Secularism, Unbelief, and Rationality Part 2

I'd like to start out by saying that I think my previous post rambled a bit more than it ought, for which I apologize to my readers. This issue (why is God's existence not obvious?) is a rather difficult question, and I struggled my way through that last post. I did mention, though, that I would attempt to provide my own answer to this question: how is it that the existence of God is so 'non-obvious' when God is the Creator of the world and the world was created to reveal God to humanity?

Well, here is my first stab at explaining this phenomenon. In line with my last post, I will be keeping "in-house" Christian language to a minimum.

To begin, we have to spend some time clearing a little conceptual ground which relates to whether Christianity is a natural or obvious belief structure. Charles Taylor notes in ch. 14 of A Secular Age that it took some time for unbelief/atheism to become an intellectually viable position. Taylor's point is an important one: it is hard to disbelieve when such a conceptual option is culturally unavailable. Not impossible, perhaps, but rare. Again, we ought to keep this idea in mind when we try to understand the decline of faith in our age. However, setting our discussion up in these terms may be misleading. For many in Western culture, Christendom or the Western medieval model of a totally pervasive Christian culture is what they think of when they think of the default position of Christianity. I think, however, that we need to remember that Christendom was not and is not the default position. That is, Christianity has not operated always and everywhere as a totally pervasive, solitary conceptual option for its adherents.

Rather, Christianity began in the Roman Mediterranean as one seriously implausible account of the world among other accounts. Early Christians did not proclaim a message of truth which won converts due to the clarity or, for lack of a better term, "obviousness" of its message. What I mean to say is that Christian proclamation did not result in a bunch of people slapping their foreheads and responding with an, "Of course, that's how the world works! Why, I knew that all along!"

You might be wondering why I bring this point up or if I'm even addressing the original question. What I'm trying to do is start out by saying that, from a Christian perspective, the Christian perspective has not historically been the only conceptual option for those who hear it, and it is admittedly not an immediately obvious position. In other words, though we Christians think the Christian perspective is the true perspective, we are (or ought to be) quite aware of its difficulties, and, historically, we have been since the beginning. The New Testament speaks of Christian proclamation as a "mystery," as something "offensive" and "veiled." This emphasis is not isolated simply in the beginning, either. Even in the High Middle Ages, during Christendom par excellence, Thomas Aquinas could note that reason would never establish or arrive at the conclusion of Christian truth in the events of redemption. Reason could only defend the possibility of its truth-value and defend against charges of irrationality.

To continue my answer, I believe our problem lies in a fairly specific area. We tend to think that the truth of God's existence ought to be obvious, mostly because we often think of truth as something obvious or immediately apparent. We rely on the idea that we understand truth with our minds in the same way that we see objects with our eyes. In this model, "facts" are discovered in a manner not unlike noticing the color of the sky or the proximity of some obstacle. So, we think a truth statement like "God exists" is epistemologically equivalent to "The sky is blue."

However, I think, upon further reflection, that we could admit that the truth is not always obvious, even if it is a "determinative" or "high-impact" truth which affects all our other ideas. There are many examples I could use, but let me point out one fairly easy one. We all agree that the earth rotates around the sun. Why? Is that an obvious truth? If one were to step outside and observe the sun with the naked eye for years, would the conclusion that the earth rotates around the sun be reached? I think we can all admit that, in most cases, this conclusion would not be reached by anyone who watches the "sunrise" and the "sunset" every day. However, I doubt that any of us finds it necessary to object against this truth.

I use this example to demonstrate that something can be clearly true in one sense, i.e. we all accept the idea, and it helps to organize a whole load of other ideas. At the same time, it is not manifestly true, i.e. most of us could not prove it, it took years upon years for this view to pervade our culture, and it does not match up to all of our direct experiences.

I hope this example shows you where I am heading. Namely, I want this illustration to point out that ideas which are true do not need to be obvious or easily reached in order to be true. We accept this idea when it comes to our example above. So, the next question has to be: why do we expect truth concerning God to be more easily reached? That is, why should we discover that God exists in a manner simpler than that involved in discovering an observable fact about the physical universe?

Now, I could make another point in this direction, and I will note it briefly before continuing on to my next main point. First, we should note that observable facts about the universe like knowing the earth rotates around the sun or noticing the someone's hair is red are actually facts which require a great deal of training to notice. For example, one must be taught that "red" denotes a particular observable phenomenon which occurs on the surface of various objects and then realize that the type of "red" which we apply to red brick is somehow related to the "redness" of someone's hair. For the other example, we can see that observable facts of a scientific kind actually require particular theories and methods to be internalized before they can be reached. Once reached, though, they can be disseminated to a more general population rather easily, despite the fact that the general population could not arrive at such conclusions on their own. Follow this line of thought and then ask why the existence of God should be something easy to discover without the internalization of a particular framework.

What I would like to note at this point is the objection that I would imagine many of you are now harboring in your mind. It is likely offensive to you that God's existence should be difficult to ascertain, that it should be as difficult as the discovery that the earth rotates around the sun. Isn't that a little curious? Why should you think that unless you are engaged in speculation concerning the characteristics which God ought to have and how he ought to behave? I have to note something that Pascal also noted so many years ago. He noted, similarly to what I stated above, that ascertaining God's existence is difficult. There is enough evidence to lead the religious seeker eventually to discover the truth of God's existence but there is not enough evidence to guarantee that outcome. When he faced objections from those who did not believe, Pascal pointed out that their objections were rather ridiculous. How could they, who ostensibly do not believe in God, wish to dictate the terms under which God would reveal himself to human beings? By engaging in such debate, the unbeliever has now become one who asks religious questions, i.e. a religious seeker.

But perhaps I am now simply being clever? Please object if I am, for I will admit that I am trying to be somewhat provocative. I am arguing that the existence of God need not be more obvious to any of us than any other truth. It is capable of being denied or affirmed in many of the same ways. It could not be a truth apprehended by human beings if it were any different.

This specter of difficulty, though, can be handled in a couple ways. First of all, if knowledge of God's existence is analogous to other types of knowledge, then people actually can discover it. That discovery of the truth might be difficult, take time and patience, and test our devotion to the question to the uttermost leads us in a rather different direction. Second, though, knowledge of God need not be difficult. Rather like our example above, once something is known and disseminated throughout society, it is no longer necessary for every person to go through the same arduous process to discover it. Clearly, not very many of us need to rediscover the heliocentric model. So, truth can now be apprehended through much easier channels, which deal more with the issues of warrant for belief, trust in sources, and faith in the truthfulness of other person's testimony.

Now, of course, we have opened the door to all sorts of different questions which I have not addressed here in order to keep the discussion from becoming merely "in-house." Yet these questions are actually theological or metaphysical questions. By considering this issue concerning how human beings discover truth, using terms which are common to both Christians and others, we can arrive at a place where we are not simply discussing whether it is difficult to believe in God, but whether it is appropriate that belief in God is so difficult and whether God ought to have behaved differently. We are in a different realm altogether from where we started.

Secularism, Unbelief, and Rationality

Here's a rather amusing statement I found as I was considering how to start writing this evening: "God’s truth will not come to your front doorstep like an unordered Domino’s pizza" (http://www.scottmsullivan.com/courses/Pascal.pdf).

What Mr. Sullivan brings to our attention is the concept of the "hidden God," that God's truth is not immediately evident to the believer or unbeliever. For some reason, conceiving of God is not an immediate idea. I was drawn to discuss this problem because of a recent chapter from Charles Taylor's A Secular Age sent to me by my good friend, one Mr. Alfredo Garcia. At one point, Taylor notes, "In the seventeenth century, you had to be a Pascal" to appreciate the concept of a hidden God (532). Yet, I would note that at another point in Western society, it was almost impossible to be an atheist; it was held to be rationally inconceivable or at least rarely conceivable. I was drawn by Taylor's statement to an earlier example of the discussion on the possibility or rationality of unbelief, that famous discussion of Anselm and Gaunilo which highlighted what was later labelled the ontological argument for God's existence.

Perhaps my gentle readers are familiar with the argument? There are various ways to phrase it succinctly, but it goes something like this:

1. Everyone can conceive of God.
2. Therefore, God exists in the understanding.
3. When God is conceived/exists in the understanding, he is conceived of as that than-which-nothing-greater-can-be-conceived.
4. If that than-which-nothing-greater-can-be-conceived exists in the understanding, but does not exist in reality, then a greater being can be conceived.
5. Hence, that than-which-nothing-greater-can-be-conveived exists (i.e. God exists).

What is often not mentioned in connection with this argument is that the discussion in Anselm's Proslogion and Gaunilo's Response in Defense of the Fool is, shall we say, purely academic or "in-house!" We have an abbot (later bishop) and a monk from another monastery, both believing in God, who are discussing whether it might be rational not to believe in God. Anselm says no. Gaunilo emphatically responds with a yes. Yet it remains an in-house argument, a consideration to be puzzled over in a society largely Christian.

Whatever we think of the ontological argument, the discussion between Anselm and Gaunilo gives a starting point for a rather interesting development. In the eleventh century, we have two persons discussing whether it might be rational not to believe in God. We might posit alongside this in-house example a more common occurrence in the twentieth century, i.e., a coffee-house discussion of whether it might be rational to believe in God. Somewhere in between we have Pascal and the intellectual elites of the seventeenth century, who were displaying the beginnings of trend towards viewing belief as difficult to attain. At some point, though, it become possible, even more easily defensible, to be take up a position of unbelief. How is this possible, and is it acceptable for the Christian?

Now, Taylor gives a variety of possible explanations as to why this might have developed and why the "secular" option is so prevalent today. He believes it took some time for a position of atheism to be intellectually viable in the most basic sense. Also, Christianity was so intertwined with society, it took a little while to develop a relatively coherent account of society and the world which did not require the explanation of God. However, it is fairly easy to see that, once it settled in our society, secularism became not only the dominant model for atheists, but also the model for Christians.

I'm sure you can imagine why I might have wanted to discuss this question. But I also find myself wanting to address this theme because a blog I follow recently noted "the utterly dominant success of the secular model," and how "the believer and non-believer experience the world in much the same manner" (see http://fatherstephen.wordpress.com/2010/06/10/the-crisis-of-religion/). Fr. Stephen goes on to say several things in response to these ideas, some of which I will repeat here. For the Christian, the whole of creation must be considered an Epiphany of the glory of God. No neutral ground, no inert matter exists which can be considered apart from this role. The secular model, which takes the non-existence of God (or His irrelevance to most questions) as a starting principle, does not work for a Christian looking out upon the world.

To use an analogous concept and to move from an Orthodox voice to a Protestant systematic voice, we might say that there is no man who can be considered in himself ; there is only man for whom Christ died and rose again (see Barth, Church Dogmatics I. 2; and, yes, I realize I "masculinized" the human race in that paraphrase, my HDS comrades).

Yet, I imagine it seems problematic to make this statement. After all, did we not just concede that, for many people, the existence of God can barely be admitted as a rational possibility? How then can we make a mere possibility into the determining factor for the rest of our conceptions? I know that this move appears problematic to me, and I am the one making it! I will begin by noting some popular answers we might give.

For Fr. Stephen and for Pascal, the hiddenness or apparent absence of God from the world actually creates the space wherein we might trust and love God. God is not so immediately present to us that we are forced to love and trust in Him. Yet, in some way, God draws us to Himself through the hiddenness; God brings to birth within us the faith and love with which we trust and obey Him.

This is a fine "in-house" answer, a simple one, a theological one which I might give in a discussion with other Christians. Some would say that this statement is as far as we can go and that we have no burden to demonstrate to those outside the rationality or coherence of our faith in God and the perpspective which follows from faith.

For others, they might point to something like spiritual blindness. Actually, God is visible through the created order, and the only reason that unbelievers cannot see this point is because they engage in a variety of self-delusional strategies, some simple and some complex, some conscious and others unconscious, all because they actually don't want to believe in God. Various reasons might be given: perhaps some unbelievers dislike the ethical demands of the Christian life, perhaps they dislike the ethical slovenliness of Christians in meeting those demands, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. This also, is fairly "in-house," though it can be better shown to cohere with certain contemporary philosophical and psychological discussions (see Kevin Kinghorn's The Decision of Faith). But how might I actually explain in common terms to one outside the Christian faith, why it is that God is hidden or appears absent?

I know that I have a couple ways I might try to answer the question myself, which I will post in a few days. But I'm curious what my readers might think. How do they conceive of the problem? Is it possible for a believer and an unbeliever to explain this problem in terms the other would accept?

The Celebrated Difference of East and West

It is a common assertion in academic discussions of Church History that the Eastern Church and the Western Church have developed rather different theologies. Particularly, it is said that the West has an understanding of redemption which ought to be understood primarily as forensic and moral, i.e. the forgiveness of sins. In contrast, the East is said to have a more cosmic emphasis, i.e., the transfer of man from death to life. This difference can hardly be denied, and it has often been a prime obstacle for both the Orthodox, as well as those in the Western tradition, when they have come together to discuss doctrine.

Yet I wonder whether this assertion is somewhat overstated and does not do justice to many ancient theologians in the West or the East. Now, a full investigation of this assertion would require volumes of work. A preliminary reference to the thought of two respected theologians, though, one from the Christian West and one from the Christian East might reveal more similarities than we would expect. I am going to attempt a quick reference to some of the similarities in theological method and understanding between Anselm of Canterbury and Maximus the Confessor, which is based on some independent work I have recently begun.

But, first, let us engage in a quick discussion to set the context for the comparison. Why should we pick Anselm and Maximus, and who are they?

We pick Anselm of Canterbury (ca 1033-1109) as one of the clearest examples of the Western tradition. He is now notorious for his formulation of the "satisfaction theory" of the atonement, a theory which has undergone a great deal of criticism in the modern period, despite its seminal importance. Anselm is often considered to be an epitome of the Western obsession with forensic categories which only work in particular Western cultures. For example, Anselm construes sin at some points in his work as an offense against Divine Justice, for which God must have satisfaction in order to maintain his dignity or honor. This formulation has struck many as a an attempt at mapping the power relationships of medieval Europe onto the divine/human relationship, and the "satisfaction theory" is often trotted out in contemporary theology as an example of everything that is wrong with the Western theological tradition.

Maximus the Confessor, on the other hand, is clearly a representative of Eastern Christianity in late antiquity. He was born in Constantinople ca. 580 (or Palestine, there is some disagreement in the sources) and spent most of his time in Asia Minor, Palestine, and Africa, before spending a few years working for the Pope in Rome, after which he experienced condemnation, several exiles, punishment, and death from suffering. His thoughts were later reconsidered, and he was accepted as a saint by both East and West, being dubbed "the Confessor." Maximus left behind more than ninety works, the majority of which are marked by his concern with the controversy of Monothelistism. While he did spend a little time in the West, Maximus is a good representative of the Eastern tradition due to his affinities with the Alexandrians, Cappadocians, and Pseudo-Dionysius (church historians feel free to pick this apart). Also, Maximus has an emphasis on the gradual ascent of the human being towards God through "struggling" on the path of virtue opened by Christ.

Now, I have been less than convinced of the relative difference between East and West for some time. In particular, I first moved along this line of thought rather freely as I began reading Alister McGrath's Iustitia Dei. He lists some details in that book about how Anselm's discussion of redemption (and that of other Western thinkers) cannot be understood without grasping that Anselm puts forward a rather interesting theory of justification. Anselm's understanding of justification is not "purely forensic," as various critics claim. He does not think that "iustifactio hominis" has only to do with a legal fiction. Rather, Anselm understands iustitia and ius, to refer not only to "justice" or legal standing before the law, but also to cosmic "rightness." Humanity must be restored to the right place in the created order in order for there to be redemption. Already, this emphasis on the restoration of humanity to its proper place in the universe starts to sound more "cosmic" or Eastern. Anselm, the epitome of the so-called forensic preoccupation of the West, does not seem to fall into the trap of viewing redemption in purely legal terms.

What this may show us is that the tendency towards the forensic understanding of redemption was actually a later model, exemplified best in formulations of the Reformation and later Protestant Scholasticism. The legal preoccupation, then, is not characteristically Western but definitively Protestant. Inasmuch as Protestants (like many others) have wanted to read their theology back into earlier sources, they tended to find antecedents for themselves, and others readers approaching the same texts came to them with understandings influenced by the newly traditional Protestant understandings of redemption and justification. Protestant understandings of informed Western academic readings.

My re-investigation of this issue in the primary sources has only started in earnest recently, but I am beginning a comparison of Maximus the Confessor's Logos Asketikos and Anselm's Cur Deus Homo. Both of the works are worthy of comparison because both of them are trying to answer a particular question. Anselm- why did God become Man? Maximus- what was the point (skopos) of the Lord's incarnation?

Another reason I imagine that this comparison will be fruitful springs from the several similarities between the works. First, and most superficially, I've found it rather striking that both Anselm and Maximus write in the traditional format of dialogue to discuss the question. The dialogues take rather different shapes, and they have different goals in mind, but they begin with a similar method of inquiry and response. There is one who is unlearned, who comes to a more learned teacher of theology, who attempts to proceed in an intentionally humble manner as both approach something mysterious. This detail may initially seem rather unimportant, but it reveals a certain humility in Eastern and Western Christian discourse: approaching the mystery of the Incarnation and its significance for human redemption requires a level of humility. Both of the "teachers" in the dialogues express concerns about their ability to understand the issue.

Second, both Maximus and Anselm appeal to a rather specific set of ideas. Namely, they refer to the locus classicus of atonement theology, Paul's discussion in Romans 5:12-21, and particularly to his statement that it was necessary for redemption to come through a Man (that is, a human) because sin had come through a Man. Both Maximus and Anselm appeal to other fairly similar ideas which I won't rehearse here. I will simply sum it up by noting that they have a common base of models for understanding the redemption of humanity, which is significant when we compare the deeper structure of their theology (e.g. death must be overturned by death, one under the Law must redeem those under the Law, his obedience is the substitute for our disobedience and that of Adam, etc.).

These are two brief examples of similarities between these two theologians, but they are only samples of the beginning of my discovery of deep congruence between many of the traditional Eastern and Western understandings of redemption. I will, of course, post more on this topic as I continue to work my way through the Logos Asketikos and Cur Deus Homo.

I suppose now I have to draw out my reason for even including this discussion. Who cares? Does this issue have any real significance for scholarship in general? I believe so. I had a recent discussion with a friend in which we briefly considered a major issue in the study of religion. Namely, few seem to have read closely the primary sources which they are ostensibly supposed to know backwards and forwards. Instead, they have ingested a steady diet of secondary works which fill them with the academic equivalent of the pious platitudes of folk theology. So, you hear statements like, "The Platonic view of the soul has resulted in a lack of emphasis on the physical and bodily in Western thought." Really now? The Platonic view? Considering that Plato's view of the soul is not consistent in the records we have of his thought and is often considered to be, in some sense, physical, it is rather astonishing that anyone can come to this conclusion (I will leave aside at this time the diversities of the 'Platonic tradition' in Western thought). Needless to say, I think we need to reconsider where the lack of emphasis on the body comes from in Western thought, as well as consider whether there really is such a lack of emphasis.

Similarly to our example above, scholars repeat statements like, "Eastern theology is focused on cosmic redemption, and Western theology tends towards legal metaphors." They repeat these statements while only rarely returning to the sources of their scholarship and seeing whether it is the case. Again, why is this significant? It is significant because I think that we tend to read "Western" theology through the eyes of the Reformers and their heirs, whether or not we identify with the Protestant/Reformed traditions. The academy has often been unduly influenced by Protestant readings of theological and historical sources, which has led to the perception of such a sharp divide.

Now, it is evident that we cannot go back and examine every thought which fits in our overall conceptual framework. But we should recognize how many of our thoughts are actually placeholders formulated by other thinkers and accepted rather uncritically on our part. I don't doubt this sort of action is necessary for us to function in the world. I simply think that we might want to continue doing this sort of re-examination of concepts before we go making a career out of them.

I wonder, though, what other sorts of misconceptions do we have? Is it the fate of every generation to cannibalize the works of the previous generation, by saying that they were blind, foolish, and didn't examine their presuppositions?

Our Religion is Not Simple

We cannot understand religion or religious expressions in terms which are overly simple, and we ought to have a deep, abiding suspicion for explanations of religious behavior which fail the test of sufficient complexity, whether those explanations are given by academics, politicians, members of religious communities, or some combination of all three.
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"Sumus etiam religiosi et religio nostra simplex..."

This brief sentence from one of the earliest historical accounts of Christian martyrdom is what initially formed my thoughts for the direction of this blog. The scene in the account is fairly typical for early Christian passiones. Some Christians are brought before a proconsul. And they are urged to do two things.

Saying the above quote, "We, also, are religious, and our religion is simple," the proconsul tells them that all they must do is pray for the health of the emperor and burn a little incense in order to fulfill their religious duty in the way of all good Roman citizens. There's nothing to it, and the Christians should have no crisis of conscience. Surely, their worship of the Lord Christ does not preclude the worship of other deities, not least of all their political master, Caesar. Of course, for the scholar of religion in the contemporary academy, the account is full of ironies, not least of all this kind of statement: "et religio nostra simplex." Whatever else may be implied by the proconsul's statement and demands, one thing ought to be clear: what is going on in this religious encounter is not a simple affair.

I have often thought of this scene as a sort of tableau for the nature of the study and practice of religion. With some notable exceptions, there is a tendency in the academy to wish to simplify the nature of any religion or any scene in the history of a religion or religions. We want to reduce the number of possible options for our interpretation. So, we tend to see scholars rely on a particular lens for approaching most, if not all, religious expression in the world or history, whether it is through the use of methods from phenomenology, sociology, psychoanalysis, gender theory, ritual theory, religionsgeschichte, theology, or any other approach. While the tendency I describe is not universal, there often seems to be the impression that we can actually reduce religious expression to something fairly understandable without the loss of any crucial elements. For example, Russell McCutcheon, a professor at the University of Alabama, is quick to claim that we must describe all religious expression in sociological terms. After all, he says that we cannot rationally conceive of religion in any other way.

I find much of McCutcheon's work rather admirable and bold, so I do not wish to provide a caricature of his position. His insistence on using only the sociological lens is an attempt to redescribe religious expression in a way which is manageable or conceivable. However, as he admits himself in Critics, Not Caretakers and other publications, his moves at redescription are not innocent in any way. When we wish to define or describe religion in a particular way, we are actually engaging in a political act which has wider ramifications beyond the realm of scholarly debate. Our definition of religion becomes the definition of the activity of others and for the consumption of other minds, which, in turn, enables a public discourse on religion which is committed to understanding, say, the decision of persons to enter religious community as something which is brought on by social pressures which may be described sociologically, without reference to the discourse of the particular religion they are joining. For McCutcheon, we have no need to describe or understand something like a Christian baptism in terms of the person's desire for and participation in an act which brings renewal of the soul, the forgiveness of sins, and the death of the Old and birth of the New. We are perfectly capable of understanding this action, instead, in others terms, like their submission to social pressures or an attempt at seize political power through such submission to social pressure.

I find nothing completely dubious about McCutcheon's position, particularly for those not standing within the bounds of Christian religion. It does appear, though, to succumb to this tendency towards reduction. For example, it would seem an undue abstraction to view such action solely in terms of labels and motivations which are foreign to the discourse of the religion in question. It also seems to betray a certain level of suspicion or skepticism regarding the stated motives of the person engaging in the action. Ultimately, we must ask ourselves whether we trust our own powers of interpretation and redescription over those of the person or community which we are studying. In other words, does our description always trump theirs? Or, is there some room for both descriptions? Also, in light of McCutcheon's insistence that redescription is a political act, do we want to create a public discourse on religion which does not allow for religious communities to explain their actions in their own terms? Must we insist on understanding them in another way?

As one who studies Church History, particularly (now) the Early Middle Ages, I am somewhat more sympathetic to a description of religion and religious acts which is more keenly aware of the possibilities for description or redescription which is fuller or thicker than McCutcheon's attempt, description which attempts to take into account both the explained motivations of a particular agent or community and some of the latent or implicit understandings which we can glean by examining the social situation or by deploying other methods. For example, it would be foolish to try and understand the conversion of pagans to Christianity in the Early Middle Ages and their concomitant submission to Christian baptism always as a simple attempt to seize political power or standing in their community. Doubtless, there were such motivations, at least on the part of some or of many. Yet we would be lining ourselves up on the side of the proconsul from the earlier story, saying something like "Vero, estis religiosi, sed religio vestra simplex." That is, "Really, you are religious, but your religion is simple." We would like their religion to be simple and superficial, a mere sprinkling of water or lighting of incense, the perfunctory mutter of disingenuous prayer for themselves or for their political overlord.

Yet, I think it would also be foolish to try and understand such conversions as I described them previously, solely in the terms of Christian theology. The sympathetic Church historian, theologian, or Christian believer often wishes to describe the conversion of the "barbarian" tribes of Europe only in terms of the spread of the faith or the end of pagan superstition (of which we no little), perhaps even in terms of the growing visible reign of Christ or the exile of diabolical, impostor spirits. Or, they wish to think of it in terms of the forgiveness of sins, pyschical renewal, and new creation. That is, the sympathetic historian attempts a description which is actually the mere promulgation of the viewpoint of primary, medieval sources.

I am trying to push for something a little more than either the repetition and promulgation of the medieval, ecclesiastical viewpoint or the redescription and political muzzling of such views. I would prefer if we could see early medieval conversions while using much of both approaches, indeed from all approaches and lenses. I may propose an impossible project, and I have critiqued others in the past for doing so. But, I think the approach justifies itself, at least when we consider the case I am looking at. We can confidently say that those converting from "paganism" to Christianity often were trying to gain or leverage some political capital. Early Medieval Kings would often advocate for Christian faith as a source of unity for tribes which, heretofore, had been engaged in raiding or open warfare against one another. Yet, these same converts, whether king, thane, or servant, also understood their conversion in the terms I have outlined above. They did see their submission to baptism as both political, changing the social reality for themselves and for their tribe or fledgling nation, as theological or religious, enacting the forgiveness of sins, personal exorcism, and personal renewal, and as what best might be described as theo- or religio-political, submitting to a new Lord or Judge and being transferred to a new Kingdom, i.e. that of Jesus Christ.

My main point, I suppose, in this lengthy post is to argue for something which is opposite to the view of the much-abused, aforementioned proconsul. "Religio Nostra Contortula." Our religion, and religion in general, is not simple; rather it has twists and facets which cross sociological and theological boundaries. When we study religion or the history of religion, we must remember that our categories, whether sociological, theological, or otherwise, must be malleable enough to reflect our source material. We have to resist the tendency towards reduction.

An auxiliary point, which should by now be evident to the careful reader, has to do with our public discourse on religion. One might even say that I am making a political point here. As I mentioned above, McCutcheon's attempts at redescription are not innocent. Neither, of course, are mine. By pushing for a description of religion which includes an understanding of sociological and theological factors, among others, I am attempting to outline the way I would hope we can shape the public discussion of religion. My aims also bear reference to the methods we see in theological discussion, particularly in ecclesiastical debate. Yet, I will have to write more on these issues at a later time, and I will leave with one final restatement of my point.

We cannot understand religion or religious expressions in terms which are overly simple, and we ought to have a deep, abiding suspicion for explanations of religious behavior which fail the test of sufficient complexity, whether those explanations are given by academics, politicians, members of religious communities, or some combination of all three.

After all, we, also, are religious, and our religion is not simple.