Child circumcision and religious liberty
The reporting of the recent regional court judgement concerning infant circumcision in Germany has been predictably sensationalist; it is a ruling of a local and low court, binding only in a very limited geographical area, and I assume – albeit as a legal layperson – that it will be overturned fairly quickly. (The European Convention on Human Rights – which will overrule any local law in Germany – does, it is true, place a ‘public health’ exclusion on the right to family life (8.2) and the right to freedom of religious practice (9.2), but (a) ‘public health’ usually means the prevention of communicable diseases or widespread health threats, not protection from individual harm (assuming it is accepted that male circumcision is an instance of individual harm – it has been practiced on grounds of improved genital hygiene) and (b) the religion clause was written in full knowledge of practices of infant circumcision, and there was presumably no intent to outlaw such practices.) Considered in abstract, however, the ruling raises two interesting questions about religious liberty: whether parents should determine a child’s religion; and whether freedom of religion is sufficient justification for practices otherwise considered harmful by the wider culture. Assuming the various press reports of the Cologne case were accurate (which assumption is probably dangerous), the court’s decision explicitly considered the first question, and proposed that the parental decision to have a child circumcised infringed on the child’s right to religious self-determination. Two things might be said about this: first, it demonstrates worrying religious illiteracy on the part of the court; and second, it is a rather quaint and utopian position to adopt. Circumcision does not, in simple point of fact, define a (male) child as Jewish or Muslim. One is Jewish by virtue of birth: the covenant was made with all the children of Israel, and circumcision is an act of obedience to the covenant, not an act of entry into it. Equally, one becomes a Muslim by reciting shahadah (‘There is one God, and Muhammed is his messenger’) wholeheartedly. To the best of my knowledge, the only religious tradition currently popular in Germany – or the UK – that purports to have a practice that defines a child’s religious identity is Christianity: in Roman Catholic, Lutheran, and Reformed teaching, baptism is a sacramental act, effecting a change of identity in the one baptised. (Will Willimon has a beautiful illustration, recalling a student who announced angrily ‘I am a baptised Episcopalian; no-one has the right to tell me who I am’ he commented that only one clause of that declaration can be true; the act of infant baptism is precisely the act of the church claiming the right to tell the child who she is.) Were the court to have enjoyed an elementary level of religious literacy, a concern for a child’s right to religious self-determination would have led it to ban (infant) baptism, whilst remaining unconcerned about circumcision. (This is not a polemical Baptist point – see below; it might be a useful bit of Baptist apologetic in contemporary Western culture, however.) Second, the court reportedly operated on the basis that religious neutrality was a possible, even desirable, context in which to raise a child. This harks back to charming 1960s imagined ideas: there is a ‘view from nowhere’, a way of being in which one can remain aloof and uncommitted from any commitment until one is ready to choose sides. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. All practices are committed, and both express and inculcate beliefs. To pray is to be committed, but so is not to pray; to be prevented from worshipping a creator is as much an act of determination as to be constrained to offer worship. This week’s court ruling was doubly predicated on fiction: the fiction that circumcision is religiously determinative; and the fiction that it is possible to raise a child in a way that is not religiously – biased, if not determinative. The boy’s Muslim parents will, by a million conscious and unconscious practices, impart the message to their child(ren), ‘we are Muslims’; Heather and I would impart the message, ‘we Christians, Baptists, evangelicals’ to our daughters even if we tried not to. Of course, in fact we try to; my concern is not that, but instead that my discipleship is sufficiently poor that I unconsciously impart the message ‘but sometimes I don’t really believe that stuff’ as well… Religious neutrality is an unobtainable dream, perhaps utopian; I suspect more likely dystopian (true neutrality would demand a studied refusal to impart any account of ultimate values, and so any moral and ethical commitments…). Either way, it is not...
Read MoreThe place of the churches in society
In an article in the Independent newspaper this week, Mary Ann Sieghart (or her subeditor) announced that ‘You don’t have to believe in God to cherish the Church’, a proposition which she offered in response to the latest attack by Richard Dawkins. Dawkins produced a survey showing that many people who ticked the ‘Christian’ – perhaps particularly the ‘Church of England’ – box on the census showed few signs of basic Christian knowledge, and reported little participation in Christian practice. His figures were hardly surprising, of course: it is not news that the 70% of the population who claim to be Christian are not all at worship on Sunday morning. He drew from them the conclusion that self-identification should not be used as a criterion for assessing the level of Christian commitment in the nation. In academic research and discussion we tend to hesitate for some while before setting self-identifications aside: there is a basic courtesy in letting people choose their own identity; and often self-narrated identity turns out to have deep consequences that can be missed in a cursory look. Nick Spencer reports definite attitudinal differences between those who choose to self-identify as Christian and those who do not; Sieghart’s first response to Dawkins is similar claim: so what if all that people mean by ticking the ‘Christian’ box is that they ‘try to be a good person’? In general, people trying to be good are a benefit for society… She goes on in her article to praise the lack of militancy in the Church of England, and then to point to all the good work that the Church does in society. This is where her article gets interesting: Most attractively, though, the Church of England sees its job as ministering not just to its own flock. All over the country, if you bother to look, you will find Church-run groups that help children excluded from school, the homeless, refugees, the elderly, the sick, disaffected teenagers, the poor. There is no expectation that the beneficiaries be Christian. True enough, and certainly praiseworthy. Why, she asks, is the Church so active in ministering beyond its borders? Her answer, surprisingly, is establishment: It is precisely because the Church is established that it feels a duty to serve the whole nation. I will extend Seighart the courtesy of assuming that she knows about different practices of establishment in the different nations of the UK, and meant to say something similar about (at least) the Church in Wales and the Church of Scotland. Even granted that, though, the claim is curious: I am not aware of any data that suggests that the established churches run more ‘groups that help children excluded from school, the homeless, refugees, the elderly, the sick, disaffected teenagers, the poor…’ than Roman Catholic or nonconformist churches; the suggestion, indeed, seems implausible. I suppose Seighart might be making a claim that the motivation of the established churches is different: Catholics and Methodists run youth groups, but they do it in an attempt to convert others, not out of a desire to serve. Salvation Army soup runs are evangelistic, and so bad; Anglican ones are altruistic, and so praiseworthy (in England; in Scotland, where the local Anglican denomination is not established, perhaps their motives are different?). This is profoundly implausible, however: many of these sorts of initiatives are ecumenically-run; there is no basic division of motivation on the basis of established status. The Church of England, and the other established churches of this realm, serve the public for the same reasons that the disestablished churches – and indeed members of at least some of the non-Christian religions – do. Some of it is unreflective and instinctive: there is plenty of data showing that religiously active people are more generous in giving to charity, more likely to volunteer, and more connected to their community. Where it is theologised, the basis of community service is always one way or another missional. Now there are varieties of accounts of Christian mission, and all will be in play. No church I’ve ever known, however, has seen its community engagement as merely a vehicle for direct evangelism: no-one will be thrown out of the toddler group, or refused a meal, or whatever, because they refuse to come to the Alpha course. Equally, no church I’ve ever known has not harboured some hope that somehow its community engagement will demonstrate the attractiveness of its vision of the good life, and so serve as a witness to those who choose not to engage in the liturgical life of the church. So what? Well, Seighart’s piece is representative of a particular line of defence of the...
Read MoreModesty wraps rock! Or, getting public theology right
Over the last couple of weeks I have become aware of a campaign in the UK to make ‘modesty wraps’ (that is, plain covers) compulsory on all magazines displaying sexually explicit content on their covers. I am not sure who started it – there was an earlier, and linked, campaign concerning the placement of such magazines in Cooperative stores – but my friend Carl Beech has been energetic in promoting it on Twitter and elsewhere. This strikes me not just as a campaign I want to support, but as an excellent example of the doing of public theology. Public theology, it seems to me, should always be a rather ad hoc activity: as I have argued in print before now, confession of belief in the Incarnation demands that we believe that theology does not give blueprints for a perfect society that are applicable at all times and in all places; instead, there are theologically appropriate ways (plural deliberate) of approaching all political questions that might happen to arise, and theologically driven critiques (again…) of the set of questions that at any given time assume prominence in political debate. In some cases these theological positions will appear hopelessly idealistic; in others, they may appear achievable. A proper Christian political witness will constantly recall every goal that is gospel-mandated but unobtainable, whilst restlessly exploring ways of gaining those goals that appear possible, particularly when they might contribute to a shift of public perception on broader issues that might begin to make other, presently seemingly-hopeless, goals appear possible. So, for example, pressing for basic humanity to be shown to the children of asylum seekers was both potentially-successful and a chance to plead for respect for the humanity of all asylum seekers, not just the children. It was also a very clever piece of political positioning, forcing the standard, and cross-party, rhetoric that demonised asylum seekers into a profoundly uncomfortable disjunction with the fundamental British assumption of the innocence of the child. The modesty wraps campaign has something of the same potential. I hope it is not necessary to argue that pornography is evil, but just in case… The porn industry is a primary driver of people traffiking (sic, ‘slavery’) across the world today; even if the images and films were positively wholesome, they generally depend on the ‘performances’ of girls who were sold into slavery as children and who are forced, often by violence, to do what they do. But the images and films are far from wholesome: they portray women as objects rather than people, and promote and invite mendacious assumptions about sexual behaviour that can and do destroy relationships. I was about to claim that a healthy society would ban pornography. That is, however, not true. A healthy society would not need to ban pornography, because no-one in a truly healthy society would ever want to watch porn. In contemporary British society, porn will not be banned: our moral discourse is so vitiated that, in general, we are unable to see that the right to free speech – a necessary and important right – carries with it concomitant responsibilities to speak wholesomely. If we all understood what free speech was adequately, we would have no pornographers; however, we do not, and so we suffer this evil (and others, of course). The modesty wrap campaign succeeds as a piece of public theology because it does not challenge free speech: the pornographers are not threatened with a ban, which would be culturally unacceptable, however ethically desirable. However, it begins to locate the right to free speech within a broader matrix of goods – of course you may publish that, no-one is denying your right to, but we are asking you to do it in such a way that does not offend against the moral sensibilities of other members of society, and that does not force such images on our children. (The rhetoric of childhood innocence remains extraordinarily powerful in contemporary Britain.) At the same time, the campaign pushes back against the assumption that it is necessary, in our liberal society, to allow any and every image to be published and freely distributed, and so winning this battle would claim at least some ground in the bigger war against the porn industry. Again, the time is right. The chief proponents of the normalisation of pornography in our culture are not primarily ‘Lad’s Mags’, but daily papers, particularly red-top titles. It will be no surprise to anyone adequately schooled in ethical reflection that ‘page 3’ is published by the same organisation that hacked Milly Dowler’s phone after her murder – the two actions are ethically coordinate, in that both...
Read MoreIf you don’t want Tim Tebow, we’ll have him!
OK, the ‘Tebowing’ thing has been on the edge of my consciousness for a while now, mentioned on Twitter feeds and the like every so often. I could see various American friends getting exercised about it, concerned that it promoted ‘slot machine prayer’ theology, in which public intercession by a quarterback could be expected to ensure divine aid for his side in winning the game. Of course this isn’t good theology, but a not-dissimilar belief in the efficacy of prayer in promoting selfish wants is almost universal in Christian piety in my pastoral experience, and this example seemed less awful than some others (unless you happen to be a Steelers fan, I guess…) I confess that I didn’t get why everyone is so excited about it: I follow American football very vaguely, and so wasn’t aware just how much hype and expectation there was around this particular athlete. (I think the last time I watched a Broncos game on TV, some guy named Elway was calling the plays…) Beyond that, sporting competitors kneeling to pray after a success is not new, and was even being recommended as a form of witness twenty years back by the UK organisation Christians in Sport, if my memory serves. Whether we like it or not, sportspeople (and musicians, and TV/film personalities) are hugely interesting to children, and indeed to many others, and a visible indication of Christian faith is possibly of some significance. So I was leaving the Tebowing on the edge of my consciousness quite happily; I was aware that (several of) my American friends were heartily wishing the whole thing would just go away; beyond that, I was rather uninterested. Then John Franke posted this story by Rick Reilly on Facebook. There’s no mention here of Christian faith; instead some uncomfortable echoes of a native American Pelagian gospel of self-reliance (‘I am the captain of my fate…’); I am sure the money involved is almost insignificant in the context of Tebow’s salary, and I suppose most of the practical arrangements are done by his ‘people’. But it’s a story of someone, known for his Christianity, doing good things in a spirit of self-forgetfulness and humility. (The line ‘he’d just played the game of his life, and the first thing he did was find Bailey and ask if she’d got some food…’ speaks very well of the man’s character in this respect.) I know it is just one story – albeit by a writer who commands some respect – and I realise that there might be a lot more to be said, and also that much of it might be less wholesome. As I read Reilly’s piece, however, I thought of the stories I’ve recently read of our own, British, sports stars. Lots, of course, about commitment and dedication to training – Lendl’s comments on Andy Murray; tales of Olympic hopefuls. But beyond that, outside of tales of professionalism – well, recently it’s been alleged assaults on ex-girlfriends, racial abuse, a cricketer taking money to make a spot bet come good (& being such a rubbish cricketer that he failed!), and plenty of the usual diet of greed and petulance. Not much about people who care more about looking after a sick child than celebrating their own performance, even when the rest of the world is praising them to the skies. Now maybe it’s happening, unreported by our press. Maybe Wayne Rooney is doing this every week; it’s not impossible. Assuming, however, that there is no strange press silence, I’d rather our playgrounds and pubs were buzzing about someone like Tebow than, well, any premiership footballer I can presently name. And if the price of that is some slightly mawkish and very public displays of devotion, and some dubious narratives of divine interest in the outcome of sports games then, you know what, I’d live with it. Really, if you don’t want him, send him over here. We could do with a decent role model, someone living his faith in public in genuine and powerful ways, just now. (Of course, it could never happen. He’d have to learn to play a proper sport, one not involving body armour and breaks to catch breath every few...
Read MoreOf the Monarch, her Bishops, and the press
The Christmas tradition of the Monarch making a direct address to the nation is not one I object to, but nor, I confess, is it one I generally notice. All that I know of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II leads me to suppose that she is a person of wisdom, true Christian faith, and an unwavering commitment to the public duty that was thrust on her by accident of birth; none of that means that in an otherwise busy season I find sufficient reason to pause to take notice when she offers a brief narrative of her own understanding of the state of the nation. My Facebook and Twitter feeds this year, however, were full of Christian admiration for her speech, often coupled with unflattering comparisons to the sermons preached by the bishops who serve under her in one of the established churches in her realm. The admiration was not misplaced: she closed her speech with some direct and unashamed references to Christ’s saving and revealing work, asserting that God sent His Son to be a Saviour, and that the love of God is ‘known in Jesus Christ our Lord’. The comparisons, however, seemed less fair. Even an MP, John Glen, tweeted to the effect that, whilst the Queen’s broadcast was excellent, it was a shame that the Bishops focused more on bankers than Christ. I confess that I do not usually spend any more of my Christmas attending to the words of those elevated to episcopal office by Her Majesty than I give to her own words; I was sufficiently intrigued by a bit of a barrage of comments like this this, however, that whilst the rest of the family indulged an incomprehensible (to me) addiction to Strictly Come Dancing, I sought out the texts of various episcopal sermons. The Archbishop of Canterbury took the opening verses of John as his text; he explored more deeply, but no less faithfully, than the Queen the wonder of what God does in Jesus: ‘His life is what God says and what God does; it is the life in which things hold together … Jesus is the place where all reality is focused, brought to a point.’ He stressed the need for a response to what God has done in Jesus: ‘Before we have even got to Christmas in the words of the gospel we are taken to Good Friday, and to the painful truth that the coming of Jesus splits the world into those who respond and those who don’t.’ His focus was perhaps more on sanctification than justification – but that is no less properly a part of the Christian message, and perhaps an appropriate theme when addressing those who are, by choice, in a cathedral congregation on Christmas day, and so may be presumed to have some measure of Christian commitment. The Archbishop of York, preaching on Lk 2 and Is. 9:6, made not dissimilar points: describing the coming of Christ as a ‘still-open opportunity’ ‘The only way of coming to King Jesus,’ he declared, ‘is on our knees, stripped naked of all our religious trappings, empty-handed and begging for mercy.’ He went on to quote a verse of Toplady’s ‘Rock of Ages’. Then, like Rowan Williams, he turned to the transformation of life that will come from following Jesus. I could continue around the episcopate, at least those texts that have already been made available online; the point would get tedious however. The criticisms that the Bishops were less adequately Christian than the Queen in their Christmas addresses simply do not stand up. Which led me to wonder, whence the criticism? Why did people – faithful, intelligent people in many cases – pass such harsh judgements in public on their fellow Christians? It would be possible to be judgemental in return: there is a temptation for a certain style of conservative Christianity to stress justification at the expense of sanctification because it pulls the sting of the gospel. It is easier to speak – and certainly to hear – of the forgiveness of God, full and free, without calling for true repentance, for a change of heart and life that involves painful and costly changes of behaviour. But the gospel for bankers and other financiers involves a call to visible repentance of professional wrongdoing – ask Zacchaeus… (and the gospel for preachers and theology lecturers involves just as much, or perhaps even more (Ja. 3:1) a call to visible and ongoing repentance of professional wrongdoing…) There are many, no doubt, who would rather hear about God’s forgiveness than their own greed, or lust, or anger, or whatever, but that is not a...
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