Those who wish to shut in the light shut in nothing but darkness. — Blaise Pascal
The work of Creation is going on. — Henry Drummond
John Dewey had two main complaints concerning the orthodox, organized Christian religion as he witnessed it. First, it artificially separated the earthly existence from the spiritual by way of principles like Calvinistic "grace without works," which ostensibly made anything done in the temporal life tantamount to a moot performance of meaningless action once "ultimates" were considered. Second, it was unreflective, which led toward passive superstition and enslavement to set doctrines and picayune, often prejudiced principles.
Indeed, viewing it as Dewey did, one might easily assert that a religion unquestioned has the same end as a government unquestioned: tyranny over a weakened, ignorant peasantry, a feudal oligarchy ruled by a (self-proclaimed) "enlightened" few. Does this mean that intelligent and independent people must throw Christianity out the window? God forbid. It merely means that intelligent and independent people must learn what Christianity really is.
A thinking, reasonably flexible, "tangibly active," present-centered, creative spirituality would solve both of Dewey's problems, it seems, though it most definitely would upset the apple cart of those who still hold to the static, sanctioned orthodoxy they call Christianity. Interestingly enough, true Christianity, the original Christianity, as put forth and lived by Christ himself, fits the bill exactly. This is true even down to his shaking up the rigid advocates of orthodoxy and stasis; it is well to be remembered that Jesus was killed as a rebel due to supposed heresy and his opposition to the religious establishment.
Good theologians (or, at the very least, good philosophers) call constantly for "evidences" for one's beliefs and assertions. Certainly someone might call for my logical proofs after I have made what will be for some a very bold and daring statement concerning "flexible religion" (and certainly after any proclamation made concerning "flexible Christianity"). Very well.
God gave me a mind made for reflection, insight, and problem solving, and placed me in a contingent, ever-changing universe with physical, mental, and spiritual dimensions. Did such a God not mean for me to be progressive, investigative, and creative in my relationship with the world, in my relationships with other people, and in my relationship with the Divine? (Christianity, as lived by Jesus and which displaced the inflexible, harsh law of the Old Testament, was remarkably flexible and progressive in all of these aspects.)
Did God not mean for there to be thought, action, ongoing change, positive development, and constant reassessment aimed toward the betterment of these basic relationships? If not, then why the probing mind, the heart that longs for deeper and better connections than those presently known, and a universe of infinite possibility, discovery, and change? Indeed, it would seem quite evident that we are invited, by the universe and all that we are, toward investigation and creativity and improvement of approach and execution in all of these matters. Anything else renders most of God's creation ultimately absurd and meaningless.
Dogmatic systems fail the genuine aspirant in their doctrinal inflexibility ("doctrine," as used here, is certainly not to be confused with "morality," but is rather more in the way of "finalized, prescriptive, non-ethical religious edicts set forth in fine particular"). They are forms of robotic, removed spirituality (a contradiction in terms, really, since true spirituality is always vital, growing, and intimate with the goings-on of the physical world). They are forms of a "once and final" absolutism that crushes the creative spirit that God gave to all of us and lays waste the greater portion of the potential for meaning and moral innovation that lies latent in this world of limitless relations. In short, they are everything in religion that Dewey despised and rightly criticized.
Salvation is free. A life with the Divine is full of the freedom of exploration, innovation, and good, productive creativity (as noted above, all of God's creation fairly screams it). In fact, these things are necessary for anything like real salvation (which is so very much more than merely escaping hell). There is much evidence in the world and in our nature that we were made to live in freedom, progression, wonderment, and innovation; and who but God has made the world and us? And so it is that God's intention for us in living our lives — physically, mentally, and spiritually — seems obvious: flexibly, progressively, freely, and creatively.
Retreating to absolutism in religion to avoid spiritual danger is like retreating to a cave to avoid the dangers of the outside world. The outlying environs of thought and spiritual creativity are more precarious on a day-to-day basis, perhaps, but when the bear of doubt and despair comes roaming, seeking whom he may devour, the one outside the cave may find new routes of security and survival. Absolutists are eaten alive, ironically having trapped themselves by undertaking a cul-de-sac escape from jeopardy that shuts off all other possibilities. Even if they arm themselves against the bear with ample stores of aggression and self-righteous zeal, and so are never devoured, they still must shoot at everything that comes near them, good or ill, unable to see in the darkness of their retreat anything but their own static position.
The remedy to this "cave-living" absolutism is not random relativism or wild hedonism, but rather an active, vital striving toward good that acknowledges the existence of the chance for betterment and attains ever toward higher ground and new growth. We shall forever suffer all the horrors of religious battles, between friends and between nations, until we realize that Christianity is not a doctrine, but rather a way of life, and nothing else. It is not even something with which we do, like a set of rules or a code of strictures, but the doing itself. Is it not interesting that Christ never set down a word himself nor spoke of any written New Testament or book of doctrine and rules? Indeed, his living was the Word, and his attitudes and actions were his testament.
In order to further show the difference between literal doctrinal absolutism and thoughtful, insightful spirituality, let me relate a brief narrative. A man, a literal-minded doctrinalist, and a woman, a religious "free thinker," had a theological discussion. He took the orthodox stance that heaven and hell are places of physical pleasure and pain (or something very much like it), streets of gold and pits of brimstone. He viewed them as all-or-nothing situations gained or lost almost by chance, or by capricious blessing or curse (those born and raised in "non-Christian" religions were simply out of luck). In the midst of the discussion, this man said that he would do anything to get to heaven. He would be willing to perform tremendous acts of evil all his life (in order to please a hypothetical evil deity) or damn everyone who had ever lived to hell in order to gain paradise (as opposed to accepting damnation himself in order to save everyone else).
The woman insisted that such a thing would be a physical possibility, if heaven and hell were temporal places of pleasure and pain, but gaining heaven and eluding hell in such a manner as the man described would remain forever a spiritual impossibility. She proclaimed that if one lived a life of evil in order to enjoy pleasure or avoid pain, and especially if one damned other people to hell in order to be well off in eternity oneself, the spiritual damage done to the soul would make any kind of real heaven utterly unthinkable. Conversely, she said, if one were noble and brave and self-contained enough to receive damnation oneself in order to save all the people who had ever lived, or if one did good, even with the knowledge that an evil God would be displeased, the resultant integrity, holiness, and virtue that would cling to and pervade the spirit would be heaven itself.
Her ability to think beyond the "established," literal doctrine of paradise and perdition had allowed her to see that reward and punishment, as put forth by most orthodox religions, leads most people to think of the afterlife as (more or less) physical pain or pleasure. This mindset triggers an amoeba-like avoidance and striving (though, perhaps, more desperate and pathetic) to prevail in their thinking. In short, she realized what the first could not, namely that much "hard and fast" doctrine (again, not to be confused with a code of moral or ethical conduct) is, when thoughtfully analyzed, little more than thin metaphor. In this view, heaven and hell are merely states of the soul, accrued exclusively through the way that one lives.
Again, while a system of "creative spirituality" does not encourage one to rely solely on one book of rules and doctrine and insists on the believer finding his or her own way, armed with aggregated knowledge and good sense, it is not the same thing as "relative morality." It is not a meandering process in which adultery would be an immoral act on Tuesday and then approved behavior on Thursday. Rather, it is a progressive one in which more and more effective and fair modes of morality — active conduct in the world — would be employed as they were discovered.
This is what Christianity was about at the beginning. The "sword" that its founder carried is not a sword of violence, but rather one that perpetually severs the old from the new. This angered the religious conservatives of his time, and it continues to anger religious conservatives today (millions of whom, ironically, claim to follow that revolutionary called "Jesus Christ"). As I asserted in my previous article on the topic, "Pragmatic Christianity" (The New Times, January 2000), though perhaps not in so many words, a Christianity that is no longer thoughtful, creative, innovative, and even revolutionary, is no Christianity at all. Of course, the creativity in our Christianity should always be led by open and sincere prayer and meditation, since these are key components of our relationship with God.
Given everything that we understand about the way the universe is set up by God and the way we function in it (assuming our role in the afterlife is an extension of the life we lead now), we must admit that although the road to heaven may be narrow, it is winding nonetheless. The one who will not make a sensible bend in the way every once and a while is going to get lost in the thicket. This existence is all about learning how to live, physically, mentally, socially, spiritually, and morally, in the best way possible, not about finding the magic charm of some particular religious or philosophical system that will make all problems and difficulties flee, for now or in eternity.
One might say that this sort of thinking is "humanistic," but true Christianity, from its outset, has always been humanistic. It is the self-righteous, frightened Pharisee who clings to formulas, rites, and rituals as a way of salvation, leaving out the most important factor of all: ever-changing human life itself.
