they have in fact largely been put off by a particular way of thinking about the world which quite legitimately they find incredible.
Moreover, the line to which I am referring runs right through the middle of myself, although as time goes on I find there is less and less of me left, as it were, to the right of it. Thus, not infrequently, as I watch or listen to a broadcast discussion between a Christian and a humanist, I catch myself realizing that most of my sympathies are on the humanist’s side. This is not in the least because my faith or commitment is in doubt, but because I share instinctively with him his inability to accept the scheme of thought and mould of religion within which alone that Faith is being offered to him. I feel he is right to rebel against it, and I am increasingly uncomfortable that ‘orthodoxy’ should be identified with it.
What this structure is must be left for further designation to the body of the book. My only concern here is to plead for the recognition that those who believe their share in the total apologetic task of the Church to be a radical questioning of the established ‘religious frame’ should be accepted no less as genuine and, in the long run equally necessary, defenders of the Faith.
But I am not sanguine. I am inclined to think that the gulf must grow wider before it is bridged and that there will be an increasing alienation, both within the ranks of the Church and outside it, between those whose basic recipe is the mixture as before (however revitalized) and those who feel compelled above all to be honest wherever it may lead them. I believe, regretfully, that Dr Alec Vidler’s conclusion in a recent broadcast,1 which was bitterly attacked, is only too true: ‘We’ve got a very big leeway to make up, because there’s been so much suppression of real, deep thought and intellectual alertness and integrity in the Church.’ I am not in the least accusing of dishonesty those who find the traditional framework of metaphysics and morals entirely acceptable (I do so with a large part of myself). What dismays me is the vehemence – and at bottom the insecurity – of those who feel that the Faith can only be defended by branding as enemies within the camp those who do not.
I believe there are all too uncomfortable analogies to the ecclesiastical scene of a hundred years ago, when (as we now recognize) the guardians of traditional orthodoxy all but rendered impossible the true defence of the Gospel. When we consider the distance we have all moved since then,2 we can see that almost everything said from within the Church at the time has since proved too conservative. What I have tried to say, in a tentative and exploratory way, may seem to be radical, and doubtless to many heretical. The one thing of which I am fairly sure is that, in retrospect, it will be seen to have erred in not being nearly radical enough.
John Woolwich
November 1962
1
Reluctant Revolution
Up There or Out There?
THE Bible speaks of a God ‘up there’. No doubt its picture of a three-decker universe, of ‘the heaven above, the earth beneath and the waters under the earth’, was once taken quite literally. No doubt also its more sophisticated writers, if pressed, would have been the first to regard this as symbolic language to represent and convey spiritual realities. Yet clearly they were not pressed. Or at any rate they were not oppressed by it. Even such an educated man of the world as St Luke can express the conviction of Christ’s ascension – the conviction that he is not merely alive but reigns in the might and right of God – in the crudest terms of being ‘lifted up’ into heaven, there to sit down at the right hand of the Most High.1 He feels no need to offer any apology for this language, even though he of all New Testament writers was commending Christianity to what Schleiermacher called its ‘cultured despisers’. This is the more remarkable because, in contrast, he leaves his readers in no doubt that what we might regard as the scarcely more primitive notions of God entertained by the Athenians,2 that the deity lives in temples made by man and needs to be served by human hands, were utterly superseded by Christianity.
Moreover, it is the two most mature theologians of the New Testament, St John and the later Paul, who write most uninhibitedly of this ‘going up’ and ‘coming down’.
No one has ascended into heaven but he who descended from heaven, the Son of man.3
Do you take offence at this? Then what if you were to see the Son of man ascending where he was before?4
In saying, ‘He ascended’, what does it mean but that he had also descended into the lower parts of the earth? He who descended is he who also ascended far above all the heavens, that he might fill all things.5
They are able to use this language without any sense of constraint because it had not become an embarrassment to them. Everybody accepted what it meant to speak of a God up there, even though the groundlings might understand it more grossly than the gnostics. For St Paul, no doubt, to be ‘caught up to the third heaven’6 was as much a metaphor as it is to us (though for him a considerably more precise metaphor). But he could use it to the spiritually sophisticated at Corinth with no consciousness that he must ‘demythologize’ if he were to make it acceptable.
For the New Testament writers the idea of a God ‘up there’ created no embarrassment – because it had not yet become a difficulty. For us too it creates little embarrassment – because, for the most part, it has ceased to be a difficulty. We are scarcely even conscious that the majority of the words for what we value most are still in terms of height, though as Edwyn Bevan observed in his Gifford Lectures,7 ‘The proposition: Moral and spiritual worth is greater or less in ratio to the distance outwards from the earth’s surface, would certainly seem to be, if stated nakedly like that, an odd proposition.’ Yet it is one that we have long ago found it unnecessary to explain away. We may indeed continue to have to tell our children that heaven is not in fact over their heads nor God literally ‘above the bright blue sky’. Moreover, whatever we may accept with the top of our minds, most of us still retain deep down the mental image of ‘an old man in the sky’. Nevertheless, for most of us most of the time the traditional language of a three-storeyed universe is not a serious obstacle. It does not worry us intellectually, it is not an ‘offence’ to faith, because we have long since made a remarkable transposition, of which we are hardly aware. In fact, we do not realize how crudely spatial much of the Biblical terminology is, for we have ceased to perceive it that way. It is as though when reading a musical score what we actually saw was not the notes printed but the notes of the key into which mentally we were transposing it. There are some notes, as it were, in the Biblical score which still strike us in the old way (the Ascension story, for instance) and which we have to make a conscious effort to transpose, but in general we assimilate the language without trouble.
For in place of a God who is literally or physically ‘up there’ we have accepted, as part of our mental furniture, a God who is spiritually or metaphysically ‘out there’. There are, of course, those for whom he is almost literally ‘out there’. They may have accepted the Copernican revolution in science, but until recently at any rate they have still been able to think of God as in some way ‘beyond’ outer space. In fact the number of people who instinctively seem to feel that it is no longer possible to believe in God in the space-age shows how crudely physical much of this thinking about a God ‘out there’ has been. Until the last recesses of the cosmos had been explored or were capable of being explored (by radio-telescope if not by rocketry), it was still possible to locate God mentally in some terra incognita. But now it seems there is no room for him, not merely in the inn, but in the entire universe: for there are no vacant places left. In reality, of course, our new view of the universe has made not the slightest difference. Indeed, the limit set to ‘space’ by the speed of light (so that beyond a certain point – not all that much further than our present range
