It’s been good getting to know Pete over the past few years. Our first books came out at pretty similar times, when we were both involved in similar projects in Ikon and Vaux, and since then I’ve come to count him as a good friend, and companion on a journey. The very nature of conversation means that threads are picked up and then left for a while, so it’s always good to get some of the thoughts and discussions I’ve had and overheard distilled into a crafted argument.

I suppose it was nearly two years ago when I headed over to New York to see Pete that I found him reading The Coming Insurrection – a revolutionary tract put out by The Invisible Committee. The back cover goes like this:

It is useless to wait – for a breakthrough, for the revolution, the nuclear apocalypse or a social movement. To go on waiting is madness. The catastrophe is not coming, it is here. We are already situated within the collapse of a civilisation. It is within this reality that we must choose sides.

It’s an influential and persuasive read, and I thought that Insurrection might draw far more directly from it, be a far more obviously inflammatory work. But while the content of Pete’s new book contains a very revolutionary kernel, he has, wisely I believe, chosen to take a more careful approach to presenting it in that his book is actually quite pastoral.

In the introduction (just to prove I at least got that far ) Pete writes:

In Insurrection, I endeavor to outline what this radical expression of a faith beyond religion might look like and how it has the power to give birth to a radically new form of Church… The following will not be an easy read; many will find it disturbing, for some of the things we hold precious will be attacked from the very outset. But it is written with a firm conviction that we must not be afraid to burn our sacred temples in order to discover what, if anything, remains.

And that is precisely what he does. Using a mixture of parables and stories, and weaving in thoughts from theologians and philosophers from a wide variety of backgrounds, Insurrection (not to be confused with the fantasy trilogy of the same name!) takes us on a journey that is, like all of the best journeys, engaging, sometimes frightening, beautiful and enriching.

Ermmm... no, not this one.

But it is also a journey that refuses to return home. This is not a book that takes you to the boundaries of orthodoxy, stretches you and then returns you to your home comforts. This is a journey that – like the people behind The Coming Insurrection – opens the doors and takes you into a reality that demands some tough choices.

You could very easily read this book and be warmed by the cute, twisty stories and the interesting inversions… but that would be to be blind to the fierce message behind the text. For what Pete is asking you to do is nothing less than give up your Christianity. To give up the identities that you have built around it, the comforts you have brought into your pews and the affirmations you have wrought into your songs that mean that doubt is eliminated.

I know there will be those who say that the radical deconstruction that Pete is working in his writing leaves us with nothing positive – no way of serving the poor or reaching out to people. I think that’s a mis-reading. For me, Insurrection refuses to deliver simple messages that everything is ok because the poor and the needy matter too much. Christianity has gone so badly wrong structurally that it needs a radical overhaul if it is ever to serve people better in the long term, rather than serve its own needs in the short.

As Pete puts it in the conclusion (yep, I skipped to the last page)

[Denying the resurrection] means holding too tightly to what we have and identifying too closely with our idealized image. It means avoiding doubt, turning from our weakness, and refusing to face up to our finitude. In short, it means saying “no” to life.

But then there are times when we may affirm it: Times whenever we embrace life, face up to our pain, allow ourselves to mourn. Times when we meet our neighbour, look at ourselves without fear, take responsibility for our actions, listen to our fears, find joy in the simplest of things, and gain pleasure through embracing the broken world. In times like these, we say “yes” to life and, in doing so, we say “yes” to Christ. For it is only when we are the site where Resurrection takes place that we truly affirm it. To believe in the Crucifixion and Resurrection means nothing less than enacting them.

Insurrection, then, is both revolutionary and pastoral, because it is a call to integrity. To be – as Mother Theresa was – the change we need to see, even in the midst of enormous doubt. Here is the most clear link to The Coming Insurrection: for Pete, the central message of the a/theistic reading of Christianity is this: the resurrection is here, right now, so get on and live it.

I’d say this was essential reading… yet I’d also say that Pete is not finished, and it’s wise to read this book as part of an evolving theological move, the final act of which we are yet to see. Where he’s going with that will, I think, really force people to make some very tough choices. But with Insurrection we get the build up and background to exactly why those choices are going to need to be made.

A very interesting post popped up on the theology site ‘An Und Fur Sich’ yesterday, which was a quick critique posted by Brad Johnson, after his investigation into the movement prompted by ‘a mixture of morbid and genuine curiosity.’ His single perspective was to read Pete Rollins’ books, and his comments spring basically out of that, but the most interesting aspect was his opening remark that:

The Emergent Church is a marketing phenomenon – a means of remaining “hip” and “edgy,” – and thus essentially another form of evangelistic seeker-sensitivity.

Johnson goes on to say:

For [the Emerging Church] it is well and good to question and/or doubt the faith, because these questions and doubts can be shown ultimately to affirm Christianity. [...] This, it seems to me, is the strongest form of marketability: when even the aversion to marketability (e.g., self-deprecation) is itself a strongly ironic form of pure marketability.

A couple of things I’d like to point out in response to this. Firstly, Johnson titled his post ‘Giving the Emergent Church its Due,’ but I think given the limited scope of his reading and research, he has not done anything like this.

Secondly though, I think he is a) complete right and b) completely wrong.

He is completely right in that much of what carries the label ‘emerging church’ is a straightforward marketing ploy by churches who are simply keen to attract younger members without actually changing the core of their beliefs or practices.

However, he is also completely wrong, in that the manifestations of ‘emerging church’ that have become the popular face of the movement are, I believe a distorted simulacrum of the much more radical theological model that Pete (and others) have been writing about.

This presents a problem: if the practice is never going to live up to the theory, which is at fault?

Finally, I think Johnson, though right to identify the marketing phenomenon, doesn’t do enough to argue that this is a particularly ‘emerging church’ problem. Personally, I think we are so heavily steeped in consumer capitalism that any attempt at change or re-formation is going to be afflicted by a marketing mindset (check this site out, for an example of the double-bind). Which is why my thinking for a possible next book is veering towards a synthesis of the twin failures of Communism and Christianity. It’s only out of the ashes of both that I think we might see a genuinely different movement.

Whenever a gift is given, an invisible cargo is exchanged with it, loaded with semi-conscious messages about power-relations between giver and receiver. Offering an expensive gift to someone can be a power-play: I am rich enough to give you this. Even letting someone out into traffic can carry the same message: I am more gracious than you, more relaxed and important, and thus I am able to let you out – it’s a small thing I can do for a little person like you.

In the parable in Luke 7 we saw in the last post, we saw this being played out: a Pharisee is giving Jesus the gift of a meal. But the cargo that is delivered with that gift is more important than the food: I am the sort of person who would invite Jesus for dinner.

And so as we come to the end of this Advent series – which I hope you’ve enjoyed – we come to what I think is the essential miracle of the incarnation: the miracle of restraint. At the moment of reception of this most wondrous gift, there is virtual silence. No fanfare. Angels may have sung in the fields – something I doubt to be honest – but at the breaking in of God into human form there is nothing to shock or bedazzle.

The incarnation is the gift that carries no cargo. It has been emptied of all power. It is thus both offensive in its simplicity and infuriating in its humility. It is as if the church would prefer God to have done something powerful and strong – that’ll show them! – but God refuses. Why? Because that would twist the power-relationship, and leave us less than free to make our response to it.

In How (Not) To Speak of God Pete Rollins describes Derrida’s view of the perfect gift thus:

(1) the receiver does not know they have been given a gift
(2) nothing is actually given
(3) the giver does not know they have given anything.

In light of this, the incarnation event is this perfect gift. As we wake on Christmas morning, billions of us, we are unconsciously entering this generous space, for we do not know that we have been given anything, nothing has actually been given, and in the unformed mind of that helpless new life, the giver had no idea that they had just given something quite wonderful.

Have a great Christmas.

In the same mode, this is a parable I’ve been working on based on the familiar story of the Emperor’s New Clothes.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

There was once a powerful Emperor, who, in the old Roman way, ruled over his people like a god. The people worked hard to please him, and gave away a handsome proportion of all that they earned to furnish his palace with fine things. Those who served the Emperor also made sure that he was dressed in the most beautiful vestments, tailored from the finest thread. The people would gather each week in his palace to adore him, wearing the best that they could afford from the little money they had left after the share that went into the palace coffers.

One day, two tailors from a far-off land came to the city. They entered the palace and spoke to the Emperor’s servants, offering to make him the finest suit of clothes ever created, with cloth woven from the purest gold intertwined with the most flawless diamonds. The servants were won over, and approached the Emperor, who, believing he deserved the very finest that the world could offer him, accepted the tailors’ offer.

The two tailors were installed in a large suite of rooms at the side of the palace. Each day the Emperor would have delivered to them more and more pure gold and fine gemstones, and each day he would visit to ask if his clothes were ready. Each day the Emperor’s servants would go out to the people of the city, demanding more of what little they had, imploring them to give generously so that their Emperor could be dressed in the very best that the world could give him.

Finally, the people could give no more, and the servants anxiously asked the tailors if they had everything that they needed. ‘No,’ they said, ‘we must have more gold, more silver and more fine gems.’ When they were told that the people had given all that they could, they demanded that the palace begin to be stripped of it’s wealth so that they could finish their new clothes in the best possible way – for it wouldn’t be fit for the Emperor to be dressed in anything but the very best.

Gradually, with the Emperor’s agreement, the palace was stripped of all its finery. Consumed by the thought of the finest suit, the Emperor allowed everything else that he owned to be taken to the tailors.

Finally, they announced that the suit was ready. The Emperor came into the palace and found the two tailors standing by an empty mannequin. ‘Where is my suit?’ he demanded. The tailors showed him the empty mannequin. ‘Emperor, we know that you are a man of the very finest taste, so we have created a suit that is only visible to those who have an aesthetic eye. To those with no culture or intelligence, the suit is invisible.’ The Emperor, not wanting to appear stupid or uncultured, went along with them, and, pretending to put on the suit, was fawned over by his servants, none of whom wanted to tell the Emperor of his nakedness.

Beginning to believe their sycophancy, the Emperor paraded out of the palace and into the streets. Those they met were quickly told of the amazing properties of the suit, and were also too afraid to admit that they saw nothing, and praised the fine tailoring.

Walking elegantly and loving the praise of his subjects, the Emperor rounded the corner of the palace to see the doors of the great rooms he had given the tailors wide open. Streams of people were walking away with great armfuls of gold, their pockets stuffed with gems. Looking around aghast, his eye was caught by a small boy, pointing and whispering, ‘the Emperor is naked. I have seen everything.’

His dignity and riches gone, and realising that he now had nothing, the Emperor decided all he could do was keep walking. As he walked, he felt the lightness of his nakedness, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the joy of being relieved of all the pressures being a god to these people. And, thanking the tailors for what they had done as they left for another kingdom, he began to smile and laugh, walking free of all his wealth and status.

‘He is naked!’ the crowd began to shout, louder and louder as they grabbed armfuls of loot. ‘He has nothing!’ they bayed as they scooped up coins and goblets. ‘He is naked yet he is unashamed!’ they cried. And they picked up rocks from the side of the road, and stoned him, as the Emperor repeated their words, a smile still visible on his bloodied face: ‘I am naked. I have nothing. I am unashamed.’

For those (few, I know) who may have followed here but not elsewhere, there has been quite a lot of reaction to the posts on piracy, mostly ignited by Richard Sudworth’s repost to my posts. I thought it’d be useful to do some aggregation:

Richard’s original repost

Pete Rollins’ counter to Richard

Richard’s counter to Pete

Pete’s return

Jonny Baker’s middle-way reflection

Maggi Dawn’s thoughts [ 1 ] [ 2 ]

Mark Berry’s thoughts

Simon Cross’ thoughts

Mike Radcliffe’s thoughts

Bill Kinnon’s thoughts on Jonny and Richard’s thoughts

Tractor Girl’s thoughts

Backburner’s thoughts on piracy and the economics of information

Ben Edson’s thoughts

What’s interesting of course is plotting the different degrees of separation from the original posts of the different comments. Not a value-judgement, simply an observation about our modern reading habits: we so rarely bother to read the full texts of that which we are commenting on.

Not sure I’ll be waging in any further into the debate, as 7 posts is quite enough on the subject for a while at least! Given the level of response though, suffice to say the seams that Pete and I and others are mining are either really right, or really wrong. I’ll let you decide.

As Pete and I are friends, I did just want to point out that I submitted the piece under a pseudonym, and it was only having read it and researched the false name I’d given that Pete became suspicious and asked if it was actually me… I couldn’t lie! The idea for the piece came, as so often with me, as I was pacing the streets in our part of South East London, having dropped the kids off somewhere. I simply got home, wrote it down and sent it away.

Anyway, thanks Pete.

Here’s the parable:

Footprints

There was once a man who had lived a long and difficult life. When he finally lay down, a faint smile bent the lines in his face as his eyes were shut. He had run the race; now he could rest. The curtain was pulled back, and he stumbled through the light to meet God.

‘My Master and my Friend,’ the old man hailed God as he prostrated himself before God’s feet. Hearing no reply, the man looked up and saw God shuffling awkwardly in his chair, not quite managing to fight back a blush across his cheeks.

Not wanting his moment of judgement and welcome to be spoiled, the old man gathered his courage and spoke up. ‘My Lord and my God,’ he began, nervously. ‘Is this not the time when my life and works shall be weighed in your scales and my named checked against those who have made it into the Book of Life?’ After such a tiring day it was difficult for him to remember the exact details of what was meant to be happening, but he felt certain that it should be God who should be taking the lead.

‘My child,’ said God sadly, before petering out and looking around for some way out.

Following God’s gaze, the old man took in a crumpled photo, pinned to a crowded notice board hung askew in a dark corner. His heart leapt. ‘Father,’ he said, getting up carefully like a servant in Medieval court, ‘here is a photo of footprints on a beach…’

God took it and stared at it for a while and as the man perceived his eyes glistening, his own tears came, for he knew the photo, and knew the words of comfort that came with it. ‘Tell me, Lord,’ he said, knowing already the lines that would come, ‘tell me what the footprints mean.’

And so God began.

‘Your life has been like a walk along the beach with me, many scenes from your life flashing across the sky. In each scene there are footprints in the sand, sometimes two sets, at other times only one.’

At this point God paused, and looked down, and so the old man seized the initiative, and played too his part.

‘Lord, this bothers me because I notice that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I can see only one set of footprints.’

He looked up, but saw God unmoved, so continued. ‘You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?’

He bowed his head, holding back the tears, ready for the words of succour that he knew must come.

And slowly God replied, his voice shaking with emotion. ‘The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when you carried me.’

The man frowned for a moment, paused, and then looked up. ‘Surely Lord,’ he began rather embarrassed to be correcting the Almighty, ‘you mean when you carried me.’

‘My dear child,’ God said, twisting a loose thread of cloth from his flowing robes, his face suddenly a mirror in which the old man saw the battles he had fought and the doubts he had put asunder, ‘this was the measure of your faith: when difficulties came, you gathered up this tired and arthritic God, and carried your beliefs to safety.’

A small wind blew through the old photographs and worn papers, and the two men sat in silence for a moment.

‘I have prepared a room for you,’ God said after a while, ‘though I quite understand if you don’t want me to stay.’

[© KB 2009]

Please do feel totally free to use it, but if you do so please do be courteous enough to reference it. Thanks.

Really looking forward to being at Greenbelt again this coming weekend. The programme – from the talks to the music to the comedy to the campaigning is as strong as ever and, I feel, has a nice edge to it too. (Full talks listings here)

For those who are going to be there, I’m going to be doing two main talks, and chairing a panel discussion too.

The first talk is A Plea for Christian Piracy (Sat, 5:15pm), which ties in with a major article in this month’s Third Way magazine as well as a section in the new book. By examining piracy in all its forms – from Somali hijackers to DVD rippers to mythical Blackbeards – I’m making a case that what pirates ultimately do is blaze a trail into heresy which the establishment can later follow into orthodoxy… Which is why, eye patch and parrot and all, I’d like to make a case for Jesus as genuinely piratical, and also give some insight into why children are endlessly fascinated with pirates. If you’ve got any good pirate jokes I can use in the talk (fully credited of course!) then drop them here.

The second talk is entitled ‘God is Strange, We are Stranger: Theology and the New Physics’ (Monday 11:15am) and will be familiar to those who have followed this blog recently. I was really excited to have booked Manjit Kumar to speak at the festival, but when he had to pull out due to illness I thought it’d be good for someone to do something on this tip, so thought I’d give it a go. Expect some parallels between the development of physics and theology, and why we ignore scientific advancement at our peril.

Finally, I’m chairing a debate on priesthood, sacraments and emerging worship (Monday 2pm), with a great panel consisting of Pete Rollins, Beth Keith, Paula Gooder and Father Simon Rundell. It’s one of those topics that opens out onto some very rich and important themes, so should be very interesting.

There are so many other fantastic speakers I could mention here, but you’ll have to simply have a browse yourself, or download the talks after the festival. Do come and say hello though. I’ll hopefully be making some announcements about some exciting developments in the coming year too.