The Psychedelic Path
I’ve been enjoying the excellent podcast The Surprising Rebirth of Belief in God. I was especially interested in Episode 26 on psychedelics.
I came of age in the sixties. I was intrigued by LSD to the point that a roommate and I imagined tripping one at a time (so the one who wasn’t tripping could prevent leaps out of upper-story windows and such).
I never did it. I had no idea where to get LSD and was too little motivated to find out.
I never even did marijuana. Not once. Not even without inhaling. Through the grapevine, I understand that that roommate did. I only saw him twice in later years, once at my wedding, once at a reunion (to which he came only after much cajoling). His life pretty clearly was not a happy one, but it’s over now.
I do vacation, though, in a state that has legalized weed, and let’s just say a thought has crossed my mind a time or two. But I have categorically ruled out weed, let alone more potent hallucinogens.
I’m aware of a number of risks with psychedelics, including that any spirits encountered are demons. But risk-benefit analysis isn’t why I’ve ruled out drugs.
The Orthodox Church forms me in everything I need for salvation. I’ve been at it for a while now, and not once have I caught of whiff of “why not do a Rosie Ruiz with plants or chemicals?” It’s pretty clear that I’m supposed to run the full race, fair and square.
Regrets, Repairs, Restoration — and Faces
Steve Robinson posts again, on “On Regrets, Repairs, and Restoration.” The following is not representative of the whole post, but struck me as perceptive and lovely.
I guess you never really have an “ex”, you just have a person who lives in the basement of your soul and keeps you honest about who you are and what you’ve done and on a good day, might even give you some hope that you are someone different, or even better than the person they once knew and tried to love.
Then along comes Father Stephen Freeman, with something that resonates with Robinson:
As we grow older, we never again gaze into the eyes of a person as we once did with our mothers. Lovers are often drawn to the eyes of the beloved, and find a measure of communion, but wounds and injuries eventually interrupt the initial innocence of such eyes …
The Fr. Stephen goes deeper:
… The same is at least as true with regard to God.
Regarding the face of God, there is this very telling passage in Revelation:
And the kings of the earth, the great men, the rich men, the commanders, the mighty men, every slave and every free man, hid themselves in the caves and in the rocks of the mountains, and said to the mountains and rocks, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of Him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb! (Rev. 6:16)
It is of note that Revelation does not simply speak of the wrath of the Lamb, nor merely of His presence. It is specifically a fear of His face. Our experience of the face is an experience of nakedness and vulnerability. On the positive side, the result is identification, communion and oneness. On the negative side, it is the pain of shame and the felt need to hide. I can think of nothing else in nature that so closely parallels and reveals the fundamental character of our relationship with God. Salvation is communion. Sin is an enduring shame.
Fr. Stephen Freeman, To See Him Face to Face
Popularity and power
If you really care about the outward forms of religious devotion; if you miss a time when politicians felt the need to pay lip service to Christian piety even when they didn’t believe a word of it; if you wish that your church had the same kind of pull in the corridors of power that it had 40 years ago; if you really care whether the signs at the White House say “Merry Christmas” instead of “Happy Holidays” — then of course the Republican Party will seem inseparable from Christianity. But if you care that much about popularity and power, you probably shouldn’t have picked a poor, despised, crucified man to be the object of your religious devotion.
Idolatry
[P]erhaps the most common title for our times is secular. Ours is, so the story goes, a secular age. In its usual telling, it goes something like this: Once upon a time we were young and naïve and religious. The world was enchanted, back then, and the sacred was near at hand. But now, for good or ill—because the story can be told with glee or lament in the voice—now we live in a universe, not a cosmos; we believe not in a deity but in ourselves. Now we inhabit an immanent frame and have no need for the hypothesis of God.
Whether told in one tone or another, this is a familiar story, and we know where we fit in it. Are we on the side of tradition or of progress, of immanence or transcendence? Are we for disenchantment or re-enchantment? Whichever part we play in this theater of argument, it seems, the positions come premade; the script is already written, all we have to do is act it out.
The aim of political theologian William T. Cavanaugh’s new book is to shatter this stained-glass drama by introducing what he takes to be a better term for describing our age: idolatrous. In The Uses of Idolatry, he argues that we ought not think of ourselves as disenchanted but mis-enchanted, and in so doing he not only critiques the old secularization narrative, but begins to write us a new story through which we might better understand ourselves and our times.
… “What has declined in the modern West is not belief in transcendence,” Cavanaugh contends, “what has declined is belief in God.” What is different is that the sacred is no longer “confined to gods but applies to all sorts of realities commonly labeled ‘political’ or ‘economic’.” The holy has not fled through the wardrobe into Narnia, in other words; it has fragmented. And this means that the problem with secularization stories is that worship remains as prevalent as ever—it’s just that what (or who) is being worshiped has changed.
Patrick Gilger, S.J., reviewing William T. Cavanaugh’s The Uses of Idolatry.
I really liked the author’s 2009 The Myth of Religious Violence, and this too is now on my Kindle.
Religious ideas have the fate of melodies, which, once set afloat in the world, are taken up by all sorts of instruments, some woefully coarse, feeble, or out of tune, until people are in danger of crying out that the melody itself is detestable.
George Elliot, Janet’s Repentance, via Alan Jacobs
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Tipsy Teetotaler ن 