2013-2018
About a year ago, I gave up God for Lent. I joined with a few hundred others, scattered across the world, on a pilgrimage into what the mystics call the great Cloud of Unknowing on Peter Rollins’ ‘Atheism for Lent’ course. I find it quite ironic that the first time I’ve succeeded in giving up anything for Lent was in this endeavour, which is no doubt why it has taken me this long to start really talking about it.
We’ve all sent a text that we regret. That moment of horror when you wake up after a heavy night out to find the string of embarrassing messages you’ve sent to your crush. When you write something mean in the heat of the moment during an argument and realise you can’t take it back. In 2014, Fomusoh Ivo Feh, about to start university in Cameroon, forwarded a text that changed everything. Ivo received a joke message from a friend commenting on how difficult it is to find a job in Cameroon without a lot of qualifications. The text said that even Boko Haram, an armed terrorist organisation based in Nigeria and Cameroon, require at least four high school grades to join. This message was intercepted by a teacher who reported it to the police. Ivo and his friends were then arrested and charged with several offences, including attempting to organise a rebellion, due to Cameroon’s draconian anti-terrorism laws. They face the prospect being sentenced to twenty years in jail by military trial, all because of a text.
We love to pass the blame onto someone or something else. I remember as a kid; I’d never want to admit that I’d done something wrong, it was always my sister or my parents or my circumstance that were to blame. It was never my fault. I mean, it was, but that was hard to admit. That meant accepting that I was responsible for something that went wrong, that I was at fault. We do this for others as well, when a friend’s relationship breaks down, we’re quick to point out all the faults of the other person saying things like, “they didn’t listen enough”, “they didn’t give you enough attention”, “you’re so much better than them anyway”. We do this, of course, in love. We want to make our friends feel better, even if we know deep down that maybe they were the one at fault, at least partially.
2016 has been a tough year for politics. We started with the EU referendum, where the United Kingdom shocked the world by voting to leave the European Union. Then this was well and truly Trumped (pun intended) by the presidential election in the United States. Both of these countries were split by two opposing sides, broadly speaking it was between liberal and conservative politics. To me, being unashamedly left wing, (I make no apology for that. I am, as my good friend so gracefully put it, a ‘fucking lefty liberal’ and proud!) the whole thing felt like a rather depressing game of snakes and ladders.
There are around seven billion people on this planet. Seven billion people, like you and me, who share a common humanity. Each one of us has a different perspective on the world, a different story to tell and a different experience of what it means to be human. The way that I see the world is different to a housewife from New Jersey, different to a Nomad living in a tent in the Sahara Desert, and different still to a seven-year-old girl living in a brothel in Thailand. And yet we are all connected, we all breathe the same oxygen and live on the same planet. As Satish Kumar says, “before we are Americans or Russians, Israelis or Palestinians, Hindus or Muslims, Shias or Sunnis, Catholics or Protestants, black-skinned or white, we are members of one human family. Whatever our nationality or religion. Under our skin we all have the same red blood. At quantum level we are all protons and photons. At spiritual level we are all pure consciousness.” We are seven billion stories, looking at the world through fourteen billion eyes and yet we are one human family.
As a white, straight male, I’ve come to recognise that I’ve inherited a certain amount of privilege through no fault of my own. Racism, homophobia and sexism are still massive systemic problems in the West today. While it might not be so obvious, and many people would claim that they play no part in this, we live in a system that is incredibly biased towards middle-class, white, straight, men. The opportunities and resources available to me would be radically different if I were not white, straight and male – if I wasn’t privileged. It’s easy to ignore this, especially when I’m the one usually benefitting from it. I mean, why should I complain about the fact I’ve been given a good education and can work doing a job that I enjoy? Why shouldn’t I just enjoy my privilege
Every time I log on to social media (which is probably more often than I should), there’s always plenty of things that grab my attention. Seeing a friend’s new baby, an update from my sister travelling around Central America or whatever country she’s in at the moment, another meme about the Great British Bake off, or a riveting comment thread from whatever politically or religiously divisive article one of my friends has posted. Now I love to get into a good ol’ Facebook debate. If you know me, then you know that I can have very strong opinions about things, and love to engage in a debate or argument over the web defending whatever position I hold. Whether it’s LGBTQ rights, systemic racism, Donald Trump, Brexit or Marvel vs. DC, I will vehemently defend and argue my opinion. I try to be open to other’s points of view but if my deconstruction has taught me anything, it’s that I can be wrong about things and that’s OK. Debate and discussion help me to see other’s point of view and learn from them where I can. But I’m starting to realise that holding an opinion or a position on things is not enough.
I’ve been deconstructing my Christian faith for the best part of two years. The process has been, at times, lonely, isolating and painful. My once sure and certain faith has slowly chipped away as I’ve walked down the road of doubt and deconstruction. It started as I began questioning little things, such as the teaching I’d been handed about LGBTQ relationships and sex. As I pulled at those threads, I suddenly found more were coming loose, and soon I was spiralling down the path of deconstruction as the answers that once made sense suddenly weren’t cutting it anymore. For a long time, I kept this to myself, feeling as if I was on my own, the only one in the church who was struggling with doubt and unbelief. I thought that if I tried harder, prayed more and kept reading my Bible, things would get better. But they didn’t.
“Imagine if the worst thing you’ve ever done is the only thing you’re remembered for?”
That was the question presented to a packed tent on the first night of Greenbelt 2016 by Rev. Kate Bottley in a talk provocatively titled “Team Judas”. Kate shared with us the journey she went on while filming a documentary for the BBC earlier this year entitled “In the Footsteps of Judas”, discussing the life of the infamous disciple of Jesus that we remember only for the terrible, unforgivable betrayal that leads to Jesus’ crucifixion. A man who spent three years with Jesus, who was probably one of his best friends, that we know only for that one act of betrayal.
We all want to feel complete: to feel like our lives have a purpose, that there is some point to all of this, that there is meaning to find in the universe. The entire advertising industry is built on this notion. Every day, whether we’re watching the TV, reading the newspaper or even getting on the bus, we’re bombarded with adverts telling us that we need this new product, TV show, film or holiday in our life, and then we’ll be happy. Religion tells us that if we say the best prayers, believe the correct things and give our money to the right church we will be made whole. Every day, we are bombarded by the idea that we are somehow incomplete and that if we buy this product, get that job, go on that holiday or believe in that God then suddenly our lives will be complete, and we’ll find meaning in the universe.
