Iona Community, Scotland

I don’t often hear people equating religion to music or language but I think they’re helpful comparisons.  More often than not, we hear different comparisons: religion v. science.  Myth v. fact.  Superstition v. proof.

But when I try to explain why despite every problem religion has caused I care about it, I’ve found that first I have to make it clear that what I’m not talking about is not some opposite of modern science.  In The Case for God, Karen Armstrong’s project is to explain to a skeptical public how “belief” and “faith” went through a transformation of meaning since the 1500s.  As Descartes and Locke became the principal gods of metaphysics, religion became a counter-narrative that increasingly butted heads with scientific claims about nature.  As “what you see is what you get” became the key to advanced science and industrialism, faith in a sacred reality became faith in fiction.  Belief in an unprovable, infinite love of God became belief in myth.

That’s why I work against the grain of hundreds of years when I say to friends that I like to study religion as a language instead of religion as a fact.  Portuguese or Igbo are not correct or incorrect, music is not proved or unproved.  Instead of psychological terms to explain that we feel happy, we sing.  Notes and adjectives are the finite things with which we can express what feels endlessly complicated inside.  They’re symbols that you use, not that you defend.

Of course, just like they argue about the meaning of words, people argue about the meaning of religious symbols.  While saying “blue” or “love” may express a general universal, there are always particulars to work out.  And unfortunately in religion, the imposition of one interpretation over another or one religion over another has been dangerous and even deadly.

So why the specificity?  Why for some people are Jesus, Moses, Esther or the Prophet Muhammad more useful ways of framing their lives than secular self-help books?  What’s the value of plot points, mythos instead of logos, in the modern world?

Stephen Crites, formerly a professor at Wesleyan, believes mythos matters because experience happens to us through narrative.  When he says that the “formal quality of experience through time is inherently narrative” he means that the way we act out our lives, like musicians blowing through holes or painters striking brushes to a canvas, is through storytelling.  It’s impossible to describe what anything means to us without telling a story, without choosing a beginning, middle, end, and a line, a melody that runs through it all.  Physicists and biologist have to describe what happened in an experiment and what it means with narrative.  Infinity is not our language.  As finite beings we speak in finite terms.  Without narrative we swim without direction, lost in a slough of a thousand meanings.

Crites claims that narrative can even function to create our consciousness, rather than just to describe it.  That’s why he says people in traditional folk cultures lived “in” their sacred stories.  They were not myths but dwelling-places, so essential to experience that “men’s sense and self and world is created through them”.  Crites distinguishes a sacred story as a story you live instead of a story you tell.  A writer may spin a world of fantasy and characters, but people’s ritual reenactment of sacred stories takes place in their own world – the stories live in their own bodies.

At Bryn Mawr, freshmen go through a sequence of initiation traditions that to outsiders seem totally inane.  But for many Bryn Mawr students, from beginning to end the traditions formulate their college experience.  In the Roman Empire mystery cults initiated people into stories that they would live, ways of framing their lives, as an alternative to state-standardized religion.  In God of the Oppressed, James Cones writes that when people in the black church sing, preach, and tell stories, they are talking about another reality, a reality “so high you can’t get over him, so low you can’t get under him, so wide you can’t get around him.”

Sacred stories are different from science.  They function on different planes.  We’re people who need meaning as much as we need proof.  Religion, although not the only way, is a language for expressing it.

Current Location: Wild Rose, Wisconsin

Wild Rose

Since my last post, my girlfriend Riki and I drove more than a thousand miles across the country, activists challenged the Israeli flotilla surrounding Gaza, and my visa for Scotland got approved.

It’s certainly bizarre how time and space shrinks when you’re living in the woods.  My family’s lake house in Wisconsin is probably the one place where I feel entirely at home.  When we arrived, after two days in Riki’s Honda station wagon on the way from York, PA, I walked out onto the dock and felt choked up when I saw steam rising from the lake after the recent rain.

For the past two days we have slept and read and chatted with my dad and sister, enjoying the smells of the old cabin my great-grandfather built and that has become a ritual vacation spot for my father’s family of seven kids.  It’s surreal to be here without the activity of fourteen cousins, twelve uncles and aunts, and an indefinite number of dogs, but because I’ve come to Gilbert Lake for a week or two every year of my life, being in Wisconsin always feels right.

Internet access is spotty here and the only small, old television that used to be housed in the cottage has been replaced by a few iron knickknacks.  I am temporarily ridden of my addiction to checking the news.  But in my news, I’ve finally received word that my UK visa was approved, and it’s already in the mail.  That means I’m officially, certifiably, going to be spending the summer at Iona.

In the news of the world, I’m afraid for war in Gaza, and the New York Times tells me that Pope Benedict looked frighteningly glib while leaders in Cyprus launched a “furious broadside” against Turkey on Friday.  It seems trifling, when facing the onset of collapsing foreign relations, when bills cross the Senate floor daily, to pause and think about reframing historical narrative.

But I am deeply thankful to the Internet (and the power of Google’s news alerts), because the web director of the National Museum of African American History and Culture somehow read my last post.  He shared it with his staff and the museum’s founding director.  Framing our lives within contexts, within contexts that allow everyone to have voice, changes things.  It’s not as hot-botton or instantaneous as a ticker on CNN, but maybe it matters because our lives aren’t at as fast as that either.  We go to a museum, we go to class, to work, leaves change, snow comes, a birthday, a dog dies, we read an email, an article, a blog.

Riki and I leave from Wisconsin on Tuesday, after we’ve swum, tire-swung, and played languorous games of mancala on the porch.  I’m reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides and Karen Armstrong’s The Case for God.  She’s reading Lolita.  We made chicken kebabs and my sister made angel food cake.  Tuesday will be my 21st birthday.  It’s nice when things happen this slowly.