God is not One is a new book by Stephen Prothero, and I was delighted to be asked to review it by TLC Book Tours.

Prothero, who is professor of religion at Boston University, has written a thoroughly interesting book.

Its premise is that in our attempts to look at different religions as separate paths up the same mountain, we gloss over the differences and attempt unity without ever understanding just how fundamentally different the religions are from each other. Our perspective is dangerously skewed.

The book has been described as controversial, something that always makes me a bit suspicious, as it seems to warn of claims made and phrases used in the service of publicity, not writing.

I needn’t have worried, it’s a delight. Well structured, knowledgeable, written with elegance, wit and humanity. I hadn’t heard of Prothero before this book, and I’m really pleased to have discovered him.

Structure

The structure of the book, after a scene-setting introduction, is to cover each of the “eight rival religions that run the world” in a factual way. Each gets its own chapter (with a brief afterword on atheism). I like the way in which Prothero gives us a one-line focus for each religion:

• Islam: the way of submission
• Christianity: the way of salvation
• Confucianism: the way of propriety
• Hinduism: the way of devotion
• Buddhism: the way of awakening
• Yoruba: the way of connection
• Judaism: the way of exile and return
• Daoism: the way of flourishing

Image by kanegan

One of the things I love most in this life is learning, and some of the religions (the word is used to encompass belief systems that may not in the strictest sense be religions) described here are new to me.

I had, for example, no idea that Confucianism is still a contemporary way of life (and is indeed undergoing a resurgence), I’d never heard of Yoruba, I had only the haziest notion about Daoism.

Pre-conceptions

I tried, and failed miserably, to approach the book with no pre-conceived notions. But of course I was brought up Catholic in the days when the following joke was doing the rounds:

A Protestant dies and is shown around Heaven by St Peter. Their walk through this beautiful place full of happy Christian souls takes them toward an area enclosed by a high wall. St Peter puts his finger to his lips. “Ssshh”, he says, “be quiet while we walk past.” “Why?” whispers the Protestant. “Because that’s where the Catholics are and they think they’re the only ones up here.”

One of the great gifts of this book for me was to challenge that ingrained perspective in many different ways. For example:

One of the most common misconceptions about the world’s religions is that they plumb the same depths, ask the same questions. They do not. Only religions that see God as all good ask how a good God can allow millions to die in tsunamis. Only religions that believe in souls ask whether your soul exists before you are born and what happens to it after you die. And only religions that think we have one soul ask after “the soul” in the singular. (p24)

History

Prothero does not shy away from the difficult questions, for example the verses in both the Bible and in the Qu’ran that appear to incite violence. But neither does he sensationalise them. The book is very balanced.

Image by alicepopkorn

He provides just enough historical biography of each religion to give context, understanding and a pathway to recognising how today’s practice has arisen. This is particularly interesting in documenting the inevitable splits that seem to occur once a religion’s founder is dead: Shia and Sunni Muslims, the different Buddhist schools, the Catholic/Orthodox/Protestant divides and many more.

Style

Prothero uses a couple of devices to ensure the book is never dry or boring.

One is to throw in fascinating snippets of information. For example, when talking about the wisdom of Confucianism, which promotes respectful behaviour such as listening rather than speaking, he tells us “the character for sage in Chinese is a large ear and a small mouth”.

The other device is something I didn’t spot until I’d nearly finished the book. Prothero inserts regular references to his students. For example:

In my introduction to religion courses I ask my students to invent their own religions. They form groups and dream up new religions. They then pitch their religious creations online and in class.

This is clever in two ways: it very subtly reinforces Prothero’s qualifications for writing the book, and it draws the reader in, giving both visual and imaginative reference points.

Conclusion

I especially like the way all the strands of the book are spun together in the conclusion into our common humanity:

Even in traditions of escape from the sin and suffering of this world, religion works not so much to help us flee from our humanity as to bring us home to it. “The glory of God,” wrote the second-century Catholic bishop Irenaeus of Lyons, “is a human being fully alive.” Or, as a contemporary Confucian puts it, “We need not depart from our self-hood and our humanity to become fully realised.”

I thoroughly recommend this book to anyone wanting a grounding in these major religions and some thoughtful reflection on how we can come together while celebrating our differences,  rather than trying to ignore them.

You can watch Prothero talking about his book in this video.

Elsewhere:

You will find other reviews of the book at Diamonds in the Sky with Lucy, at Knowing the Difference, and at Church for Starving Artists.

Most of us have suffered through the death and loss of someone we love.

But I suspect very few of us have suffered through the violent death of someone we love whose loss has meant the end of hope and ushered in fear for our own survival.

But on this in-between day long ago, the disciples of Jesus must have been stunned with shock, grief and fear. They didn’t know what the next day would bring.

Us Christians, God’s fools, we wait for hope resurrected. We have been taught it will come. We get on with our day’s chores, or entertain family. Perhaps we have planned what Easter Sunday service to attend, brought flowers into the house. For us, this is what Richard Rohr refers to in his meditation today as a liminal space:

Limen is the Latin word for threshold.  A “liminal space” is the crucial in-between time when everything actually happens and yet nothing appears to be happening.  It is the waiting period when the cake bakes, the actual movement is made, the real transformation takes place.  One cannot just jump from Friday to Sunday in this case, there must be a Saturday!  It is the liminal waiting time, which is of course not a negative waiting at all, but a making of inner space so there will be room and desire for Much Greater Things.

The disciples didn’t know they were making an inner space. They simply sat through their Sabbath with their minds and hearts drowning in agony.

Image by babasteve

Elsewhere:

I haven’t been reading many blogs this week, I’ve rather drawn into myself. But here is a rich abundance of Easter beauty and pathos: Barefoot toward the Light, Shattered Grace, Diamonds in the Sky with Lucy, A Seat at the Table, Towanda’s Window, Don’t Eat Alone. I am so grateful to be part of this online community of thoughtfulness and grace.

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon -
I, only I.

Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy Sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

Christina Rosetti

Image by dawvon

It’s Mothers’ Day in the UK today, which has got me thinking about mothers.

This year, my sister has been a mother for twenty years. Our own mother has been dead for twenty years. In the Christian journey, we are racing through Lent towards the day when Mary, the mother of Christ, cradles the ruined body of her dead son in her arms.

Today’s Gospel was the famous parable of The Prodigal Son.You know the story of the father who divides his property between feckless younger son and responsible older son. Younger son goes off and wastes all the money on debauched living. Eventually, full of shame, he returns home:

But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.

The father has a feast prepared to welcome his young son home. The older son meanwhile is angry and bitter. He has worked faithfully for many years but never has his father thrown a party for him.

So his father went out and pleaded with him … My son you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.

It struck me this morning that there’s someone missing in this story: the mother. It’s a very masculine focus. Is the mother in this family still alive? What were her thoughts and feelings? It seemed very incomplete.

And then I thought how much the father in this story displays some characteristics that are stereotypically feminine. This was no stern patriarch, this could just as well be a mother filled with fierce wild joy at her son’s return, and not afraid to show it. This was a parent who understands his older son’s anger and does not meet it with anger of his own. He pleads with his older son. He tries to awaken his older son to his own joy. (Is it too much to read into this also a sudden realisation that perhaps he should not have taken the reliable son for granted over the years?)

Jesus told this parable to the usual suspects: Pharisees, temple scribes and so on. The story had to feature a father in order to be credible. But I wonder if there’s a hidden layer: that this parent transcends gender, just as God does.

Image, modified by me, by Valeriana Solaris

Elsewhere:

I’ve started a new blog! Strictly speaking a tumblelog, which has been described as a quick and dirty stream of consciousness. It’s a place for me to share fragments of poetry, quotes, images and music that catch my attention. I’ve called it Sacred Graffiti and you can find it here. It’s not an interactive space like this one, it has no comments, and is meant to compliment our discussions here. I hope you enjoy it.

And I was very moved by this poem at Writing Without Paper. Inspired by Anne Frank it reminds us how many mothers, fathers, sons and daughters have lost each other.

I love it when someone helps me see a different perspective.

Today’s Gospel is Luke 4:1-13, in which Jesus is tempted by the devil. You probably know it:

Filled with the holy Spirit, Jesus returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the desert for forty days, to be tempted by the devil. He ate nothing during those days, and when they were over he was hungry. The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

Then he took him up and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a single instant. The devil said to him, “I shall give to you all this power and their glory; for it has been handed over to me, and I may give it to whomever I wish. All this will be yours, if you worship me.” Jesus said to him in reply, “It is written: ‘You shall worship the Lord, your God, and him alone shall you serve.’”

Then he led him to Jerusalem, made him stand on the parapet of the temple, and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written: ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to guard you,’ and: ‘With their hands they will support you, lest you dash your foot against a stone.’” Jesus said to him in reply, “It also says, ‘You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test.’” When the devil had finished every temptation, he departed from him for a time.

In the sermon at Mass this morning, I heard something that gave me a different perspective: that the devil’s temptations were bound to fail because they were not relevant for Jesus. The devil was using temptations that he himself found tempting, but Jesus did not. The devil had recast Jesus in his own image, and understood nothing about the image of God.

I’m intrigued by this notion of how we all so often see things through the lens of our own selves and our own preoccupations. I know we do that, but so often forget it.  It’s so difficult to lay aside the restrictions of our own personalities. Even the devil couldn’t do it, for all his wiliness.

And how do we know in whose likeness the images we create might be?

Image by Alex Proimos

Elsewhere:

In Trying to Breathe, Mary Beth has introduced me to a very interesting initiative, Women for Women International. It helps women survivors of war. Given that it’s International Women’s Day on March 8th, this might be something for us all to look into.

I was really delighted to find out the other day that one of my favourite bloggers, Epiphany Girl, has returned from hibernation, complete with a little bundle of gorgeousness called Moira. Epiphany Girl is already building up some very interesting new posts, and she has tagged me in this “Bible in five statements” meme. Here’s what it involves:

Summarise the Bible in five statements, the first one word long, the second two, the third three, the fourth four and the last five words long. Or possibly you could do this in descending order. Tag five people.

Rarely one to resist a challenge (although the idea seems a bit like those manic performances of compressed Shakespeare plays, and surely a statement cannot be only one word), here is what I’ve come up with:

Creation
Lives forever
Alpha and omega
In myth and parable
Infinite history, song and poetry

So who to tag? I think I’ll go for Claire, Sue, Towanda, Sunrise Sister and Country Parson. And anyone else who’s interested. Do have a go if you want to, in the comments here or on your own blog (in which case leave us a link). This was challenging!

Image by Wonderlane

Elsewhere:

Barbara is writing a series of meditations on the O Antiphons, the latest of which you will find here. They are thought-provoking and beautiful. And the photograph of a radiant Blisschick here is well worth looking at, as well as reading her words.

I should begin with a declaration of disinterest: I’ve never had children and never wanted them. Although I’ve begun in the last few years to like and even love some individual children, I still find them less than pleasant en masse.

Today I read two news articles that made me wonder about people’s motivation for having families.

The first was the current journey of St Therese of Lisieux’s relics through the UK. St Therese is my patron saint, the one I was named after. If I hadn’t been born near her feast day I would have been Clare (of Assisi) instead, which I’d much have preferred, so I’ve always resented Therese a bit. And what a goody-two-shoes she always seemed to me.

It’s her family history I was thinking of today, though. Her parents, Azelie and Louis, had each separately tried to become monastics, but had been rejected for various reasons. So Azelie prayed for a large family she could consecrate to God and upon meeting and marrying Louis, set about it, having nine children, five of whom survived to adulthood. All of these surviving daughters, including Therese, eventually became nuns. Hardly surprising given the parental pressure.

Now let’s turn to the second news item, about an American Christian movement called the Quiverfulls. They take their inspiration from Psalm 126 (127):

Truly sons are a gift from the Lord
a blessing the fruit of the womb
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.

So these traditionalist Christian couples are also in favour of large families, for similar reasons to Azelie and Louis, if slightly more martial in flavour: they see their children as future leaders and spreaders of their very literal Bible beliefs. They tend to “believe in male headship – the principle, also derived from the Bible, that men should lead households”.

Isn’t this interesting? On the face of it, how could one disparage devout Christians for wanting to honour God with their families? And is there actually any non-selfish reason for having children? Apart from the biological imperative to continue the race, perhaps most parents want children as companions, for mutual love and so on.

But this feels to me different. It feels utilitarian. It feels as if these children are being born and raised not as loved individuals, but as a means to an end. What do you think?

I’ll tell you one thing though: I often long for the kind of certainty in faith families like these seem to have, even though I disagree so strongly with many aspects of their interpretations of Christianity.

Image by Trenton Schulz

Elsewhere:

If you’re interesting in finding out more about Therese of Lisieux, I  recommend Monica Furlong’s biography.

I’ve only just discovered that one of my favourite spiritual writers, Macrina Wiedekehr, has a blog called Under the Sycamore Tree. I’ve included it in my links. I love this quote in one of her posts.

I love old churches, so I was delighted to visit one at Staunton Harold in Leicestershire at the weekend while staying with friends. It is gorgeous, with most of the original 17th century features, including an extraordinary wooden ceiling depicting the creation (above), painted by Zachary and Samuel Kyrk (yes I thought the surname was apt, too).

And what a rich history this church has. I’m resolutely anti-monarchy and the church was built by Sir Robert Shirley, who was an ardent Royalist. So I don’t exactly agree with his outlook. But if I tell you he founded this church in 1653, two years after the end of the English Civil War at a time when Cromwell was Protector of England, and that he built it with all the High Anglican richness so despised by the Puritans, well you have to admire his courage.

Robert Shirley’s immediate ancestors had been Roman Catholic, and his brand of Anglicanism was influenced by Rome and by the teachings of Archbishop Laud (who had been executed in 1645). The man Shirley regarded as divinely appointed to rule England, King Charles I, was executed in 1649 when Shirley was just 20.

So the richness of this church Shirley built – which is not very big and was the private family chapel – created ripples well beyond his Leicestershire estate. Cromwell was enraged and demanded Shirley use his wealth to fit out a ship for the Navy. Shirley refused and was imprisoned in the Tower of London. He died there, aged 27. The church he founded was completed by his son’s guardians in accordance with Shirley’s detailed plans.

Part of me is just really irritated by all this. What a fuss – on both sides – about the externals of worship; what a waste of life. But I’m also in awe of this young man’s bravery. He wasn’t fighting physically, but he was using his wealth to fight for the right to worship as he saw fit, and he paid the price in more ways than one.

The stone inscription above the church’s west door is stirring:

In the year 1653
when all thinges Sacred were throughout ye nation
Either demolisht or profaned
Sir Robert Shirley, Barronet,
Founded this church;
Whose singular praise it is,
to have done the best things in ye worst times
And
hoped them in the most callamitous.
The righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance.

Elsewhere:

A while back I started a blog focusing on creativity, Pilgrim’s Moon. I’ve dismantled it for the time being because it seemed like a false division of my life. I’m going to import a few of the posts over the next few days, so apologies if they show up in your blog reader software.

I’m thinking about the gorgeous bounty nature provides at this time of year: I’m a little envious of Elaine’s eggplant – I tried to grow some this year and failed; and Kate’s lemons are just so, well, lemony and the recipe sounds wonderful.

Today’s Gospel is one of those pesky parables Christ came up with to make his disciples think.

Of workers and money

It is Matthew 20:1-16, and it tells the story of a landowner who hires day labourers to work in his vineyard. One group he hires first thing in the morning, agreeing to pay them a normal day’s wage. Then he finds some more men looking for work late morning, another group mid-afternoon and yet another just an hour before sunset. At the end of the day, the landowner has the groups of labourers who worked only part of a day paid a full day’s wage. Those who started at the beginning of the day are paid the same: a full day’s wage. This latter group grumbles. The landowner tells them off, saying they are receiving what they had agreed to, no more and no less, that they are therefore being treated fairly.

There’s something so very human and very modern about this parable, isn’t there? I can just see modern labour unions kicking up a stink about such a situation. And at a personal level, there are so many examples I can think of where I’ve worked harder than someone else but been paid the same: what I had agreed to. On the face of it, our Western culture would say that first group of hard workers should receive a better reward. What about a bonus?

There are things we’re not told about these groups of workers. How come the later groups weren’t out looking for work first thing? Was one worker out drinking and carousing the night before and completely incapacitated that morning? Was another worker unable to get to the marketplace early because he spent those early morning hours caring from his elderly paralysed father? What do you think about the difference between these two men, are they equally deserving?

It isn’t easy, is it, to make straightforward judgements about fairness when money is involved?

Of heaven

In fact I think the underlying premise of this parable is actually easier to deal with. It is talking about getting an entry pass into heaven (whatever we understand heaven to be). I think many of us have a kind of generous compassion about the big things when often the smaller ones rankle. To use a melodramatic example, which of us would deny heaven to someone who has led a sinful life but has a genuine deathbed experience of repentance? At the most basic level it is no skin off our noses, and in our common humanity we can rejoice with that person.

And yet that common humanity tends to go out of the window when we’re talking about money. The trigger for the parable is that earlier in this Gospel, which takes place on the road to Jerusalem, we hear about the man who was told by Christ that to be perfect, he should:

‘…go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come and follow me.’ When the young man heard this, he went away with a heavy heart, for he was a man of great wealth.

These themes about money, simplicity and fairness echo through the Gospels: the lilies of the field, the prodigal son, the planks of wood in our eyes while we worry about our brother’s splinter. It seems to me we are being invited to measure our lives by beauty and compassion, not by money.

Of stumbling along

When I was a child, my understanding was all about “gentle Jesus meek and mild”, which is right for a child. But this isn’t the case at all. This is a demanding, uncompromising, challenging, often irascible man. It’s a hell of a task, to follow him. Especially as I know I’d be one of those workers grumbling about not getting more money because I was there first thing in the morning.

How about you?

Image by francesco sgroi

Elsewhere:

Christine’s post Embodying Intention seems to me to reflect some of this Gospel, in talking about gifts other than money. And Marian’s My life in the slow lane does more of the same.

Have you ever felt like you’re two or more different people? That you have a compelling alter ego? The last 24 hours has been a bit like that for me.

I sometimes use a site called Pray as You Go. (I know, the name’s dire, but the site is good!) It combines music and voice to provide a meditation on one of the relevant daily readings from the Christian liturgy. Generally, using this site first thing in the morning allows me to start the day quietly and with positive energy. Yesterday was different.

The reading was Matthew 14:13-21, the famous Gospel story of the feeding of 5,000 people with just a few loaves and fish. The meditation was led by a gentle voice I hadn’t heard before: a woman with a soft, barely discernable Irish accent.

At the sound of that voice, my alter ego Angrychick leapt snarling out of her cage and began pacing around inside my head.

Why? Because that soft voice was a composite of all the despotic Irish nuns who taught at the school where I was educated, although without the edge of menace underlying the gentleness. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how voices (and smells) can evoke memories?

A male voice read the Gospel, then the female voice continued the meditation. As she observed that “Jesus liked to be with people, he liked it both for his sake and for their sakes”, Angrychick flicked her tail disdainfully. “You know that for a fact, bitch, do you?” The voice asked me to meditate upon my attitude to spending time with other people. Angrychick considered how deliciously crunchy their delicate bones might be. “Perhaps the Lord has something to say to me about how I might nurture, support and encourage people around me”, suggested the voice. “Perhaps the people around me should just go f…” Well you get the idea.

Ever since, Angrychick has been locked in a struggle with Goodgirl.

Now Goodgirl is the one who is nurturing, supporting and encouraging. She’s mostly the one who writes this blog. She’s not perfect: she likes to show off and because she’s very concerned with appearances she sometimes embroiders the facts. But her intentions are honourable and she does actually care about people.

Thing is, I really love Angrychick, she has such energy. Goodgirl is too sugary-sweet. She’s wimpy and ineffectual. She’s the accommodating Catholic schoolgirl who did what she was told. But although Angrychick’s taken Goodgirl out for a spin on the Harley several times over the years, she’s never yet managed to push her off into the path of oncoming traffic.

So how to merge Goodgirl’s compassion with Angrychick’s energy and power, that’s the task.

What’s your experience of this sort of thing? How do you reconcile different elements of your self?

Image (cropped by me) by Makeshiftlove

Elsewhere:

BlissChick is of course the person who has recently been naming different elements of being a stuckchick. You can read about it here. And lest we forget that growth is not only spiritual and psychological, Elaine has some reflections and lovely photographs, tempered with concerns about climate change.