Do our religious beliefs have any place in our political and public life?
This is the first of 2 episodes on religion in the public square, a subject that will probably come up from time to time at the podcast.
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Episode 1 of “Say Hello to my Little Friend: The BerettaCast” has launched.Enjoy!
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According to Chuck Missler, the Olivet Discourse in the Gospels is a problem. It’s not that he rejects it altogether, but it’s still a problem that he thinks needs to be resolved.
A major part of the reason that he thinks it’s a problem is here:
1) Jesus said in the Olivet discourse that the events he was describing would take place within “this generation.” No problem so far.
2) Chuck Missler doesn’t believe that the events that Jesus was speaking about did take place within that generation. There’s the problem.
If Chuck simply took 1) seriously, there would be no problem. He only thinks there’s a problem to resolve because of 2). Missler is a futurist, that is, he thinks that the events described in Matthew 24 are all in the future. Preterism is the view that the events that Jesus spoke about took place within that generation, that is, within the first century. They were in the future when Jesus predicted them, but then they happened, and they are now in the past. Preterists take the biblical references to timing quite literally. But look how Missler characterises the difference between futurists and preterists (“dispensationalism” is a type of futurism):
For many students of eschatology – the study of last things – the so-called Olivet Discourse has proven to be a troublesome passage; a hermeneutical battleground between the dispensationalists and the preterists, etc. The preterists insist that this passage – and the Book of Revelation – has been already fulfilled, and much of it is dismissed by them as simply allegorical. Yet even those who embrace a dispensational view have difficulty reconciling many of the Olivet Discourse passages.
Dismissed? What? The tactic is pretty weak: If someone takes a passage very seriously, but does not reach the same conclusion that you reach, simply allege that they dismiss the passage altogether.
The claim is pretty ironic, given that it is the preterists who are merely asking that we take Jesus’ claim about “this generation” seriously, while it is the futurists (like Missler) who are – for want a gentler term – dismissing such texts and labeling them as “problems” that we need to resolve so they will go away.
Dr Missler, here’s a great way to resolve the problem: Believe what Jesus said! Don’t be scared of the p word. Come on in Chuck, the water is lovely.
Some scientists in New Zealand aren’t happy.
Here’s why: An American group called the heartland institute cited the research of a number of scientists as part of their argument against the concerns about global warming. (The specific article is apparently buried somewhere in their maze-like website). BUT, these scientists object (in the words of Dr Jim Salinger), “We say global warming is real.”
On this basis, Dr Salinger (and other NZ scientists who were cited) has publicly alleged that the Heartland Institue has acted “unethically.”
The principle here, apparently, is that if someone cites your research and uses it to contribute to their casefor a view you don’t hold, they are being unethical. I say: What a bunch of crybabies. It is common for people making arguments to appeal to the claimsof those who disagree with them. In a courtroom it’s what is called a “hostile witness.” Dr Salinger complains that the Heartland Institute cited his claim that there have been warm and cold cycles in the earth’s history, because he himself doesn’t think that this observation undermines global warming at all. So what? Dr Salinger might not think so, but surely the author of the Heartland Institute’s article is quite entitled to think so.
Heck, when writing my own articles or theses I appeal to everty concession I can get from those who disagree with me. Calling it “unethical” is just a case of people being upset that their research has contributed to a cause that they didn’t want it to contribute to.
Heck, why don’t I just cry crocodile tears and say: “Boo hoo – some guy appealed to Calvin’s defence of the execution of Servetus as an argument for the conclusion that Christianity is evil. But Calvin didn’t think Christianity was evil. So this skeptic is being unethical, using Calvin’s claims to reach a conclusion that Calvin never held!”
Cry me a river. Welcome to a world where people disagree with you.
Recently, three men (one of whom is a Dominican Friar) broke into the Waihopai spy base in New Zealand – supposedly a top security facility, and deflated one of the enormous balloon-like covers of a satellite dish.
Setting aside the embarrassing fact of how apparently easy this was, the men themselves, now granted bail, have described their deeds as comparable to those of our war heroes. From a recent news story:
He [Mr Murnane – one of the accused] revealed that the three men had all been wearing poppies on Wednesday morning last week when they set about deflating one of the two balloons surrounding the satellite dishes.
“The people who died (as Anzac soldiers) died against tyranny. We wore red poppies when we did the job and we were proud of that, it is the same tradition,” Murnane said.
The same tradition – those who went to war for New Zealand, and those who damage Government owned spy bases. It’s certainly not impossible. Patriotism is not, after all, a love of the state. It’s a love of one’s country, and it’s quite conceivable that one could fight for one’s country and destroy spy bases in the same country out of love for that country – a love which may very well engender contempt for the state, if that state is not acting in the best interests of the country.
I’m not saying that I agree with what these folk did. I wouldn’t do it. But even if these guys are off their rockers, this relatively small event should get a few of us to look again at the issue of whether or not patriotism might sometimes put you at loggerheads (and even in the firing line) of those who govern the country towards which your patriotism is directed.
While I’m working on the McGrath/Hitchens review, here are some dope Dawkins rhymes.
Late in 2007, Christopher Hitchens and Alister McGrath met for a public debate on the topic of Religion: The Poison or the Cure, where the merits – or lack thereof, of religion (and Christianity in particular), were thrown back and forth. I’ve written up my summary of the debate, and I’m in the process of writing a review, and I’ll post it when it’s done.
Unlike some comments out there on the debate, it really will be a review. The Hitchens/Dawkins fanclub over at Dawkins’ site, of course, make the truly important observations on the debate here (and on the subsequent pages in that forum). Apparently “Alistair McGrath is a nonce.” Crucially, “There’s something very comical about the way that this McGrath person moves about as he talks.” But what strikes me as genuinely revealing about just how familiar the fanbois are with the person they are talking about was this gem in the very first comment: “That guy just strikes me as a very small person that makes a living out of Dawkins’ fame. How come he can’t seem to manage writing a book that isn’t about somebody else’s work?”
Wow. Just wow. McGrath has written two books in which he criticises Dawkins. Two. Put that next to the fact that McGrath has authored at least 18 academic books (the list there does not appear to include the Dawkins Delusion) and edited three larger volumes, written a couple of textbooks, and authored literally dozens of peer reviewed articles, including a few in science. Yep, that’s McGrath all right, riding the coat-tails of Richard Dawkins.
Jaqueline Salmon reviewed the debate in the Washington Post here. She concludes, “Nobody got knocked down, nobody was knocked out, no arm was held up in triumph, the eternal question remains unresolved.” I can’t say I share her conclusion. It’s my humble opinion that in flamboyant presentation Hitchens won, and on content, Hitchens left in a body bag – but I’ll also be suggesting that McGrath could (should) have done better on the offensive.
Stay tuned, I’ll announce when the review is online.
It’s the Easter season. Today is Good Friday. Christmas is good and all, but I have to share Tom Wright’s dissatisfaction with the fact that Christmas has come to overshadow Easter both in the commercial world and in the Church in many parts. The death and resurrection of the Son of God is the heart of the Christian faith, and if what we say is true, it is the sequence of events that changes everything. It is an embarassing affront to anyone who wants to take the name of Jesus, yet hold to a sort of invisible and irrlevant spiritual Gospel, or a version of the Saviour that accomodates inner peace and eternal (yet decidely immaterial) life. Easter reminds us that Christianity presents us with a flesh and blood man who died and who bodily rose. You can’t hide a religion like that in respectable language that doesn’t want to give the appearance of crudeness or falsifiability. We don’t shrink back from saying that this completely dead man was brought back to life and not only that, presented himself to his followers as the physical, completely credible and very real Lord of creation. There’s no room for blushing liberals to have a sort of divine moral example who will live on in our hearts, or any kind of Platonic teacher of wisdom who has transcended the unnecessary physical world. Christianity will have none of that. Like it or leave it, but you can’t re-make Easter in a more respectable mold. The physical death and physical resurrection of Jesus is what grounds our hope, not only of eternal life, but of the transformation and ultimate redemption of creation. It gives the things that God has made eternal value. God is interested in the world, it is not destined for the scrap heap, and he is pleased to see it redeemed. Tom Wright, mentioned earlier, has plenty to say about this in his excellent book Surprised by Hope (SPCK, 2007), which I’m reading at present, and will be reviewing when I am done.
On another note, but staying with the Easter theme, this interesting and short article has appeared at the website of the Biblical Archaeology Society. We typically think of the scene of Jesus’ prayers in Gethsemane prior to his arrest as taking place in a garden. But the New Testament never actually refers to Gethsemane as a garden. Gethsemane is a cave!
Image: The cave of Gethsemane.
Yes, two posts in a row about Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s children’s masterpiece, The Little Prince.
I’ve seen this book referred to by a number of reviewers as something of a Christian allegory. That being so, I’m still never quite sure if I am reading more into it than the author intended. But even if I am, I suppose that is yet another mark of a really good author, that the principles in his work can be seen as real-world truths that can be applied in ways he never anticipated. You can check some awesome books at Lorraine Music.
My favourite children’s book right now is The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. I’m currently reading it to my son. He’s old enough to read it himself (he recently turned 10 – how the years have flown by!), but I’m making the most of reading to him while he still lets me – long may those years last!
Sometimes Children’s books (like the chronicles of Narnia, or this one) have a way of presenting profound philosophical points in such a perfect way. I doubt that all such points are self-explanatory to their young audience, which is yet more reason to think that children’s stories like this one are best when read to children as well as by them, because a really good story benefits the reader as much as the listener.
Anyway, to the point: Part IV of The Little Prince, the narrator, the man who met the Little Prince, introduces us to the fact that the Prince is from Asteroid B-612. But the narrator assures us that he’s just telling us this as a matter of fact, and not for the sake of “the grown-ups and their ways.” For you see,
Grown-ups love figures. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never say to you, “What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?” Instead, they demand: “How old is he? How many brothers and sisters does has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?” Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him.
If you were to say to the grown-ups: “I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof,” they would not be able to get any idea of the house at all. You would have to say to them, “I saw a house that cost £4,000.” Then they would exclaim: “Oh, what a pretty house that is!”
Just so, you might say to them: “The proof that the little prince existed is that he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, then that is proof that he exists.” And what good would it do to tell them that? They would shrug their shoulders and treat you like a child. But if you said to them: “The planet he came from is Asteroid B-612,” then they would be convinced, and leave you in peace from their questions.
They are like that. One must not hold it against them. Children should always show great forbearance toward grown-up people.
But certainly, for us who understand life, figures are a matter of indifference. I should have liked to begin this story in the fashion of the fairy-tales. I should have liked to say: “Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a friend…”
To those who understand life, that would have given a much greater air of truth to my story.
For I do not want any one to read my book carelessly. I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories. Six years have passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep. If I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not everyone has had a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in anything but figures.
As someone with some familiarity with – and great appreciation for – the writings of Alvin Plantinga, and just as someone who thinks that we can know that God exists without being able to convince anyone, this stood out to me immediately as really profound.
Christians believe (or at least I hope I’m not the only one who believes this) that in some really important way, we know God, and that God, to some extent, has made himself known to us. Take a philosophically unsophisticated person to whom God has personally made Himself known as loving and forgiving, and so forth. Given that God really has done so, what kind of objection is it to say to such a person, “but how can this have happened when we don’t even have any hard evidence that God exists?” In these circumstances, that God is loving and forgiving (and so forth) is evidence that he exists, because you can’t be loving and forgiving – or anything else – unless you exist.
Of course, if someone forbids the possibility that the narrator ever knew the little prince, or that God could ever have actually made himself known, this will just sound false. All the more reason to think that (a very strong form of) evidentialism leaves something to be desired.