Reflections of an ex-Christian at Easter

(Pic - "The Sermon on the Mount" from Ecce Homo. Elizabeth Ohlson Wallin, 1998, Photograph, 79" x 60")

My journey with Christianity has, it needs to be said, been a fairly robust one – on both sides, I suppose. I was born and raised in a fairly ordinary Christian home.  By this, I mean, that we went to a little parish Church within walking distance of our house.  We cooked a turkey at Christmas and had Christmas pudding aflame with brandy.  We had Easter Eggs at Easter and otherwise lived fairly ordinary, middle-of-the-road lives.  My parents were standard parents, with fairly standard ideas.  It was a happy home and the Church was a reasonable part of it.  We got baptised as infants and confirmed on reaching puberty.  If we got married, it was in the parish church. If you died, that is where you got buried from.  It was just the way you did things.

My siblings were much older than me and had gone their separate ways by the time my hormones started raging.  And when they did, they raged within the fairly safe confines of Church youth groups and choir practise – so generally, it was all relatively safe and sound.

I knew from an early age that I wanted to become a Priest.  I used to explain to my easily bewildered students, many years down the track, that it was primarily the gorgeous clothes the priest wore that had initially attracted me to the priesthood.  Of course, my motives all got dressed up in stuff the bishops wanted to hear, like calling and vocation and things like that – but actually, it was the glamour – the sheer outright drama of the thing, which did it.

I went to study theology at Rhodes University and Cambridge and Manchester.  I loved it all! I loved the academic rigour, the debate, the sheer, glorious liberation of being able to think things through and to discard the nonsense and hold on to what made rational sense.  I had some pretty amazing teachers – I think of the extraordinary Canon John Suggit.  I think of Bishop John Robinson, who was quite happy to throw the baby out with the bathwater and still was able to maintain some kind of link with both the religion and the institution of the Church (and more amazingly, was allowed to do so!)

I worked for a while as a priest in Lesotho.  In reality, it was a convenient cover for political activity.  But it was also character-moulding in all sorts of ways.  If I close my eyes, I can still remember the day I was made Deacon in the Cathedral of St Mary and St James, Maseru.  There is a point in the service, where the Deacon is required to prostrate himself before the altar.  I remember the freezing cold of the stone floor, the smell of the incense mixed with wood smoke.  I remember the overwhelming drama of the thing and the sense of dignity and communion as the massive congregation welcomed me.

I was ordained Priest in Manchester Cathedral, after long negotiations with the ecclesiastical authorities, because of my refusal to swear any oath of allegiance to the Queen.  I remember the growl of the organ and the triumphant procession.  I remember the taste of the wine at the first Mass where I was the celebrant.

So when I call myself an ex-Christian, it is not an easy thing.  I have so much of the religion etched in my brain, in my consciousness and my unconsciousness.  The images, the sights the sounds, the smells – these are a significant part of me. And I entered into it, for a massive chunk of my life, fully and passionately.  Doubtless, I would still be there, if it were in any way possible.

When a new Archbishop of Canterbury is enthroned – something happens inside me.  It is difficult to explain – but I am still connected to it long enough to remember that I have since rejected it all.  When a Pope resigns and a new one is chosen, something in my inner being awakens and reacts.  When we approach Eastertide and my child asks me about the plagues in Egypt, I react with something much more than passing interest.

And it is not that I believe in any kind of objective God, really, it is not.  And it is not that I regret not believing in God.  It is something quite aside from that.  It is a strange and eerie connection with the rich past which has made me who I am.  It is impossible to pretend that it means nothing, or that it achieved nothing or that it is worth nothing.  And I would not want to do that.

In the end, we, as a same-sex family with two adopted children, decided to cut ties with the Church once and for all, for reasons which have nothing to do with belief.  It was simply impossible to continue in it as second-class citizens and for our children to be brought up in an environment where we were not fully and completely accepted. It became abundantly clear that it would be asking too much of an institution, riven with its own lies and contradictions, on the question of sexuality – (let alone theology!).

And so, I live my life without the Church any more.  There are some things I miss intensely and many more things I don’t.  I miss the drama and the ritual and the rumble of the organ.  I miss the hieratic language and the powerful, living poetry which accompanies it.  I don’t miss the bigotry and the anti-intellectual conservatism and the lies and the all-pervading, inescapable hypocrisy, which is allowed to grow and flourish and flower and seed, without any hinder or check.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that for all of it, my children – in their particular circumstance are better - much better - without it.  I am not sure I will be able to protect them from its worst excesses forever, but I am going to do my best to shield them, for as long as possible.  So they will have to be content with Easter eggs rather than the extraordinary story of hope rising from the darkness of the tomb.

Making a saint out of Newman

I have to say, I have watched the recent scenes of the visit of Benedict the 16th to the United Kingdom, with some amazement. Besides the screams, the adulation, the mumbled apologies and exchange of pleasantries, the highlight was the beatification of John Henry Cardinal Newman. Personally, I have not a single doubt in my mind that he should be recognised. If sainthood provides the context for that to be done – then so be it, and jolly good luck to it. At university, I read his works and they inspired me. I changed my perspective fairly fundamentally because of him. As a student, I read his “Apologia pro vita sua”. And found it both moving and profound.

But until very recently, I had missed something fairly essential about the man. He had a long term relationship with another priest, by the name of Fr Ambrose St John. They lived together for a considerable period of time and it was Newman’s express wish to be buried with him.

His desire was very clear and unambiguous. On no less than three occasions, he indicated it, in writing. The last time, a few months before his death in 1890.

“I wish with all my heart to be buried in the grave of Fr Ambrose St John. I give this as my last, my imperative will.”

On the death or Fr Ambrose, Newman wrote the following:

"I have ever thought no bereavement was equal to that of a husband's or a wife's, but I feel it difficult to believe that any can be greater, or any one's sorrow greater, than mine”.

He had waited some 15 years to be buried with his beloved. This was no will-o’-the-wisp. It was obviously something very clearly thought out. It was something he wanted very passionately.

Two years ago, in preparation for making him a saint – the Vatican gave the order for him to be disinterred and to leave any remains of Fr Ambrose in situ, and to remove Newman’s remains to the Birmingham Oratory.

On opening the grave, very little was found. Some hair, apparently, and a brass plaque with his name. The coffin was a wooden one and the ground wet.

Since discovering this, I have to say my mind has played on it a lot. I am left aghast at the sheer arrogance of it all. Newman had expressed his will in the clearest terms imaginable. Yet the Vatican decided that his body should be elsewhere. I understand that moving the bodies of saints – or people soon to be saints – is “traditional” (whatever that might mean!).

Now, obviously, I think it is at this stage impossible to prove conclusively that Cardinal (now “Blessed”) John Henry Newman and Ambrose St John were lovers. But it certainly looks likely. And one would not need to be a member of the “homosexual lobby” to come to such a likely conclusion, based on the evidence which is already at hand. Whether or not they remained celibate is another matter entirely and, from my perspective anyway, has little bearing on the substance of the enquiry.

But for the church to simply extract elements of his life which they like – and make a big hullabaloo about them and sanctify him because of them, while ignoring other equally significant elements, is sheer cynical manipulation of the facts. Indeed, the same could be said for the way that the church generally does its theology. It parades the easy bits and ignores the more difficult, as a matter of course.

But there is a problem with doing this, because eventually common sense (or science, or history) will catch up with it and expose it as fraud, as it has already, on so many other issues. The secularism of the United Kingdom, which the Pope seems to find so problematic, is in fact not only a consequence of the church’s continued fraudulent theological thinking, but represents a triumph of progress and rational thinking over idiocy and ignorance.

The only way in which this could be seen to be problematic is if one had some kind of vested interest in keeping people stupid, by denying the facts. Such as the facts about HIV/Aids; contraception; women; abortions etc etc. Oh, and did I neglect to mention the historical prevalence of gay and lesbian people within the ranks and hierarchy of the church itself?

On the tombstone where John Henry Newman and Ambrose St John lay buried for just shy of one hundred years, was written the following:

“Out of the shadows and phantasms, into the truth”.

Maybe one day, a long time from now, society will write the same on the grave of the church itself.

Queer discussions with a Bishop

A Bishop of the Anglican Church in South Africa, who will remain nameless, recently invited me in for some discussion on the 'Queer' issue. Now, let me start by saying, he is a good guy. He has a long history of involvement in the struggle for justice and equality in South Africa. He is sensible. He reads (which is a huge pleasure to behold!) and he is extremely thoughtful. But more than that, he values the opinions of others, which is not necessarily a common episcopal trait.

I understand (though I did not ask) that he is straight. But despite this handicap, he undoubtedly has a passion for issues of justice and queer justice being one of them. How rare is that, I ask you? And I wonder how much easier it would be for Christian Queers, if there were more people in positions of authority in the Church who did start with a passion for justice, in all its myriad needs and forms, and only then proceed to a discussion about homosexuality and whether or not Anglicans should allow; ordain; consecrate or marry homosexuals. I have a suspicion, things would be a lot easier, if a pre-requisite to the debate was a committment, not just in word, but in deed, to those issues of social justice.

Anyway, I had taken him one or two books to read. The one which he enjoyed the most was Leo Steinberg's The Sexuality of Christ in Rennaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion (University of Chicago Press, 1983 (revised 1996). It is an extraordinary book, unbelievably well researched and hugely informative.

The other, was a book I have already reviewed on this site - The Queer God, by Marcella Althaus-Reid - which had the desired effect of blowing him away - just because that is what it does! I sent him my review as well, and it was this which he homed in on, in our discussion. In it, I made the following points:

• We Queers are only allowed to speak, if it is in the language and grammar of the hegemonic power. We are not allowed to explore our own language, our own culture, our own norms, our own reality. That is the dungeon to which we are confined, within the church and the dominant theology.
• In the end, in the fullness of time, we Queers will make ourselves heard. And not in a way which accepts that the dominant heterosexual project is the right one and that we somehow fit in with that. Queer Theologians are saying, "you have got it thumpingly wrong!" If we are excluded, if we are kept at the gate, if our voices are silent and if our culture and practice is condemned and excluded, you are wrong! Do not think for a moment that we will give up the struggle, or that we will be marginalized or silenced. Because the God is not a heterosexual God. In fact, that God is a blasphemy, an abhorrence and a sham.

The Bishop drew my attention to what I had said in a review of the book (i.e. the above) and said it sounded "angry". I was surprised about this, because I do not feel particularly angry. Mostly, I feel resigned, because I know that eventually, the Church will be dragged kicking and screaming into a more reasonably position than it has at the moment - eventually.

And then, secondly, the issue which perplexed him was, of course, the issue of my questioning the rightness of the hetero-normative church on its views relating to single, committed partnerships - as a model of marriage.

I said that I did not necessarily have a problem with it. What I have a problem with is the absolute refusal to even consider anything else! That is no way to have a debate. That is certainly no way to "listen" to those on the other side! You cannot, in any negotiation, start with the bottom line!

His point, about the debate was interesting. He said, granted, that was probably the bottom line for them. But what was the actual objective. If one starts with that point, we will probably never get any further. And the objective is, he would have thought, to kind of "get a toe in the door", as it were.

Although, at the time, I think I agreed with his position, on reflection it sounds very much like those who, during apartheid, argued that blacks and others in the liberation struggle, should pitch themselves a little lower than the full take-over of power from the white minority. A range of mechanisms were suggested: tri-cameral parliaments; bantustans; separate development etc etc. None of them worked, because the black majority, and those of us who fought alongside them, refused to accept "crumbs from the master's table".

I would suggest that it is much the same with the women's struggle and I would suggest it is much the same for us Queers. It is actually inauthentic to suggest anything else.