Bells and Smells

As I have been trying to work out how a non-theistic Christianity might take form, it has been hard to resist simply going back to how I believed things to have been before I gave up theism. One of the persistent attractions has been to return to the music and ritual. Like most people, I was not born with prayer beads in one hand and a BCP (Book of Common Prayer) in the other, but from my first encounters with complex religious ritual, I was captivated. As a child and through high school, I was a member of a Presbyterian Church in a small midwestern town. This church was far from liberal as a whole and had a very sparse liturgical life. The minister of the church, while a wonderful man, was somewhat painfully placed in this congregation. He had a doctorate in theology from a non-Presbyterian school and introduced the somewhat heinous notion that the bible was not to be understood literally, but needed to be interpreted. He also had some slight fondness for religious ritual and made small strides to try to improve the liturgical life of this church. It was from him that I "learned" that the Presbyterian prayerbook of the time, The Book of Common Worship, was a relative of the English and American BCPs via the prayerbook of the Church of Scotland. Unfortunately, this book was very hard to find and was largely ignored by almost every Presbyterian congregation that I knew, so it had little relevance. It was, however, during this time that I found a copy of the Book of Common Prayer (the latest revision) shortly after it was first released. From the first, the complex novelty was fascinating. There were liturgies for all sorts of times and circumstances, a complex calendar, a version of the Psalms unlike any in the bible versions that I knew, not KJV, NEV, RSV or any other V (the pastor of the Presbyterian church had introduced the use of the RSV-"horrors"- and had even purchased and made available many copies of the "Oxford Annotated" version of the same) and other liturgical novelties.

Like any "play" that is read, however, it became quickly clear that liturgy needs to be acted out, and thus started my fascination with and love for religious ritual. During college at a small midwestern Lutheran school, I finally left the Presbyterians and adopted a "When in Rome" conversion to Lutheranism. (In honesty, my reasons were much more complex than that, but it would be too great a digression) At this school, there were a number of students involved in and around the college Chapel. One of them was decidedly fundamentalist and liturgically of the sit in a circle with a guitar, read the Bible, "lift up" in prayer sort of entity. The other group was more traditional but was split between those of us that were liturgically inclined and those that were more for social action and rather indifferent to liturgy. It was in services there that I first experienced some of the "something" that I came to associate with complex religious ritual. It was this "something" feeling that kept me coming back, even though I was socially far away from traditional religous conservatism. In the light of candles, the smoke of incense, the sounds of polyphonic music and the precision of movement, I could often achieve what I suppose I could call a "religious high." I would seek this "high" out many times again in the future. It would become a frustration for me when I could not achieve it. An ineptly or indifferently conducted liturgical event which "broke the rules" became a source of irritation. An extended, complex and well-executed liturgy could send me into a nearly "ecstatic" experience. Eventually, I would go to rather great lengths to get really good liturgy. I took several "pilgrimages" around the time of religious holidays to (by this time Anglican/Epsiscopalian) churches known for their "high church" liturgical practices to get a bigger "fix" of this liturgical high.

After my great collapse (another later blog), I stopped attending church altogether. Initially, I did not miss any of the liturgics, but little things kept calling me back, and that "siren call" continues to this moment. The comfort of saying a piece of the office, an "inspiring" piece of music, the rhythmicity of repeated prayer with a rosary, all of these things keep beckoning me back to a world of religious practice that I left rather abruptly. What I found, however, was that with the collapse of theism for me, the words were all wrong. I would get along OK for a bit, taking some refuge in the "symbolic" nature of religious language (I could redefine terms fluidly by now), but then I would hit on some "ugly" bit. The Nicene or Apostles creeds were particularly bad. Petitionary prayers asking God for help, good weather, peace, mercy, candy, a new Barbie doll, whatever, were also particularly bad and would demand a sort of liturgical "nose holding" until the moment passed. But I still hear the call....I just cannot get the "fix" any more.

You can guess that, from the terms I used to describe the subjective and emotional nature of these experiences, I have considered that the "religious high" was no more than some sort of "endorphin rush" brought on by just the right combination of sensory stimuli (bear with me, I am a neurologist after all). If that is so, then it will be a great task to stay away from it and to avoid "falling off the wagon." If it is merely an addiction, then it can only cloud my reason and perception and make it harder to see things in new ways. At the same time, however, I have to consider that there are other possibilities. Some of my greatest moments of new insight, "Ah ha!" moments, have occured in liturgical experiences. Could this suggest that, in these liturgical experiences, I had achieved some sort of "higher" mental state? In a more religious sense, could I have had contact with "the numinous" or perhaps have been "moved by the Spirit?"

Obviously, the answer to this question has some relevance. Liturgical practice has been an integral part of Christianity and other religions from the very beginnings. To a degree, it is some of the most obvious and visible manifestation of any religion. If there is to be a Christian non-theism, is this to be a purely intellectual exercise that is "works" alone (consider, for example, the present fervor of the "Millenium Development Goals" and the emphasis on "Mission" in the Episcopal Church today), or will there be a liturgical/experiential side as well?

Clearly, I do not know the answer to this question at this point. As I am "trying out" non-theistic Christianity, it is certain that I do not have a "non-theist" prayerbook to pick up. Any liturgies that express the intellectual assumptions and questions of non-theism have yet to be written. Like many of these questions, it is likely that I will not live to see a "final solution," and I suppose that it is naive to think that there will ever be one. I think, however, that I will be careful for the moment. There may still be some sense in preserving a liturgical/ritual life, and I, for one, do not wish to be guilty of "throwing out the baby with the bath water."

Jeffrey Shy
"Was that an 'Ave' I heard?"
Mesa, Arizona