The Divine Universe

So far as the four canonical gospels are concerned Mary is not a prominent figure. In John’s gospel Jesus even seems on a couple of occasions to put her down. It is only in the birth stories of Matthew and Luke that Mary is a central character. It seems it must have been generally known that Jesus was conceived out of wedlock. According to John, some Pharisees taunted Jesus with this during his final visit to Jerusalem (John 8:41). This would be a grave impediment to any claim that Jesus was Messiah, which is the basic theme of all the gospels. However, someone, presumably Mary herself, must have told the apostles that the conception of Jesus was through a miraculous intervention by God, and that she was still a virgin when she married Joseph. Matthew says that Joseph also confirmed this in his story of an angelic visitation in a dream. Luke has given us a very beautiful story of an angelic visitation to Mary predicting her pregnancy. Luke never encountered Mary in person so the story must have been part of an oral tradition or, just possibly, a creation of Luke himself .

Luke also gives us a glimpse of Mary, Joseph and Jesus when Jesus was about twelve. The family had gone to Jerusalem for Passover and Jesus left the family party and went to talk with the learned men of the temple. It took Jesus’ parents three days to discover that Jesus was not with the party returning to Nazareth, and another three days to find him. This is a vividly human story of distraught parents searching for their child in a city far from home. Jesus’ excuse is enigmatic (Luke 2:49) and Luke remarks that his parents were puzzled. We get the impression of a quite ordinary, working-class couple who experienced the kind of frights and stresses common to parenthood.

The Church has exalted Mary above the whole hierarchy of saints but, in doing so, it has to some extent de-humanised her. Though the gospels give no such impression, by asserting as dogma her perpetual virginity, she has been denied a normal relationship with her husband. Matthew, however, names four brothers and also sisters. These may include children of an earlier marriage of Joseph, and the word for brother can also mean cousin. This allows for the possibility that Jesus was Mary’s only child but it is not conclusive evidence.

One wonders why the Church insists on Mary’s perpetual virginity. Would motherhood somehow soil her saintly image? Is sexual intimacy in marriage seen as something that defiles the soul? That has never been the teaching of the church, though the Roman Catholic Church, in insisting that her priests and bishops remain celibate, does imply that the celibate state is in some sense superior to the married state.

But Catholic dogma related to Mary doesn’t stop there. The Catholic Church claims that Mary’s hymen was unbroken, even after giving birth to Jesus. This seems to go from the doubtful to the ridiculous. What is the meaning and purpose of such a claim?

As a final assault on our credulity the Catholic Church asks us to believe that, rather than enjoying the normal funeral solemnities after her death, Mary ascended bodily into heaven as Jesus is described as doing. The word used is “assumption” rather than ascension, but the meaning is the same.

Bishop David Shepherd said once that, in his experience, more people had problems with Jesus’ humanity that with his divinity. This could well be, and the story of his virgin birth and ascension could contribute to this. Even the Catholic Church does not claim that Mary was divine, but, loaded with extravagant claims and dogmas, we might doubt if she was a normal human being. Normal human women do not conceive and bear children with their hymens intact for a start, nor do they go up into the sky after death.

My relationship with Mary is intellectually grounded in my belief in what is called ‘the communion of saints’. Communication with dead people is most often associated with clairvoyants and séances, but Christians are among that majority of humankind who believe that the living have a real relationship with dead people when they are related in some way. Christians believe that all humankind are our brothers and sisters, but particularly other Christians. If Mary is the mother of Christ then she is, in a sense, our mother also.

Jesus told his disciples to call God “Father”. From the cross, he told the ‘beloved’ disciple to regard Mary as his mother. It seems likely that all Jesus’ disciples felt a filial concern for Mary after Jesus’ death. In his account of the disciples’ Pentecost experience Luke says that all the disciples were together. Though Luke doesn’t say so, Mary may have been among them (Mary Magdalen too, perhaps). We have a Pentecost icon in the church that shows Mary among the twelve apostles. Unfortunately it gets too fanciful, placing her on a throne, presiding over the proceedings. I don’t think that Mary ever had that kind of relationship to the early church. It is another example of separating Mary from the real, historical world.

People generally have a distinct and unique relationship with their mothers, as significant, but different to that with their fathers or their siblings. In calling God “Our Father” I am identifying a relationship radically different from that with my own father (though it is almost certainly coloured by that). In calling Mary “Mother” I am also referring to a relationship different to that with my own mother. But it is not at all like my relationship with God. As with all the saints, I need to relate to her as a fellow human being, not a largely imaginary, idealised and theologised creation of rather male-chauvinistic, celibate ecclesiastics.

In the end I am suspicious of the academic discipline called Mariology. I don’t think Mary needs “ologising”. There is so much to admire and empathise with in the person so scantily portrayed in the gospels. Ologising her is an unwelcome distraction. Relating to a person who has died presents enough problems for a modern Western mind without making it more complicated with representations like our Pentecost icon.

Hullo Mary, my mother in Christ. You must have gained much wisdom in your experience of life, so full of bewilderment and pain. Since you are also mother of my Christian forbears, I think of you as a grandmother figure too. I welcome the possibility of an enlightening and supportive relationship with you

No, this is not a debunking of the big bang theory; it is a recognition that the big bang theory has the essential features of a myth, in the proper sense of that word. As such it expresses deep truths about reality beyond the details discovered by astronomers and physicists.

The true nature of myth is widely misunderstood, in fact it is rarely appreciated by others than students of religious phenomena. Most people regard myths as fictional stories with no historical connection and uncertain relevance to real life. In fact there is more deep truth in myths than in ordinary fiction or even in journalism, however accurate and objective. Myths contain deep, universal truths about the world, life and ultimate reality. They are different from legends, which are set in the historical past, or parables, which are set in the present world. Myths are set in a primordial time that precedes historical time. They are set in a primordial world, simpler and lacking important elements of our world. The myth that the big bang theory most closely resembles is the creation myth in the first chapter of Genesis: a liturgical hymn composed for weekly worship in the second temple in Jerusalem which was built in 516 BCE.

So what are the essential elements of a myth that we find in both the first Biblical creation story and the big bang theory? The big bang story of cosmic evolution does not begin within a chronological framework. There is no previous history. Time begins with the big bang. Time, or rather space-time, is not something in which the universe exists; it is one of the essential elements of the universe. The story begins in a timeless world of chaotic energy, without formation or, as physicists say, ‘information’ of any kind. There are no objects, not even photons (light). It is a primordial world in primordial time.

Physicists call such a totally chaotic state of affairs the ‘quantum vacuum’. It is a moot point whether we can call the quantum vacuum nothingness. It is true there are no things as such in it, but can we say that energy, however chaotic, is nothing in its absolute sense?

In the Genesis story we are told that “The earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.” It is virtually the same condition of existence that cosmologists postulate in primordial time before the big bang: the quantum vacuum.

Creation stories form a significant part of the mythology of all cultures and religions. If the primordial time is not always quite a dark and empty void it is always lacking some important element of life and the world. Even at the beginning of chronological time, in the first instant, there was nothing except the cosmic ‘singularity’ from which everything in the universe later emerged. The first instant is referred to as ‘Planck time’, calculated by Planck to be 0.5 x 10^-44 seconds. The universe at that point theoretically existed, but it still lacked any parts. The formation of quarks, photons, electrons, protons and neutrons followed and a process of ‘creation’ began in the generation of matter, galaxies and stars, planets, living organisms and so forth.

The Genesis myth follows a similar sequence of events on an imaginary timescale of ‘days’, with the notable exception that vegetation is created before the stars and the sun. But the details are unimportant. It is the elements of myth in big bang theory that I want to draw attention to.

Not only does big bang theory begin in primordial time and in a primordial world, it has ‘operators’ that do things, like God in Genesis. These are forces and energy fields that are creative and formative in the universe. Electromagnetic energy, that includes heat and light, can be observed and studied as wave formations or as particles, but there are other energies that can only be observed by their effect on matter. Gravity is the best-known example, but there are others. Dark matter is supposed to hold the galaxies together. It has mass but is not in the form of atoms or anything visible. Some twenty years ago it was discovered that the expansion of the universe was not slowing down through gravity, as big bang theory predicted, but accelerating. This necessitated the existence of another force, repulsive as opposed to gravity, which is attractive. It was dubbed ‘dark energy’.

As Einstein discovered, energy is equivalent to mass, and it was calculated that dark energy amounted to 75% of the total mass of the universe. Add to this dark matter and gravity and cosmologists found that atomic matter amounted to only 4% of the total mass of the universe. In other words, what we see, hear, touch, taste and feel is only a tiny part of cosmic reality. Most of it is invisible energy: mythical formative and creative powers. They drive the evolution of the universe. They do what God did in the Genesis myth, and they are ultimately as mysterious. We only know them by what they do. Any concept of what they are is speculative, theoretical, as are theologians’ theories about God.

Christians claim that God is known by divine revelation. He reveals himself to us. According to the Genesis myth, God also reveals himself in us – we are his mirror image. It is in and through us that God contemplates himself. Physicist, John Wheeler, says that, through us the universe looks at itself. He refers to the ‘participating universe’ that participates in its own creative evolution and reflects upon itself.

This puts me in mind of Paul’s and John’s theological concept of the cosmic Christ – God incarnate, embodied in and contemplating himself in the whole universe. It seems to me that, in this realm of thought at least, science and religion shake hands.

Scientists should not be offended when I refer to the big bang as myth. If they do it is because they do not understand the real meaning of the word. Big bang theory is not untrue, but it opens our eyes to a mystery rather than giving a full and detailed biography of the cosmos. Scientists do not claim to know fully what the universe is; they only claim to be asking proper and valid questions about it. Theologians postulate an ultimate reality they call God. Physicist and philosopher, Paul Davies, says that scientific study of the universe is one way to study God. It should not surprise us if the narrative is, in some respects, mythical.

There can be no doubt that Christmas is the favourite Christian festival of our secularised society as Santa Claus, in his Coca Cola coloured livery, struts around uttering humourless Ho Ho Hos. The festival of Christmas, instituted in the twelfth century, begins in the shops in late October, and the decorations don’t come down until late January. At that point hot cross buns and chocolate eggs and rabbits appear, but there is not much celebration of Easter itself apart from a couple of public holidays.

Interest in the birth of the Messiah did not arise immediately, and the first Gospel, Mark’s, makes no mention of it. John, the last gospel writer makes no specific mention of the event either. However, there was a Jewish tradition of interest in the birth of great people and in the case of some: Isaac, Samuel and John the Baptist, for example, a miraculous element appears in the narratives.

Matthew, and Luke, provide the narratives behind the celebration of Christmas and its widely ignored and more ancient partner, the feast of the Epiphany. Luke tells us, in a charming story of unknown origin, that Jesus’ conception was miraculous, without fertilisation by a man. Matthew also tells us of a dream of Joseph’s, that Jesus’ conception was of God’s providence, however scandalous it may have seemed. The fact that Jesus was conceived out of wedlock seems to have been impossible to suppress, although Joseph and Mary’s family probably did their best, and it was a serious problem for the disciples in claiming that Jesus was Messiah. For those who accepted Luke’s story as historical fact it solved the problem.

The manner of Jesus’ death was also a great handicap, but that was a public event and impossible to explain away. It was eventually given a theological interpretation, based on Isaiah’s prophecy about a holy suffering servant who was killed for his people’s iniquities. Jesus’ death was seen as sacrificial. This is obliquely referred to in Matthew’s story about the three magi, and the gift of myrrh in particular. That difficulty was, of course, directly confronted by the resurrection stories.

From the story of Jesus’ miraculous birth grew a central Christian belief in Mary’s virginity. The Catholic Church holds that Mary remained a virgin even after marriage, and had no normal marital relationship with Joseph, but there is no evidence to support this, in fact the gospels refer to Jesus’ brothers and sisters. Catholics explain this by teaching either that they were children from an earlier marriage, or that they were really only cousins as the same Hebrew word is used for both.

The belief in the perpetual virginity of Mary reflects the belief that celibacy is a superior state of life to marriage: that sexual intercourse is a slight spiritual blemish in human life, though not actually sinful within marriage,. This is reflected in the Catholic Church by their insistence on a celibate priesthood. Belief that abstinence from anything pleasurable is a virtue is not peculiar to Christian tradition, however; all the mainstream religions have a tradition of asceticism. Exaltation of perpetual virginity is not a significant feature of Jewish tradition though some, Saint Paul, for example, took a vow of celibacy. Peter was married and the other disciples may or may not have been. The Gospels do not tell us

The virgin birth is central to the Christmas tradition, but the dominant theme is that the infant was divine, a god-man. This belief probably arose initially in the Gentile world. In the Jewish tradition Messiah was and is never conceived to be anything but human.

It is true that, by Jesus’ time, the title “Son of God” for the expected Messiah had become popular, but was disapproved of by conservative Jews. In the Greco-Roman Gentile world, however, the notion of human gods and goddesses had a long tradition, and some of the mythic heroes were assigned divine fathers and human mothers. Luke gave us a charming story of the Archangel Gabriel’s visit to Mary, with its declaration that Jesus was to have no human father but would be sired by God himself.  This reflects Luke’s Gentile background as, in Jewish tradition, children receive their ethnic identity from their mothers.

The divinity of Christ is a much more dominant theme in the Christmas liturgies than his virgin birth, but the doctrine took several centuries to develop fully. Saint Paul laid a foundation in his letter to the Colossians, describing the immanence of Christ in everything. John was the first to say specifically “the Word was God”. (In the introduction to his Gospel he refers to Jesus as the Word, the Logos, the embodiment, so to speak, of the mind of God)

This was a major departure from Jewish tradition and an indication of the increasing dominance of Gentile thinking in the young church, but the doctrine was only finally established as a basic tenet of Christian belief at the first Council of Nicea in 325. Here was composed the Nicene Creed with its uncompromising statement that Jesus Christ was “God of God, light of light, true God of true God.” Until this momentous event, the Church had been deeply divided on the issue. The leader of the party pressing for recognition of Jesus’ divinity was Athanasius, the powerful bishop of Alexandria. The more conservative opposition was led by Arius, a presbyter of the same diocese.

The Council was called together to settle this issue by the Emperor Constantine after his conversion to Christianity. With Christianity becoming the established religion throughout the empire, it was necessary to resolve such a deeply divisive issue. I know of no evidence to support my theory, but I am inclined to think that Constantine himself favoured the Athanasius party. After all, he claimed divine status for himself as emperor, so he could hardly deny Jesus, king of kings and lord of lords, the same honour.

Throughout the Roman Empire, belief in the divinity of Jesus Christ became mandatory. Dissidents were suppressed through the same military penal system that had crucified Jesus. And today, while the churches encourage and officially subscribe to belief in the virgin birth, there is not the same insistence upon that doctrine as there is on Christ’s divinity. This is a fundamental tenet of Christian dogma, as basic as belief in the resurrection.

Easter holds pride of place in the Christian liturgy, but it is at Christmas that the Church and the secular world join hands. It is only a dwindling minority of our Australian society, however, that now understands what Christmas is all about.

Recently I watched a documentary about the trial in Victoria of some suspected Islamic terrorists. The State had limitless financial resources to construct their prosecution, while the pro bono defence worked on a shoestring and, not surprisingly, most of the suspects were convicted. One was sentenced to fifteen years goal. But they were not convicted on the basis of anything they had done. They were not identified with any terrorist organization, let alone any terrorist activity. They were convicted entirely on the basis of what they thought, interpreted from some extremely ambiguous conversations picked up from their tapped phones. Several of the suspects specifically said in these conversations that they had no support for terrorist activity, but the mere fact that they thought and talked about terrorist activities was sufficient to convict them. The program was banned from Victorian TV, by the way. Many distinguished lawyers, barristers and judges have expressed deep concern about the extent to which human rights and justice are compromised under current legislation regarding terrorism. I am happy to say that some Christian writers have been expressing concern too.

We have no statutory charter of human rights in Australia but our judicial system has a long tradition inherited from the British and based, I think, largely on Christian values. The purpose of terrorism is not, basically, about killing people; it is about changing our social and political landscape. In this the terrorists seem to have been remarkably successful in this country with almost no activity. Nobody has blown up anything illegally in Australia. Nevertheless, there is a fair amount of neurotic paranoia about, partly engendered, encouraged and pandered to by both sides of Parliament.

Refugees and asylum seekers have also been made a hot political property by the Opposition, claiming that the Government has lost control of the situation. There is no way that the Government can affect the number of people under persecution and oppressive regimes from trying to reach this country. The previous Government claims to have had some success by treating boat people, including children, with extreme harshness, keeping them for many years behind razor wire fences in remote and environmentally hostile regions of Australia, or on the desolate island of Nauru. The present Government has adopted a more humane approach. The Opposition claims that this has caused an increase in attempts by boat people to reach this country. If this is the case I believe it is still the right course of action. Abusive and unjust treatment to innocent people, including children, is not an appropriate means to reduce the number of would-be refugees arriving.

Most of the current arrivals are from Sri Lanka and Afghanistan. In Sri Lanka, since the military conquest of the Tamil Tigers, there have been reports of discrimination and persecution of Tamils. If there is no truth in this, it is hard to explain the arrival of so many Tamil asylum seekers from that country.

Many refugees come from Afghanistan. It is in the throes of armed combat between American and other forces, propping up a weak and corrupt government, and highly disciplined and motivated Taliban forces who want to regain control of the country and re-establish their draconian Islamic regime. Civilians in that country live in constant fear of their lives. Many have little respect for the ruling government but no desire to see the return of the Taliban. We also receive asylum seekers from Iraq where there are daily bombings of civilian targets by Islamic fundamentalists.

Australia’s refugee problem is very small compared to that in many countries both in the affluent countries and in the third world. While refugees could eventually pose a threat to our quality of life in this country, I believe we have an international obligation to do as much as we can to accommodate some of the millions of people now seeking safety from violence, oppression or persecution.

Much of the violence that leads people to flee their country comes from Islamic fundamentalists, but fundamentalists are not all Moslems. Christian fundamentalism was a contributing factor in launching the disastrous war in Iraq. Today there are fundamentalist Jews and Christians persecuting or at least discriminating against selected groups, especially homosexuals. They argue that the book of Leviticus defines male homosexuality as an “abomination”. The Torah also defines eating pork as an abomination, so that is a slightly ambiguous word. The concern of the authors of Leviticus was mainly the fulfilling of the command to Adam to “be fruitful and multiply”. Homosexuality obviously militates against that, but it is not a problem for us.

Fundamentalist Christians also quote the account of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, claiming that buggery was the grievous sin committed by the people of those cities. But this is unlikely. The louts who attacked the house where Lot was staying wanted his daughters, so were presumably heterosexual. The real sin was against the very strict and comprehensive laws regarding hospitality to strangers. Lot was a visitor in Sodom, and to threaten him and his daughters was a grievous sin.

Homophobia is not confined to religious extremists, of course, but it is hard to imagine Jesus telling someone to get lost or that they were going to roast eternally in hell because of their sexual inclinations. Indeed, among fundamentalist or ultra-conservative Jews and Christians, it is not even necessary to be gay. Being female is enough to bring discrimination. In these matters, the secular authority is closer to the Kingdom than many Christians.

However, most Jews, like most Christians, are not judgmental about sexuality or gender. There are many women rabbis in the liberal Jewish community. A prominent Jewish rabbi in London, Lionel Blue, has lived openly with his male partner for more than fifty years.

The Anglican Church authority is not as tolerant as this, submitting to fundamentalist pressure in the interest of unity. One could wish that Jewish and Christian fundamentalists would get as steamed up about observing the rules in the Torah regarding hospitality to strangers, foreigners and travellers as they are about gays.

Jesus spoke much about the Kingdom of God. While Jews regarded YHWH as a merciful God, they also regarded him as just. On the basis of Jesus’ teaching it is clear that we have a very long way to go before our own society, or even the churches, can claim to exercise justice according to those values. Heavenly justice is a distant goal, but I wish more people could indicate a desire for it.

The LORD is a man of war. Exodus 15:3 (KJV)

It is hard to think of a single war in which God was not fighting for both sides.  At least, that is the impression one gets.  Even today, as World War Three gathers momentum, both the Coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan and the Moslem fundamentalists believe sincerely that God is on their side.

The war is not over yet. Indeed, in Afghanistan it may only just be beginning. And the superior weight of ironmongery and level of technology possessed by the “crusaders” seems to be less decisive than it should be. In the Bible, and in real life too, victory does not always go to the most heavily armed. Vietnam is a recent example.

But what is this belligerent God up to? Why does he organise these games of mass destruction and murder? It seems out of character with much that I learn about God from other sources, especially the Gospels and New Testament writings. In fact, I think that the prophetess Miriam was mistaken. I don’t think God is a “man of war”. War is man-made, and I think the initiative for war is usually either territorial aggrandisement, racial hatred or religious bigotry. Nevertheless, even when the motives are territorial aggrandisement or racial hatred, religion or, in the case of communist nations, a pseudo-religious ideology, is almost always enlisted in support.

In the lifelong process of forming my own image of God, my focus is the God of Jesus of Nazareth. That being so it is obvious to me that God is not a man of war. In fact He is not even armed. When I study artistic or literary presentations of the crucifixion I see someone who is terrifyingly vulnerable and helpless. The ruling class of the day is very much in charge of events.

I believe that humankind is fathered by and born in the womb of God, but I do not think we can attribute our love of war to God. The decision to make war is always the deliberate choice of ruling men, and occasionally women. I also believe that God’s incarnation continues not only in Christians but in all of humankind. So He is forced to join us in our dreadful activities. He also shares the perils and hardships of the non-combatants, including women and children. He continually suffers and dies because there has never, as far as I know, been a time when war was not being waged somewhere.

God’s cosmic act of creation is an adventure. Warfare is part of that adventure, but that does not make God’s creation a belligerent act. God is incarnate in a cosmic offspring, the Word, who possesses divine freedom.  God has passed that freedom on to us. God cannot stop us from doing ungodly things and praying for Him to help us. “O God of battles, steel my soldiers hearts,” prayed Henry 5th in Shakespeare’s epic play, but God was in both camps – a reluctant conscript.

Every religion I know of, even Buddhism very occasionally, has inspired aggressive and murderous action. Our lives are short and we are in a hurry to see the world, especially human society, conform to our idea of the way it should be. This leads to armed crusades, jihads and other “holy” wars. War meets an urgent sense of need, based on a short-sighted view of life. But this is not to say that God is inactive. The incarnate Son and the Holy Spirit participate actively in the universe and in our own small world. Religious people speak of ‘spiritual warfare’: the conflict between good and evil. The word ‘jihad’ originally referred to the spiritual battle for personal holiness, an inner struggle in which there was no violence to anyone except oneself and against our own evil inclinations. The word ‘crusade’ originally referred to aggressive military operations against Moslems, but it can also mean non-violent movements such as Bishop Wilberforce’s fight against slavery. The adventure of life involves a continual struggle against destructive self-indulgence.

One might ask why God is not content to settle down quietly in heaven with his family and enjoy the Garden of Eden. I would love to be a flower or even a cabbage in God’s paradise – knowing nothing of good and evil, nurtured tenderly by the Gardener.  But humans have that fatal knowledge, and being a child of the family, even God’s family, can be taxing and even frightening at times. Sibling rivalries are a perpetual strain and hazard. We all want to be God’s favourite: chosen us for an exclusive revelation. We all cling to the belief that our religion is the best.

There has been much discussion in recent years about religious tolerance. Christendom has been the scene of conflict from its earliest days. In the first century CE Jewish traditionalists were horrified by the Hellenising influence of Paul and the gentile converts. By the end of the century we can see the effect of this influence in the fourth gospel, and read of the hostility that by then existed between Jewish and gentile Christians. John’s gospel has been the primary source of anti-Semitism in a predominantly gentile church ever since, leading to violent persecutions and genocide.

In the first four centuries one focus of conflict was the definition of the nature of Christ. Gentiles insisted that Jesus was divine. The idea of a god-man was totally foreign to Jewish tradition, but the Gentiles won the day at the Council of Nicea. It was a bloodless coup but Constantine’s soldiers were standing by. At the turn of the first millennium the churches of the East and West divided over a very esoteric and fine theological point about the Holy Spirit. With the dawn of the Renaissance, strong minded and determined individuals were disturbed by the corruption in the Church and pioneered aggressive reform movements. This gave rise to bloody conflicts between Catholics and Protestants. Today Allah, the God of Islam, appears as a belligerent and murderous God in the fundamentalist Moslem terrorist movement.

Jesus said that he came, not to bring peace but a sword. His gospel was dangerously controversial but, at the end, his response to his enemies was passive. I would go so far as to say that the God of Jesus Christ was not a man of war at all, but a pacifist. This has characterised His response to armed forces of evil down the ages. God does not even intervene to stop the carnage of man-made wars.

In 325CE the leading thinkers of the church met at Nicea to settle a dispute about the nature of Jesus, whether he was divine or purely human. The majority finally decided he was divine. This is theology: an alien language in this secular, scientific age. In some respects, however, contemporary physics, with its new discoveries about the mysterious nature of matter – that matter is simply organised energy – makes links between science, metaphysics and theology easier to find today than a century ago.

From the Council of Nicea came The Nicene Creed, in which is implied the doctrine of the Trinity: God in three persons. But it is not an objective description of God; that would be an absurd undertaking. It is an abstract formula based upon three levels of our human experience of the divine and the dualistic idealism of Plato and Aristotle.

The emperor Constantine, newly converted to Christianity, was the convenor of the Council of Nicea. I imagine he was fairly heavily on the side of the party affirming Jesus’ divinity, led by the powerful bishop, Athanasius. The idea of a god-man would have rested comfortably in Constantine’s thinking. As Emperor he was officially divine himself. There is a rumour that he even exerted some pressure on the meeting, employing the army to ensure that no one left till the matter was settled as he wished, though that may be false. In the end, however, I think one has to admit that the statement that Jesus was God has its origin in political as well as theological processes.

New theology was emerging in the fourth century, based on Hellenistic philosophy and religious tradition. We must not dismiss Hellenistic culture as merely archaic superstition. In its own way it recognised the spiritual dimension of reality and of humankind. In its own way, it acknowledged the Divine, as Hinduism does, with a galaxy of divinities, and also in humankind. Paul attempted to present the strictly monotheistic Jewish God, YHWH, in Hellenistic terms with some degree of success.

So the Athanasian declaration was an offshoot of Jewish monotheism but one that owed much to Classical philosophy and religion. It represents a very different Jesus from that of the uniquely gifted but entirely human individual of the synoptic gospels.

The notion of divinity begins to emerge in John’s Gospel (1:1-18), in Colossians (1:15-17) and elsewhere in Paul’s letters. Paul’s and John’s Christ is co-existent with God and, in and through him, all things come to be – a cosmic, divine being. The influence of Helenistic thinking has long been recognised by scholars. Since Roman occupation, ancient Hellenistic culture has been a seminal influence in European culture and is still deeply rooted in it. We European Gentiles are well conditioned to accept the idea of a god-man and the divinity of Christ. For Jews, of course, however much Europeanised they are, it is still impossible. The idea of a god-man is entirely alien to Jewish tradition, and the concept of the Trinity is inconsistent with their strict monotheism

There is also a basic logic behind the cosmic Christ. Jewish and Christian tradition asserts that God created the universe out of nothing, the “void” (Gen. 1,2). Out of nothing except himself, of course. In other words. The universe is God’s own embodiment. This is, in effect, what John says of the Word (Jn. 1:1-3) and Paul of the cosmic Christ in Colossians

Of this cosmic Christ we can say quite a lot because we are not just talking about an individual, Jesus, hidden in the mists of ancient history; we are talking about the world: our own environment. We encounter the cosmic Christ daily in the world around us.

Theology of the cosmic Christ has inspired a number of contemporary scientists (Paul Davies is probably the best known) to say they believe that science is one way of studying God. Even Darwin expressed a hint of that, and some who are both physicists and theologians, like John Polkinghorne of Cambridge and Robert Russel of Berkley, have made significant contributions to contemporary theology.

Beyond our own little personal world of people and places, there is the wider universe. Astronomical observation is limited, and will always be, and we have no idea how far the universe extends beyond any possibility of seeing. Paul Steinhardt of Princeton University and Neil Turok of Cambridge, looking beyond Big Bang theory, propose that the universe is eternally cyclic, without beginning or end. If, as Paul and John imply, the universe is the incarnation, the embodiment of God, we would not expect it to be a finite thing

Philosophers of science have become more monistic these days, challenging Decartes’ dualism of body-mind.  I personally believe that any dualistic separation of matter and spirit is mistaken. Mathematical physicist, Brian Swimme, has said that, to understand nature properly, we should see the universe, not so much as a material object, but rather as a spiritual event. That means that you and I are not so much animated hunks of meat but spiritual events. Swimme takes science over the border into metaphysics.

New reflections on the Second Person  of the Trinity also have implications for our understanding of the Third Person (so quickly dismissed in the Nicene Creed): the energy of creation, life and mind. It has generally been thought that life was a local phenomenon, confined to rare planets possessing liquid water. Biologists identify life with four properties: reproduction, growth, evolution and metabolism. Cosmologists point out that all these phenomena occur with stars and galaxies and argue that life is an inherent property of the whole universe as well as plants and animals. If the Holy Spirit, a cosmic energy, is the source of life, this is what we would expect.

Philosopher and scientist, Alfred North Whitehead, and others have also argued that mind is not a local phenomenon in humans and the higher animals, but an innate element of the whole universe. Mind is the native territory of the Holy Spirit, so Whitehead’s argument has theological overtones as well as scientific ones.

 So let’s say three cheers for the Trinity!  The doctrine of the Holy Trinity forms the ultimate background to modern theological developments of the cosmic Christ. Deeper reflection on the Second Person has yielded much fresh thinking, both theological and scientific. Within the framework of the Trinity formula the relationship between scientists and theologians has, in recent times, become closer, and dialogue more frequent and fruitful. Church people recite the Nicene Creed routinely Sunday by Sunday, without much reflection. That’s a pity.

“Whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” (John 6:35) Wouldn’t it be an amazing thing if the church were able to feed all the starving millions in the poorest regions of the world? Reading about the feeding of the five thousand (every Gospel reports it), one suspects that it could actually be possible. But I rather think we would mean the Kingdom of God rather than just the church. If the Kingdom of God were established on earth there would indeed be no starving people. There are potentially stacks of food and other resources to provide everything necessary for the world’s population, but it gets tangled up in complex international finance, and much of it is wasted or generates obesity in rich countries. And we are not about to share our resources in a way that we superstitiously imagine might threaten our own standard of living. 

In John’s account of the feeding of five thousand (6:1-14), a small boy brings his own packed lunch to the disciples. Jesus accepted this generous gift and told the disciples to begin offering it around. Suddenly something quite unexpected happened and everyone was well fed. In fact twelve of the people’s picnic baskets were filled with the leftovers. Perhaps the disciples spent hours pulling bread and fish from their sleeves like conjurers as they spent hours feeding five thousand families. But perhaps the boy’s, and then the disciples’ example of sharing had a seminal effect. Generosity is infectious.

The next day, when the crowd followed Jesus across the lake of Galilee, He said something very enigmatic: “I am the bread of life.” For me this reverberates with John’s astonishing statement in the introduction of his Gospel that everything that exists does so in and through Christ, or “The Word”, to use John’s title (John 1:1-4). It follows that all food is part of the body of Christ, the incarnation, the embodiment of God. Jesus pointed to this fact in his symbolic act of sharing at the last supper.

About 4½ billion years ago the universe generated and has since sustained living organisms, at least on this planet and probably on millions of others also. Our planet has continued to sustain life ever since, and not only to sustain it in the primitive bacterial form that first emerged, but to develop and grow increasingly amazing organisms. Following John’s way of thinking, it seems that Christ was already the bread of life 4½ billion years ago.

But I think that, when Jesus goes on to speak of hunger and thirst, he doesn’t only mean physical hunger but also spiritual hunger. Belief in Christ is no guarantee against starvation, but spiritual hunger is not peculiar to the extremely poor; it affects the affluent also. Their spiritual hunger may be hidden because they feed on the junk food of wealth and status, but it is nevertheless very real.

What is spiritual hunger? Do you have it? Many people wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, but my own spiritual hunger consists of deep desires that I know I cannot possibly fulfil. My religion tells me that Christ can satisfy all those desires, even now. But I haven’t got there yet. Jesus said, puzzlingly, that by eating him my hunger and thirst will be satisfied.

What does Jesus mean by ‘eating’ him? I think he means much more than making your communion at the Eucharist. It must mean taking Christ into yourself in a wider sense. According to John, Christ is everything, so I suppose it must mean opening yourself to everything around you: people included.

We lay great emphasis today on our individuality. Opening yourself up, physically, mentally, emotionally to the outside world, to other people, tends to ‘dilute’, so to speak, your individuality. You begin to merge with the greater whole of which you are a part. That can feel threatening.

I personally think that individuality is overvalued. Perhaps it is an illusion that will eventually disappear. I have an idea that, in the risen life, our individuality will disappear gradually, and with our consent. We shall merge with the cosmic whole that is the body of Christ.

Jesus gave a hint of that when he said that, inasmuch as we do something to anyone, we do it to him. As we advance spiritually we should feel more and more identified with others, both those who suffer and those who enjoy life. In other religions, the idea of merging into the totality of being is even more prominent than it is in Christianity. Take Buddhism, Hinduism and Aboriginal spirituality for example.

I suggest that, if we examine our spiritual hunger more closely, we will find that the desire to enter in, to merge, to give ourselves and to receive the other, is very strong, physically, emotionally, spiritually. We get it in our erotic feelings as well as in deeper areas of ourselves. Sexual desire is an emotional experience of our deeper spiritual desire to give ourselves and to receive the other: to merge, in other words. And, by the way, we must not separate our spiritual nature from our physical, mental and emotional nature. There is no separate soul. Human nature is one.

“I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” We cannot come to Jesus in the way that John was able to do: face-to-face. We can come to church and share in the Eucharist and other sacraments, but coming to Jesus is also a mental exercise, probably involving the imagination.

To come to Christ we sometimes need to withdraw into solitude and silence. That can help us to recognise Christ in the world around us. When we begin to do that, our spiritual hunger begins to be satisfied. We can be actively giving and receiving in a huge diversity of ways. A sense of merging can be found in personal prayer and meditation, but, importantly, also in activity in the home and outside where we are relating to others.

Jesus urges us to believe in him. Believing is an act of the will rather than our rational faculty. It is not always easy. Like the disciples we have, if we are honest, ambivalent feelings towards this outrageously demanding and challenging man. Belief has no place for doubt, but faith does. Faith is more flexible and inclusive than belief. So I have faith that includes unanswered questions; I have faith that Jesus will eventually satisfy my spiritual hunger.

You can say, that the resurrection is impossible, therefore it didn’t happen, or you can say it happened, therefore it must be possible. Most Christians would say the latter, but we tend to say it is a miracle beyond our comprehension. However, there are Christian scientists who are seriously exploring the bodily resurrection from a scientific perspective. I don’t mean the psychological theories that effectively deny any bodily resurrection. Robert Russell is professor of physics and of theology at UCLA, Berkeley. He has begun a new program of research, based on the theory that Jesus’ bodily resurrection marks a major step in the evolution of the universe, equivalent to the emergence of the first stars, of living organisms or of self-conscious humans.

Professor Russell emphasises that his research is only just beginning but, whatever he discovers, we would all agree, I think, that, 2000 years ago, the universe changed. It began a new phase; something new emerged. Of course, the universe is changing all the time in routine ways – an old star explodes as a supernova here, another star is snowballing into existence from gas and dust somewhere else, a planetary system is forming round another star. But the universe is also evolving; real changes are taking place in its nature and structure. Jesus’ bodily resurrection marked a very major change. We may, like Professor Russell, see it in evolutionary terms but, in any case, it was the first appearance of a new kind of human being.

Until Jesus, humans had a limited period of existence, from conception to death. There was speculation, but no evidence of life after death. In Jesus we have a person who appeared to his disciples after his death in a new body, possessed of new features  - he could walk through locked doors for example. St Paul wrote of a ‘spiritual body’ (1 Cor. 15:44).

Luke’s story of Jesus sharing food with his friends at Emmaus (Luke 24:13ff) emphasises strongly the bodiliness of Jesus’ risen state after his death. He was not a disembodied spirit: a ghost. And, when he showed them his wounds, it was clear that this new body was that of the same person the disciples had known, although Luke says the two disciples on the road to Emmaus failed to recognise him.

This leads me to reflect that death will not obliterate all my faults and failings – the unhealed wounds of my defeats in the battle of life. I know I am forgiven, but I am still selfish and lazy. I don’t expect suddenly to be magically made perfect at my death. I accept that there is still work to be done before I can be absolutely happy. Maybe I have to become less individualistically me – merge into the greater wholeness. Paul said that Christ does this, living in all of us. I believe that life after death will not mean instant total bliss but is part of an ongoing process.

But let’s get back to the story. The disciples had not only been thoroughly confused by the events of the previous week, they were fearful. Mark says that Peter and another disciple were scared when they found the empty tomb. There was no Easter celebration at first. There was a new dawn of hope but also uncertainty as to what exactly that hope might reasonably be.

The disciples didn’t have the richly developed and theologised doctrine that developed later. Jesus had to spell out for them at length how his tragic death was predicted by Isaiah and others. Christians have been taught to recognise the suffering servant in Isaiah (Ch 53) as a prediction of Messiah’s own suffering and humiliation. In the lives of prophets and saints, ancient and modern, we see the suffering of righteous people in a similar way. However, the scriptures also predicted that the righteous would ultimately be justified. Jesus’ resurrection is a clear sign of that.

 Although the Church has produced a full doctrine of the resurrection, largely based on Paul’s reflections, there are still ambiguities. It is not entirely clear whether it was the resuscitation of Jesus’ dead body or something else. The empty tomb suggests the former but, if we include the ascension, as we must, are we to imagine the risen Jesus in a physical body like ours in some extra-terrestrial location, waiting to be beamed down to earth again some day?

Paul and the author of the fourth Gospel didn’t see the risen Jesus that way. They both saw Christ as physical, but as a cosmic being in whom all things exist (John 1:1-14. Col. 1:15ff). Christ is embodied, incarnate in the whole universe. Jesus gave a hint of this when he told his disciples that whatever they did to anyone they did it to him (Matt. 25:40). If Christ is divine, as the Church asserts, then the universe is the embodiment of God. This makes sense since the Church also asserts that the universe was created out of nothing, ex nihilo. God has nothing to make the universe of but himself.

The universe is not an inert entity, nor is it a machine. It is clear from twentieth scientific discoveries that the universe is a living organism, growing, decaying and regenerating itself continuously, evolving to greater and greater states of complexity. A generation of stars dies, but the matter is not destroyed, it gathers again under gravity to form a new generation. Resurrection is part of the cosmic process. We can hardly speculate what humankind may be like a million or even a billion years from now, if we have not self-destructed or become extinct by then, superseded by a future species with a higher level of consciousness than ourselves.

Many theologians believe that, as the universe evolves, it becomes more fully an expression of the mind of God. Philosopher of science, Alfred North Whitehead and others believe that not only life, but mind also is an inherent property of the universe. Its continuing evolution, no matter how dependent it may be on random quantum events, suggests also that the cosmic mind has an intention: there is a cosmic will.

Professor Brown sees a stage of human evolution before Jesus, and a subsequent stage, after Jesus where humankind acquired a new potential. The resurrection seems like cosmic will-power pushed through an inertial boundary. Cosmic evolution has taken a definite step forward but, as in every previous case, this occurred first uniquely in one location. Perhaps no one, not even the Gospel writers, knows exactly what happened. Professor Brown doesn’t either. But he offers a perspective that deserves to be take seriously.

In John’s Gospel there is a long description of Jesus’ last meal with his friends: a Passover meal (John 13-17). I have been to a number of Passover meals with my nephew’s Jewish family (he married a Jewish lady) and, in spite of their religious and ritual nature, they have always been very light-hearted and cheerful affairs. One year the family made the children organise the whole thing so they could get to understand the ritual better. Even the year I went with them to the synagogue, where there was more formality and long Bible readings in Hebrew by the Rabbi, there was humour and light-heartedness, and plentiful food and wine at the end. But Jesus’ last Passover meal with his disciples was a solemn and bittersweet occasion. It is hard to imagine the deep and complex emotions Jesus must have been feeling.

He had a lot to say to his disciples. During the meal he speaks several times of “my commandment”. On one occasion he calls it “a new commandment”. But it was not really new; it was just a stronger affirmation of the command in Leviticus to love your neighbour as yourself (Lev. 19:18). But there was a new dimension to the commandment when Jesus expressed it; he added the words “as I have loved you.”

At the beginning of this meal, Jesus had performed a traditional act of hospitality. He had washed his disciples’ feet. It was a dramatic and symbolic action, normally a slave’s job, but he tells his disciples they should wash one another’s feet too: that he has left them an example to follow. I don’t think he meant only to wash each other’s feet; I think he meant that they should be servants of each other.

That is not so strange to us in this egalitarian age when only the very rich have servants to do the chores for them, but people’s expectations vary. Male chauvinistic husbands still expect their wives to do all the menial jobs in the house. We are all thoughtless at times, especially us males, and dreamy teenagers, in a world of their own, are famous for leaving stuff in the sink and a trail of mugs and empty Coke cans around. Luke tells us of a twelve-year-old Jesus who seemed quite oblivious of his parents’ need to know where he was.

Such things are often quite trivial. Jesus’ symbolic act tells us that love begins with small things at home, but I have to admit that I don’t know if Jesus was any different from other men regarding menial jobs. He got Judas to look after the money, he got some disciples to set up this meal for them and, while Matthew says they sang a hymn before they left, there is no mention of them doing any washing up. I guess there were some women there.

Jesus’ commandment was new: it went further than the authors of Leviticus had in mind. From the beginning of his ministry, Jesus reached out to others. As soon as he heard of John the Baptist’s murder, he went to Galilee where John’s disciples were grieving and perhaps a little fearful. Immediately he offered them, not sympathy, but leadership. “Follow me,” he says, “And I will make you fishers of people.” He was taking John’s place, only differently. He was not just telling them to repent but to begin a whole new life.

Jesus was supremely good at bringing out people’s talents and potential. This appeared in his healing miracles, where he inspired new levels of faith and confidence. He challenged people to change, to live with new hopes, and sometimes to venture out in new ways: to expand their lives.

A vital ingredient in this was his frequent expressions of and references to forgiveness. He challenged conventional notions, especially religious ones. Jesus said, “If you keep my commandments you will remain in my love,” but he doesn’t mean that if we fail to keep his commandments he will stop loving us; his love and forgiveness are universal and unconditional. Jesus had to be very patient with his disciples – they seemed quite unable to understand him. Forgiveness for us begins with little things but, by his example, he makes a stronger challenge. Sometimes there are big things to forgive.

A bit further on in his talk, Jesus repeats his commandment to love one another as he has loved them, adding that one can have no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. The way Jesus himself did that in the end was horrific indeed, although it was a routine event under Roman rule. It was the ultimate act of giving himself to his paranoid and confused enemies, obsessed with their status and power.

After the resurrection, Jesus laid down his life even further by living in us, even in the poorest and most afflicted. Paul expressed it as us being “in Christ”, but that amounts to the same thing. According to Matthew Jesus said that, inasmuch as we do anything to anyone, we do it to him (Matt. 25:40ff). Bishop John Robinson, in his famous book Honest to God, labelled Jesus as “the man for others”. He saw Jesus’ mature life as one lived entirely for the benefit of other people; not that he was passive or anyone’s doormat. He was assertive in his teaching and ministry as well as being responsive when people brought their needs to him. His challenging parables and sermons were aimed to draw people to fuller, more abundant life.

In effect, Jesus commands us to lay down our lives. He doesn’t mean we should all go out and get ourselves crucified. Laying down your life means living for other people. We have gifts to share. In the offertory sentence in our Prayer Book, we thank God for “these gifts”, not just bread and wine, but all our God-given gifts. The money and groceries we give in church are just tokens of the many diverse gifts we have to share. The more willingly and actively we share our individual gifts of strength, intelligence, possessions, time or whatever in the service of others, the more we are laying down our lives for them.

Christ commands his friends, including us, to love one another as he loves us. From daily attention to the needs of the family to the most costly acts of self-sacrifice, we lay down our lives for our friends. That does not necessarily mean heroics; it may just require generous thoughtfulness.

The first time Jesus preached in his local synagogue people were amazed and also confused. Mark says they were actually offended. His teaching impressed them enormously with its erudition and insight but they knew him as an ordinary young man who worked with his father as a general handyman, fixing broken furniture, roof tiles or sticking doors. Naturally people were sceptical. Here was this local tradesman talking like a scholar – a scribe or a Pharisee. More than that, people said he talked with an authority that seemed based on more than mere book learning. The neighbours couldn’t make it out.

Famous people often fail to attract the same admiration from those close to them that they enjoy from the public. Jesus was right: “A prophet is not without honour except in his own country and among his own people.”  (Mark 6:4)

We can all think of examples. In 1964, I was in Malvern, in the diocese of Worcester, and I recall the Bishop at that time had no degree or paper qualifications. Some local clergy looked down on him for that. Bits of paper were more important to them than spiritual maturity and pastoral zeal and ability.

John the Baptist at first pointed to Jesus as a greater prophet than himself, but he had doubts when he heard that he enjoyed, good food and wine and had delinquent friends.

Politicians try, as a professional necessity, to be prophetic. Many recognise the injustice of a world were a few are obscenely rich while millions are starving. Governments are promising to try to redistribute global wealth a bit more evenly. But the public is sceptical about politicians. They may or may not have a prophetic message, but we tend to see them as basically self-seeking careerists out to enhance their own position.

It is said of Einstein that he was not a good family man, and of Isaac Newton that he was extremely bad tempered. Michael Jackson, a superstar in his lifetime, was a troubled person who had been abused as a child and whose behaviour as an adult was eccentric, to say the least.

Suppose someone gets bitten by religion and becomes a born-again Christian. Perhaps a heavy-drinking, womanising cricket or Rugby star repents of his ways and proclaims that he has now given his life to Jesus. If he tries to convert his team-mates, they will probably say something like, “Look mate, this is us you’re talking to. Knock it off!” To the media, however, it is a great story and soccer fans rush even more eagerly for his autograph.

When Al Gore began to give warnings about global warming, sceptics said, “What does he know about it? He’s not a scientist; he’s a politician.” That reminds me of a brothers’ chapter meeting where I first introduced the subject of global warming. One of the brothers objected that I was in no position to talk because I was no better than anyone else at turning unneeded lights off. It was a fair comment, but I was dreaming of something more radical like a solar power plant, costing as much as a family car. I still hope that, one day, people will do this although such a plant takes thirty years to pay for itself.

So Jesus suggests that, if you feel you have a prophetic message, strangers are more likely to take you seriously than your family, friends and neighbours.

But how often does that happen? How many people believe they have a prophetic message? I think a lot do. We can all see that society is in a mess – individualistic, self-centred, obsessed with money, racist, hypocritical. We complain about it, but our nearest and dearest know we are not shining examples of virtue ourselves and don’t really pay much attention.

Do you have a prophetic vision? Think carefully. Every time you say the word ‘ought’ you are making a prophetic proclamation, often a message of warning. “You ought to drive more slowly.” “You ought to eat less fatty food.” The road toll and obesity are indeed serious problems, but people pay more attention if an expert or even a stranger says these things than if their husbands or wives do. Sometimes Christ speaks to us through people close to us, but we fail to recognise him because we know them too well. There’s a bit of the prophet in all of us, but what Jesus said is common experience.

Prophets are people ahead of their time, yet family and neighbours see them essentially as contemporaries. Jesus was ahead of his time. He spoke from the perspective of a world that didn’t yet exist, of a kingdom that has still not been established. It is not surprising that his family and contemporaries found him puzzling and disturbing. They knew him as an ordinary part of their contemporary world.

At the Council of Nicea, where our Creed was composed, Athanasius and company created another kind of scepticism by declaring that Jesus was divine. It’s a kind of inverted scepticism. We admire Jesus’ wisdom and heroic virtue but we feel he had an overwhelming advantage over us. “I’m only human,” we say, when our faults and failings are criticised. Jesus’ divinity can be as big a stumbling block as his ordinariness.

Jesus’ most stupendous prophetic action was his resurrection. The resurrection looked to the future in the context of contemporary life. Jesus was a mortal person. He died. We are sceptical because dead people don’t get up from their graves. Many people try to work out some psychological or other natural explanation for those weird reports at the end of the Gospels.

The famous theologian, Paul Tillich, said that belief and faith are different. Belief demands that you abdicate your critical faculty. Many people firmly believe things against all reason and evidence, fearing that if they use their brains they’ll lose their faith. Faith always includes an element of doubt. I don’t believe in the resurrection; I have faith in it. I have faith in the resurrection, but I don’t deny my bewilderment and doubts. Paul, in his letters, often seems to assume that we all understand what the resurrection really means, but I am still struggling.

However, in spite of our doubts, we need to have a respect for prophecy, whether it comes from ancient writings, from a qualified expert or from someone close. There are prophetic voices that speak to us daily, not only from the Bible or from experts, but from those around us. We need to pay attention.