Knowing him

When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi he put this question to his disciples, ‘Who do people say the Son of Man is?’ And they said, ‘Some say he is John the Baptist, some Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ ‘But you,’ he said ‘who do you say I am?’ Then Simon Peter spoke up, ‘You are the Christ,’ he said, ‘the Son of the living God.’

Matthew 16:13 - 16

What does it take to know someone? To know them well? Do you need to know about their family, where and when they were born, racial and language background, socio-economic context, where they went to school, who they grew up with, what their interests were as a younger person, what their hopes and dreams were, what university they went to, their first jobs, what they believed in, whether they practised a particular religion, were they fundamentalists, liberals or conservatives, played sport, liked a nice bottle of wine, craft beer, were vegetarian, on the left, right or centre of the political spectrum, prefer SUVs to sedans, gender identity and sexual preference, married or in a relationship, enjoyed board games, travelled widely, have children, did volunteer work, were good company, had charm, easy to get along with, exercised regularly, kept a tidy office or home, generous to charities, respectful of the law, acknowledged their own failings, were encouraging of others, self-deprecating? Would you still know them? Would you be surprised if they did something out of the ordinary that would cause you to say: I would never have expected them to do that. When do you really know someone?

I met my wife, Toni, 37 years ago. And after 37 years I would suggest that we know each other quite well. I know lots of things about her, in fact most of the things above. But yes. There are times when I am very surprised by something she says or does. And so I learn something else about her. You see, this is because something happens to me when I am surprised. Toni is still Toni, but my knowledge about her continues to grow.

Jesus questions Peter, “Who do you say I am?” (Matthew 16:13ff). Peter knew Jesus’ mother and family, and he had already been a disciple of Jesus for the last few years. He doesn’t say, “You’re Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary of Nazareth.” He doesn’t recount aspects of Jesus’ life and character or recall where and when he attended synagogue. Nor does he mention Jesus’ childhood, his profession, what his ambitions and expectations were, whether he could sing and dance, if he was a disappointment to his friends and family. No. Peter goes to the heart of very person that Jesus was: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And how did Peter come to that conclusion?  Did he add up all that he knew of and about Jesus to come to this answer?

We do know that something propelled Peter. It was something that was happening in him – not what was happening in Jesus. Peter’s eyes and his own heart were opened, and the revelation was breaking into him. He recognised who Jesus was. He was the Christ.

This Peter knew and believed after a short three years.

I enjoy a good auto/biography, particularly those that capture that special aspect of character that 'defines' them. I've mentioned before John Selby Spong's Here I stand, Bill Clinton's My life, Barack Obama's The audacity of hope, and especially Jenny Hocking's Gough Whitlam: a moment in history. In stories such as these we see the self-revelation and growth through the eyes of experience, and we see the spark of character woven back into their childhoods and early years.

For the rest of us who leave no written biographies behind, it’s not what we do, where we come from, or even what our story is. It is our openness and willingness to see into the heart of others, to see who they really are. You and I are made in God’s image, we are unique. This is who we are. If we had the opportunity to look into the eyes of Jesus himself, would our answer be any different from that of Peter?

That opportunity, of course, is before us every day. The face of Jesus can be seen in every person we meet. ‘

Peter Douglas

Spiritual but not Religious: What are Today's 'New Pilgrims' Looking For?

by Joanna Kujawa

Some years ago, when my friend asked me why I was going on a Christmas pilgrimage to Jerusalem, I was not sure what answer I could give her.

At that stage of my life I was still struggling with the innate notion that there is a divine presence in our life, although not necessarily what I was brought up with - which, in my case, was Catholicism.

It was a few years before I got seriously interested in esoteric Hinduism (Kashmir Shaivism) and the Gnostic teachings of early Christians.

After a short pause I told her that I was not going on a traditional devotional group pilgrimage. I was going with two friends to forge some connection with the great spiritual figure of the West which, however, stopped making sense to me.

The traditional Christmas stories of "baby Jesus" were no more than memories of my own childhood and family Christmas dinners. Apart from that they felt infantile and somehow inadequate to my life dilemmas, such as the break up of a significant relationship or striving for spiritual and professional fulfilment.

To my surprise, my friend understood. "I get it," she said. "You're going there for spiritual but not religious reasons." The simplicity of this statement gave me a lot to think about. Spiritual but not religious? Like all statements that are true to us (and this is a very subjective take), this one changed my life.

Recently I was writing an academic paper on spiritual experience and came across William James's classic The Varieties of Religious Experience. In it he discusses the vital difference between the individual spiritual experience and its institutionalised form. He so eloquently calls this difference "religious experience versus institutionalised churching" or "corporate dominion." James argues that most traditional religions are often inspired by a charismatic religious figure or a religious genius who is capable of transmitting the religious experience of the divine, or even the ecstatic feeling of oneness with the divine, to his or her followers.

However, this is where the good part ends and the process of institutionalisation begins. The process of institutionalisation of the spiritual experience is both regrettable and necessary. Necessary because the teachings (or the memory of the spiritual experience in the presence of the teacher) in this way are preserved for future generations (such as the writing of gospels). Regrettable because in the processes of preservation and the institutionalisation of the essence of the original spiritual experience, it is dogmatised and regulated.

Thus, something which is essentially our link to the limitless is circumscribed and limited by the understanding of its well-meaning codifiers, their cultural backgrounds, beliefs and attitudes towards women, and similar things.

In time, those beliefs change the limited and dogmatised version of the original spiritual experience, and the message loses its appeal. I believe this is exactly what Western society is going through at the moment. Churches are empty and people are seeking an original spiritual experience, with the religions of the West and Buddhism and different forms of yoga the most popular choices. This is what some scholars call "the massive subjective turn" and the "unchurching" of the West.

Indeed, in her book Looking for Mary Magdalene, Anna Fedele reaches a similar conclusion. In her study of pilgrims who travel to the Catholic shrines in Southern France she noted that the pilgrims clearly separate themselves from their original faith. They do not go there out of traditional Catholic piety. They go there because they try to find spiritual experience and try to find meaning in alternative (often considered heretical) interpretations of the sites.

They visit the shrines because, for example, they read books by Margaret Starbird and want to re-connect with the "real" Mary Magdalene, not the one presented by the orthodoxy as a penitent prostitute. Fedele calls such people the "new pilgrims," Westerners who attempt to create a new meaning for their spirituality away from the orthodox interpretations that do not make sense to them anymore. As Linda Woodhead would say, they have made their own "subjective" turn in search of meaning.

In many ways, this is nothing new. Elaine Pagels in The Gnostic Gospels traced the process of the establishment of the early Christian church, where different powers at hand and different interpretations of Jesus's teachings were fighting for their place in the codification process during the first centuries of Christianity. To apply Michele Foucault's term, what was experienced in the founding centuries of early Christianity was a form of a "discursive shift," when old and new elements mixed in the creation of an institutionalised belief.

The same, I would argue, happens to the "new pilgrims" in the West: they attempt to create a new discursive shift that makes sense to a person in the twenty-first century. They look for an original spiritual experience which is not fossilised by the dogmatism of established religions. In other words, they are starved for meaning that organised religions fail to deliver.

Joanna Kujawa is the author of Jerusalem Diary: Searching for the Tomb and House of Jesus, and co-editor of a special issue of Tourism Management Perspectives on "Spiritual Tourism" out in January 2017. This article was published at: http://www.abc.net.au/religion/articles/2016/12/22/4596437.htm