On November 8 the Oxford Dictionary announced the word of
the year:
post-truth - an adjective defined as ‘relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief.
The announcement quoted Independent columnist Matthew
Norman:
The truth has become so devalued that what was once the gold standard of political debate is a worthless currency.
What happens to a culture that has lost interest in truth?
This election season highlighted our disordered values and the
underlying cracks in our ways of knowing.
We elected a president whose candidacy was built on contradictory promises and easily discredited lies.
Is something true because we prefer it?
Is evidence dismissed because it doesn’t fit our cognitive
framework?
If a story is repeated enough times in enough places does
that automatically make it so?
We are living in a tangled space, unsure who to believe, no
longer certain about what’s right, or true, or good.
Not even sure those words have meaning.
My goal in this blog has been to dig around in what I
believe, to examine premises as well as consequences, to try to hear the
half-heard words that form and inform who I am, what I do.
Advent leads me back to the foundation of that inquiry, as
the narrative of a baby born two thousand years ago collides with the
narratives of power and profit playing out in the stress and strain of an
American December.
So I’ll start here: why would anyone listen to the story of a provincial baby, nobody child of nobody, born in a stinking animal stall
in a dusty village in an occupied Middle Eastern country?
What halfway intelligent modern person would believe, for
even a millisecond, that that distant brown baby was the product of a deity’s
word spoken to an unmarried teenage girl, or that mythical creatures no one can
document showed up in force to sing to a group of migrant shepherds?
Approach this as a scientist and the narrative crumbles
quickly. Two thousand years later, who
could “prove” the facts of an immaculate conception? What evidence would it
take to support the stories of angel visitations?
The birth of Jesus, like many stories of scripture, sits
outside the realm of science, which is not to say that scientists can’t be
Christians; many are.
But for those who insist on scientific naturalism, on a
reality that conforms, is explained, can be proven, by the laws of science, the
Christmas narrative is a fairy tale, a silly myth, of no more weight and maybe
less interest than Seuss’s Grinch or Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin.
Philosopher Peter Kreeft speaks of “the radical
insufficiency of what is finite and limited”, the “cramped and constricted
horizon” encountered when we “see the material universe as self-sufficient and
uncaused.”
I like that phrasing: radical insufficiency.
If this material universe is self-sufficient and uncaused,
then perhaps Donald J. Trump is right, as were predecessors to whom he’s been
compared. If this cramped, constricted horizon is really all there is, then
objections to exploitation and manipulation have limited moral standing.
Yet most of us want something more: some basis for kindness.
Some rationale for recognition of our shared humanity.
Advent is a reminder that we all, whatever we profess to
believe, find ourselves constrained by the limited horizon of "what
is."
At first, (as young adults, or willful dreamers) we rebel at
the “radical insufficiency” of the current regime: we try to be generous, even
though generosity looks foolish. We try to be honest, even when honesty is
rarely rewarded. But slowly we cave. We blend. We realize that those ideals we
held have no place in a material world.
Yet sometimes God grabs our world and shakes it – like a
child shaking a snow globe – and the scenery changes.
I’ve been reading again the gospel of Luke. Luke, the only
Gentile writer represented in the Bible, was also one of the most educated: an
upper-class Greek doctor, Paul’s “beloved
He starts his account of Christ’s life with a promise to
share only what he's researched himself and is convinced is true:
since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account . . . so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.
After his quick introduction, Luke plunges headlong into the
story of Zechariah, John the Baptist's father: names, dates, simple history. In
verse eleven, the narrative takes a turn: "Then an angel of the Lord
appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. When
Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear."
I love the detail. Not just an angel, but “standing on the
right side of the altar.”
The angel explains what is about to happen: Zechariah’s aging wife will become pregnant
with a longed for baby. The child, a son, will be part of God’s plan of
intervention for his people, and the world.
Reading the text this time I’m struck by the length of the
angel’s speech: detail about what to call the baby, how to parent him.
In the past I’ve identified deeply with Zechariah’s
response: “How do I know this is true?”
Religious leader though he is, he's asking for proof: Will
you give me some kind of unassailable documentation? Will you come tell my
neighbors, so they know I’m not crazy? Could you make this announcement in
church next Sunday? So everyone else hears you too?
I love the angel’s response. Polite, but sharp. Let me
paraphrase:
“Seriously? You’re a priest, here we are in the inner sanctum of the temple, I’m standing here in front of you, straight from God’s throne, me, Gabriel, still God's messenger, the same one who spoke to Daniel, centuries ago. I'm here telling you what God has planned, and you’re wondering if you can believe me, even while you're shaking with fear. You still need proof? Really?”
I’ve never had an encounter with Gabriel but I’ve seen God
intervene in my life and in the lives of others. I’ve seen the intervention
that brings forgiveness, freedom, joy, healing, laughter in the place of pain,
a deep sense of belonging for those who felt abandoned.
And still, five minutes later, or five weeks later, five
years later, we ask: “How do I know that was true?” “Why should I believe in
miracles?” "Where's the proof?"
There are some great discussions of miracles available, including CS Lewis’ book titled “Miracles” and chapter seven of Tim
Keller’s Reasons for God. Two interesting websites, Christians in Science in
the UK, and American Scientific Affiliation in the US, offer extensive resources
on the compatibility of science and
faith. Biologos, founded by Human Genome Project geneticist and
physician Francis Collins, offers a helpful mix of articles about miracles and
science.
But in many ways the questions this advent aren't about faith and science, but about the place of truth - any truth - in a cynically post-truth world.
I'm part of that world.
I’ve been noting how easy it is - for me - to dismiss those who start
from different assumptions than my own, who embrace different ideas, who trust authorities
I believe are flawed.
I’ve been noting how easy it is for those around me to
assume they are wiser, smarter, more informed than those who disagree with them.
We are all, in a way, like Zechariah, going about our
business, unwilling to have our daily routine broken, determined to ignore any
reality that threatens our tightly held beliefs.
What warning, what message of hope, what offers of love do
we miss?
