation and Pastoral Ministry’ (St Andrews, Unpublished, 1984), had already hinted at the magnitude of identity in his Introduction where he noted that often, caught up in the trappings of office, it is the minister who, forgetting his/her own humanity, imposes the stress of non-being. And here he draws on the work of Carl Jung, who in two articles on the ego, warns of ‘the danger of over-identification with the “role” of an office and, in that act, the forgetting of the identity of the total self with all the intrinsic value of the inner person’ (p. xii). Later on, Irvine cites again from Jung’s well-known 1953 essay ‘The Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious’ (published in Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, Collected Works 7; London: Routledge and Kegan Paul), recalling how, for Jung, an individual can become trapped behind mask of a persona and thereby ‘takes a name, earns a title, represents an office, he is this or that’ (Jung, p. 156, para. 246). In other words, there is the danger of one’s identity becoming to greater or lesser degree ‘synonymous with the “role” of office, from which many cannot escape. In all functions of life, at least those visible to the outside observer, the clergy may be “Reverend So-and-So” or “the minister at Saint James”, the “woman minister from St David’s”, and so on’ (p. 28). In support, Irvine cites from psychiatrist Robert McAllister who, in 1965, penned the following observation:

The clergyman seems to me to be constantly involved in his environment in a way that does not characterize any other profession or vocation. He develops an overworked sense of identity with his clerical role. He cannot be anything but a clergyman at anytime, whether he is on vacation or at work or in the privacy of his room. A physician, a lawyer, a bricklayer, a carpenter … can be something else, can get completely away from his profession or trade.

And Irvine suggests that the problem ‘is even greater for the spouse of the clergyperson who becomes a second-string description, “the husband/wife of the/our minister”’ (p. 28). He continues: ‘All of this raises a multiplicity of questions of identity for the clergy. Not least of these questions is how the individual, that person behind the mask/persona, can find true relationship which nurtures and strengthens. In the loss of personal identity which occurs when relationship is predominantly based on office or role there is the anxiety of unfulfilment and the inner self becomes starved for healthy depth interaction. A false identity is established based on role, where in desperation the individual seeks fulfilment and relationship. Not only is the stress of loss of personal identity great in itself, but it disallows opportunity to alleviate pressure through expression of inner need, desires, doubts and fears’ (p. 28).

On the related-matter of authority dynamics (relating to issues of control and loss), Irvine notes that ‘this is not an easy question to address with clergy, for pietism looks unfavourably on such things in ministry’ (p. 29). He confesses that the desire for power and authority is a part, if not a controlling aspect, of our make-up, and that the milieu of the Church does not guarantee an exception to this. The question of authority – and its loss – is especially pressing, he writes, ‘in a world where more and more people are highly educated’ and where ‘a greater responsibility for decision making is encouraged in the workplace and a more “businesslike” way of doing things has evaded and in some cases replaced the “spiritual” procedures of the past’ (p. 29).

These all constitute what Irvine calls ‘internal features of stress’. The mirror side – the ‘external features of stress’ – are also named: ‘personal space’, ‘societal pressures’, ‘relational dynamics’, ‘colleague dynamics’, ‘vocational demands’, ‘family issues’ and ‘theological issues’. Concerning the latter, I shall say more in later posts. But here I wish to draw attention to what Irvine says about ‘vocational demands’. Irvine notes that it seems as though pastors  are particularly at risk of over-identification with the tasks of ministry which mean that life’s stresses converge with vocational stresses and the all-consuming tasks of ministry. When this occurs, the issues of family, societal demands and other personal requirements intersect and may become ‘overshadowed by the factors of vocation’ (p. 35). He proceeds to identify three separate sets of expectations which serve as a source of conflict: (i) the actual expectations of the faith community; (ii) those that lie within the pastor themselves; and (iii) imaginary expectations.

On the first of these, Irvine notes that the expectations of church communities are both diverse and dependent on those things which have served to shape its membership. ‘In fact, the diversity of expectations is so great’, he suggests, ‘that the task of fulfilling all, in most cases, would be nigh to humanly impossible. Even the more official expectations of the church, those which originate from the appointed boards of the church, originate from those things which have shaped the board/committee and their vision for ministry through that church in that community’ (p. 35).

On the second, namely those expectations that lie within pastoral practitioners themselves, Irvine contends that each pastor will ‘have their own expectation as to what constitutes ministry and the way in which they see their personal gifts for ministry being utilized specifically within that church and community. Again this originates from those factors which have shaped their vision of ministry and probably to a large degree their training and experience’ (p. 35).

The imaginary expectations, the third named, are the ‘assumed expectations that the clergy thinks the church expects of them’. These may, Irvine insists, ‘be based on the comments or insinuations of a few, an isolated occurrence or may be purely illusory. These are often the factors which drive the clergy the hardest and prompt the comment “He/she is his/her own worst enemy”’ (p. 35).

Irvine also suggests that despite the middle-class nature of Christian communities, pastors are ‘often placed in a position of living beneath the level of both parishioners and community’. The continuing tradition of church-provided housing places ministers in ‘a position of having no equity in the real-estate market, often making retirement, and the anxiety of approaching retirement, difficult. The whole monetary aspect of the ministry brings with it considerable difficulty’ (p. 36).

As tempted as I am to do so, I don’t want to précis the entire book here. The remainder of the book, which I commend, attends to the following topics: The stresses that attend a lost and changing identity, the unique stresses that attend being a woman in ministry, the risks that attend various levels of relationship, the problem, types and root causes of isolation, issues of sexuality and identity, of stress in the vicarage and the dynamics that attend family life and needs, the quest for identity and wholeness, issues of integrating perspectives of exteriority and interiority, spiritual development, models and systems of support, and matters of self-assessment and balance.

I do, however, want to draw attention to Irvine’s very basic words on the discipline of journaling, some of which I found helpful, not least because I have recently taken up journaling again after many years of looking at a closed book and of discerning that blogging is no substitute for the practice.

Irvine begins by noting that journaling is an ancient Christian practice – from the apostles who kept records of their journeys, encounters and conversations, to Augustine’s masterful Confessions. Irvine understands journaling as ‘a tool of self-measurement which, when properly used, chronicles for us the place of beginning against which we measure progress and, ultimately, ending. Without this measure, movement becomes indiscernible except in broad terms and predominately external components. For instance, we can recall early years of ministry in terms of major events and movement, but lose much of the sharpness of the cutting edge of our thought which motivated those actions during that time period. So soon we forget the impact of the moment with all its joys and pain’ (p. 192).

And journaling, he insists, helps in other ways too: ‘There is always a discrepancy between what we think we do or have done, and what actually has transpired. For instance I may think I balance my time well on sabbatical between the research, writing, speaking engagements, conference presentations, goal setting with colleagues and the sabbath rest badly needed. My journal records soon revealed that my tendency towards being a workaholic has short-changed the sabbath rest and that there is need for readjustment’. Journaling can, therefore, be both ‘brutally revealing’ and ‘absolutely essential’. He continues:

Journal keeping also records significant thoughts, emotions and reactions as one interacts with the diversity of life. Written in the aftermath of such actions it records how one’s life and faith interacted. It is in that interaction within our own lives that depth of understanding comes, enabling us to provide care and concern for others. It is the record of our journey, common with all humanity, which allows the empathy to interface with the lives of others. (p. 193)

Irvine then offers some advice pertaining to setting up a journal. He talks – against the advice of some spiritual directors – about making journal keeping ‘a habit’, of seeing journaling as part of a daily spiritual exercise, and of keeping it simple: ‘Simplicity and a process that is user-friendly is the key to sustaining a journal. For the computer literate such records can be recorded and stored by that means. The more traditional method of utilizing a notebook works for some while for others the ease of writing on a computer and the tangible form of the hardcopy has led to the use of ringbinders for computer print-offs. Whatever works for the individual is best’ (p. 194). For what it’s worth, there’s no way that I could journal on a computer. I need paper, heavy paper, and preferably a fountain pen and/or a 4B pencil.

Whatever the process used, Irvine properly notes that confidentiality and security remain essential, and he also addresses the question of the final disposal of the journal, whether before or after one’s death: ‘each person will need to determine their own process for this. Some have commissioned a trusted friend to dispose of the documents in the case of death while others have recorded their request in a will along with all other dispersal of property. This is personal, but needs to be considered’ (p. 194).

Irvine also encourages that rather than keeping a ‘general journal’ that each time period be considered in the light of certain guided questions which, he believes, will ‘assist in identifying the matter of balance in each time period’ (p. 194). Similarly, he notes, specific sections of the journal may be kept for theological insights, biblical reflections, goal setting or any such area as is deemed helpful by the recorder: ‘The journal will contain both the record of the task of ministry and the personal journey of the individual. It should be remembered here that the assessment is of balance and a sense of wholeness of being. The record of doing is important, but equally so is the record of reflection and inner discovery’ (p. 194).

I confess to finding this stocktaking approach to journaling brutally sterile and promoting of a form of individualistic and anthropocentric navel-gazing that is, among other things, bad for the back, and I find myself reaching for the trump card that Irvine himself provides; namely, ‘Whatever works for the individual is best’. But Irvine offers the following framework as a guide, and that birthed from much experience, and so I reproduce it here by way of encouragement to those for whom such a template may be more inspiring:

Daily Journal

(Record under separate headings)

[1] What occupied most of your time today?

[2] What is/was your predominant feeling as the day came to a close?

[3] What provided you with the greatest sense of satisfaction?

[4] What was the greatest source of frustration/anxiety?

[5] Describe time spent with family and in personal relationships.

[6] Did you find time for your own personal space for relaxation, exercise and rest?

[7] What challenged your thinking?

[8] What was your source of spiritual renewal today?

[9] Other comments or observations on the day:

Weekly Journal

(Record a short weekly review at the end of each week)

[1] What seem to be the predominant factors/issues of the week?

[2] What, upon reflection, was the greatest accomplishment of the week?

[3] What provided the greatest sense of frustration?

[4] What building did you do during the week of relationships with family, friends and others?

[5] What spiritual renewal/strength did you receive during the week and from what source did this come?

[6] What stewardship was exercised over your physical being?

[7] Were there aspect(s) of your life neglected during the week? If so, which? Why?

[8] Other comments or observations on the week:

Monthly Summary

Using the weekly summaries for reflection, complete a short monthly review using the guide questions as outlined under the heading for Weekly Journal.

I conclude this post with Kafka: ‘I won’t give up the diary again. I must hold on here, it is the only place I can’. [Franz Kafka, I Am a Memory Come Alive: Autobiographical Writings (ed. Nahum Norbert Glatzer; New York: Schocken Books, 1974), 21]

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Other posts in this series:

Stretching the Zonules: 100 years ago today, and more recent exploits

‘The question of providing religious services for summer holiday-makers in the country was before the Dunedin Presbytery at its meeting yesterday in relation, particularly, to the growing popularity of Warrington and contiguous seaside resorts.

A report submitted recommended that a tent be procured at Warrington, but this proposal did not seem to find general favour although the point has not been settled, the matter having been referred to a small committee.

The Rev. J. Chisholm said it seemed to him that more attention should be given to these seaside resorts in the future.

The churches were almost empty for a few weeks in the year, and unless more attention were paid to the young people they would form habits which would doubtless be confirmed, and that would be to the injury of their church.

The Rev. R. Fairmaid brought the matter nearer home than the northern coast by referring to Broad Bay and the Peninsula.

A young man had told him that a kind of pagan life was lived thereby the young people who gathered for week ends.

This was a deplorable condition from the moral point of view, and, so far as he understood, there was no service provided by their people in these quarters.

The committee appointed could perhaps attend to this matter, too.

It was pointed out by the Rev. W. Scorgie, in concluding the discussion, that there was a Methodist Church at Broad Bay and a Presbyterian Church at Portobello’.

[First published in the Otago Daily Times on 7 September 1910. Reprinted in today’s ODT]

Also, there’s some good reading around the traps at the moment:

  • William Cavanaugh on Christopher Hitchens and the myth of religious violence.
  • Matthew Bruce reviews Matthias Gockel’s Barth and Schleiermacher on the Doctrine of Election. [BTW: my own review of this book is available here].
  • Richard L. Floyd shares an appreciation of Donald Bloesch.
  • Kim Fabricius shares a wonderful Call to Worship.
  • Steve Biddulph on fatherhood.
  • Robert Fisk on ‘honour’ killings and on the pain of satisfying family ‘honour’.
  • Ben Myers shares a note on misreading.
  • Robin Parry (shamelessly) plugs a forthcoming book on universalism: “All Shall Be Well”: Explorations in Universalism and Christian Theology, from Origen to Moltmann.
  • Luther is still bugging the locals.
  • Simon Holt shares a nice prayer from Ken Thompson about pigeon holes, compartments, and other places.
  • And Ken MacLeod offers a brilliant solution for distracted writers: ‘One of the major problems for writers is that the machine we use to write is connected to the biggest engine of distraction ever invented. One can always disconnect, of course – there’s even software that locks out the internet and email for selected periods – or use a separate, isolated computer, but I think something more elegant as well as radical is needed. What I’m thinking of is some purely mechanical device, that took the basic QWERTY keyboard with Shift and Return keys and so on, but with each key attached to an arrangement of levers connected to a physical representation of the given letter or punctuation mark. These in turn would strike through some ink-delivery system – perhaps, though I’m reaching a bit here, a sort of tape of cloth mounted on reels – onto separate sheets of paper, fed through some kind of rubber roller (similar to that on a printer) one by one. The Return key would have to be replaced by a manual device, to literally ‘return’ the roller at the end of each line. Tedious, but most writers could do with more exercise anyway. Corrections and changes would be awkward, it’s true, but a glance at any word processor programme gives the answer: the completed sheets could be, physically, cut and pasted’.

BTW: I haven’t abandoned my series on the cost and grace of parish ministry. If all goes to plan, I’ll be back posting on it this week.

Intimate Horizons: The Post-Colonial Sacred in Australian Literature – A Review

Intimate Horizons: The Post-Colonial Sacred in Australian Literature, by Bill Ashcroft, Frances Devlin-Glass, and Lyn McCredden. (Adelaide: ATF Press, 2009), vi + 364 pp. IBSN 9781921511790

Intimate Horizons is an erudite and intriguing overture to post-colonial Australian literature and, via such, into the psyche of a nation. Its enquiry proceeds on the assumption that the twentieth-century’s final defeat of the gods is injudicious and that Australian authors working after the savageries of two world wars – and as indigenous peoples began to speak back to their colonisers, and in so doing open up new vistas of understanding about the land and about human relationships – began to “encounter the sacred as a region of difference, transformation and empowerment” (2).

The clear movement of Australian literature at the middle of the century is away from time – and its correlates such as history and rationality – to space which overwhelms it, and to the bodies and the proximate material world, and their stories, around which space is constituted. The conclusion to be made from this is that the literary engagement with place during this period, veering away from the horizontal sublime towards the sense of the sacred in the proximate, ordinary and material world, undertakes an unconscious movement towards Aboriginal experience, towards place as an embodied presence – characteristic of Aboriginal culture. (22–3)

The works of Francis Webb, Roland Robinson, David Malouf, and others, echo a fugue of common themes replayed across genres and decades, and which relate to the sacredness of place and embodiment, and the production of aesthetic “presence,” both of which are demotic and proximate, which stand in tension with those inherited forms from Europe, and “in which the sacred is glimpsed outside structure of interpretation” (18). Indeed, the authors of this volume (Bill Ashcroft, Frances Devlin-Glass and Lyn McCredden) believe that art and literature have been the “cultural discourses most successful in shedding the European yoke” (4) and have created, in Joseph Addison’s words, a “spacious horizon” as liberating as it is terrifying and which intimates distance and “placelessness” (8) that overwhelms the colonial imagination, disrupting the Romantic notion of the sublime and opening up the way to an acuity of the sacred in the broad spaces that characterise the horizontal experience of place. The authors are particularly critical of that literature which “seeks refuge in a melancholic and privileged mythologising of Australian history and white settler responses to it” (258).

Perceptive chapters on Patrick White (who “seemed to promise a new imagining of what is meant to be Australian” (33)), James McAuley (whose poetry speaks in a “haunted, homeless and displaced register” (105)), and Judith Wright (whose “‘parabolic’ vision … ‘runs beside or beyond the world of everyday’” (143)), are complemented with follow-up chapters exploring the “creative collision/encounter of paradigms of bush nationalism … and earthed sacredness” (165), and, drawing upon the work of Xavier Herbert, Kim Scott and Alexis Wright, “versions of the Indigenous sacred” (206) which find voice from the ecological depths of indigenous epistemology.

Chapter Seven, perhaps the most engaging of the chapters, surveys some contemporary Australian poetry which invites us to embrace questions of sacredness – a “theology of the earth” (285) – through “an immersion in the material world of place and time, and the material processes of poetic language” (244). Here we are introduced to poems by Kevin Hart, Robert Adamson, Gwen Harwood, Les Murray, Robert Gray, Lionel Fogarty and Sam Wagan Watson, whose poetry “triggers possibilities for change, even as it keeps the horrors of the colonial past in sight (283). Heirs to Webb and Wright, each of these poets, it is argued, when read within the context of the sacred, can be seen “grappling in new, demotic forms of language with the thisness of place, … with the intricate, lived realities of history in Australia” (245), and that partly by a refusal to be “pale reflections of European forms and ideas” (250). Such particularities, it is suggested, “are never merely backdrops to the poetry; nor does some abstracted ‘other’ seem to be the desired goal. Rather, in different but related ways, the poets confront this palpable, earthed, proximate place, Australia, through processes that do not cede any simplistic or monolithic access to the sacred” (245). This is evident, our authors observe, in “the drive to find new words” – “earthed, demotic languages of the sacred” – in order to respond to the “tangible realities of this place” (248). One place where this drive is evidenced is when Murray (a Roman Catholic) and Gray (one deeply influenced by Buddhist and Dharmic thought) are brought into conversation: “Gray’s Australia is permeated by the moral and spiritual meditativeness of a solitary poet, a cosmopolitan intellectual and sensualist, given to the detailed ‘thinginess’ of this place, but facing finally towards universalising formulations garnered across the centuries, into his reading and writing. Murray’s is a much more embattled, idiosyncratic and restless imagination” (277).

The final chapter considers the ways in which contemporary Australian fiction operates in a continual and heteroglossic dialogue with “earlier voices, a dialogue between different perceptions of the sacred sublime, and increasingly a dialogue between white and Aboriginal, between meaning cultures and presence cultures … [and which] constantly avoids closure” (288). It is one thing to suggest that the apotheosis of language adheres to an “intimation of the horizon of meaning at the edge of language” (321), to treat language as in some sense “sacramental” (232), to avoid monologism and to embrace a “multiplicity of voices” (288); it is another entirely to avoid clarifying the basis upon which such a discourse might take place. It is of little help to the reader to confess (after wading through over 300 pages!) that this book “avoids defining the term [‘the sacred’] because the very ground of our discussion – the concept of Presence, of meaning which exceeds final interpretation – makes definitions useless” (325). To be sure, I am not calling here for a kind of “doctrinal statement,” what I take the authors to mean by “orthodoxy” (288). Rather, as a Christian theologian, I wish to suggest that the dialogue and quest for new languages that a “metaphorically displaced society” (318) is groping after are literally given to us not in silence (as the authors suggest) but in the noise of divine incarnation, in the enfleshment of the divine in a particular location and story – in the ordinary – which is indeed “realised in the creative imagination” (300). As it stands, the pseudo-mysticism assumed throughout the book is as destructive of discursive knowledge as it is of birthing ethical action, concerns which are, I suspect, not far from some of the writers herein considered.

Those with deep allergies to natural theology – of the grammar of “place that remains the path to the sacred” (32) – will find much herein to baulk at: in its starkness, a borrowed fight which reminds the reader that while escape into cosmic emotions contemplating the grandeurs of antipodean place and space has some draw, any enlargement of the intelligence and calm of the mind is offset by the starvation of the soul groping for what Murray calls “unpurchased lifelong plenishment.”

The authors of Intimate Horizons assume much of their readers. They assume knowledge of Australian history, of post-colonial literature, of aboriginal spirituality, of the basic contours of theological grammar, of current discourse around race-relations, of the sense and sacramentality of place, and of antipodean attitudes to sentimentalism and religion. Some grasp of Heidegger’s notion of “Being” would be of help too.

The book highlighted again for me the legitimacy of Ian Anderson’s claim (in his Introduction to Blacklines: Contemporary Critical Writing by Indigenous Australians, edited by Michele Grossman), that “in the context of settler colonial states, such as Australia, colonial structures have never been dismantled. Colonial ways of knowing are not historical artefacts that simply linger in contemporary discourse. They are actively reproduced within contemporary dynamics of colonial power. Yet this fundamental observation does not really seem to have penetrated mainstream postcolonial theory” (24). Still, this stimulating book invites, and deserves, close reading. It helps one read Australian fiction and poetry – and, indeed, a national mythology – with more informed and sharpened eyes.

[An edited version of this review is to appear in Colloquium in due course]

On keeping company with Christ

In a few weeks’ time, on the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, one of the lectionary readings that I plan to preach from is Luke 16.19–31. It’s not an easy text to understand or to preach, but I’m thinking that Duncan Forrester might be able to help me out:

‘It is impossible to keep company with Christ if we refuse to accept the company he has chosen to keep. Following the patristic principle ubi Christus ibi ecclesia (where Christ is, there is the Church), it is necessary to go to find Christ and therefore the Church among the poor he loves, to listen to them, and to learn afresh from them how to worship God in Spirit and in truth … Worship separated from the great issues of liberty and justice has become idolatry, an instrument of ideological manipulation, a way of hiding from God rather than encountering Him’. – Duncan B. Forrester, Theological Fragments: Explorations in Unsystematic Theology (London/New York: T&T Clark, 2005), 109, 110.

[Image: Heinrich Aldegrever, ‘Lazarus Begging for Crumbs from Dives’s Table’, 1552]

‘There is a being, they say’, by R.S. Thomas

There is a being, they say,
neither body nor spirit,
that is more power than reason, more reason
than love, whose origins
are unknown, who is apart
and with us, the silence
to which we appeal, the architect
of our failure. It takes the genes
and experiments with them and our children
are born blind, or seeing have
smooth hands that are the instruments
of destruction. It is the spoor
in the world’s dark leading away
from the discovered victim, the expression
the sky shows us after
an excess of spleen. It has gifts it
distributes to those least fitted
to use them. It is everywhere and
nowhere, and looks sideways into the shocked face
of life, challenging it to disown it.

– R.S. Thomas, Counterpoint (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1990), 20.