The Pope, the Scientist, the Fundamentalist, and the Aliens

It was a bizarre trifold juxtaposition, even by the standards of bizarrity that mark our Bizarro species.  Three different inputs cranked through my consciousness, all in one week.

On the one hand, there was my first encounter with the statement on the part of Pope Francis that he was open to both welcoming an encounter with alien beings and potentially baptizing them, should they be up for it.  I must have missed it the first time around, but there it was, from the mouth of the Pope. Sure, God loves aliens.  "Who am I to close doors," he said.  Honestly, if anyone could pull off such an encounter successfully, I think Papa Frankie could.

On the other hand, there was the statement by Cambridge cosmologist Stephen Hawking, who in a recent talk reiterated his deep fear that an encounter with alien life would be catastrophic for the human race.  Alien contact should be avoided, and humankind should be more careful as it shouts our presence into the void.

We must be wary, Stephen Hawking warns, for out there in the deep there may be beings whose intellects are so far beyond our own that they will make us significantly less impressed by Stephen Hawking.

And on the other hand, there was Ken Ham, the lumpenfundamentalist responsible for the Creation
Museum, who kinda sorta sides with Hawking on the "don't mess around with the aliens" thing.  I know, that's three hands, but bilateral symmetry is such a terrestrial chordate conceit.  Ken Ham believes the search for alien life is a waste of time, because, well, the universe is only 6,000 years old and change, and was made only for humans.

If there are aliens, they're all going to hell anyway, because Jesus only came to save humans.  That Ken Ham's "God" would create a universe filled with doomed, hell-bound creatures is perhaps not surprising, given that his theology does that to pretty much all of us human beings, too.  

So the fundamentalist and the avowedly atheistic cosmologist worry about alien contact.  Why?

Perhaps because it would shatter the ground of their ethos.  Both fundamentalism and atheistic self-understanding are creatures of the modern era.  Both place human beings and empirical human forms of self-understanding as foundational.  We can grasp everything.  We are what matters.  Being creatures of high modernity, neither Ken Ham nor Stephen Hawking have room for self-shattering mystery.

Neither would hold up well in the face of an encounter with higher forms of being, which would shatter our humanity--and our particular history as a species--as a meaningful basis for a belief system.

But a more ancient form of faith, which hails back deep into the preindustrial memory of humankind?  The one that's rooted in a long tradition of exploring our encounter with the unknowable Numinous, and yet somehow manages to integrate and embrace science?

It sees no threat, and would approach more advanced beings with open arms.

Not a surprise, I suppose.  If you've come to terms with our encounter with an infinite, omniscient, and omnipotent being that transcends time and space, why would aliens bother you?

Pope Francis, Social Media, and Identity

A recent online article in the hippity-happenin' Christian magazine Relevant celebrated an entire year of Papal Tweeting, as we move into year two of our collective celebrity Pope crush.

Or perhaps that should be #popecrush.

Yeah, I think a #hashtag is in order here.

What struck me in reading the long list of tweets offered up by Pope Francis over the last year were two things.  First, how simple, kind and gracious they all were.  This is how Christianity should sound.  It just is.

Second, how utterly different the tone of those tweets were than the tweets to be found on Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio's twitter feed just one year ago, back when he was George and not Frank.

Twelve months ago, I'd followed the churning social media frenzy around the selection of the new pope.  It was fascinating, particularly watching the reactions on the hyper-instant neural feed that twitter provides.

When the smoke finally puffed out of that little chimney, and the name was announced, I did the natural thing in a social media era.  I went to this new pope's twitter feed, to see what he was sharing with the world.  Who is this guy?  What does he have to say?

I found Cardinal Bergoglio's verified Twitter feed, and scanned back for a year.  I blanched, and sitting in my church office, I said to myself, "Lord have mercy, this guy is going to be the Pope?  God help us."

If what we say represents what matters to us, what mattered to Cardinal Bergoglio was stopping gays and lesbians from adopting children in Argentina.  The feed was almost monomaniacal on the subject.

That was his primary issue as a Cardinal, his defining contribution to the broader conversation on faith.  It was pretty consistent, shrill, and more than just a little bit horrible, to the point where I received the news of his ascension to the Papacy with slightly clenched teeth.

Reserve judgement, I said, a year ago.  Tempting as it was, I would not allow myself to believe that these cruel, Pharisaic tweets represented the wholeness of this person.  Let him prove that he knows what is important.  Do not yield to the desire to attack now.  Give him a chance.

Because I know that social media can do strange things to our identities as persons.  To make a name for ourselves, we need to claim a platform.  We become something other than the complex being we are.  We seek conflict, and places where we can make a name for ourselves.  We can take a stand that makes us stand out, shouting louder and louder that we are signal, dammit, not noise.

It can cause us to surface our darkness, to linger in places of conflict and brokenness, to deepen wounds and hurts.  Social media does not need to be that thing.  But we have made it so.

I'm glad, over the last year, that Pope Francis has proven that he gets that there is a better way.

That year should remind us, thems of us who spend time on social media, to listen to our tone, and know that it matters.

The Pope, the Atheist, the Real, and the Good

A marvelous, heartening recent interview between Pope Francis and the editor of Italian newsmagazine La Repubblica has been making the rounds lately, and a full reading of it does nothing to diminish the smittenness many open-hearted Christians feel towards il Papa.

I had initial concerns, I'll admit.  Twitter wasn't the best format for Cardinal Bergoglio.  But he has, as they say, exceeded expectations.  Kind.  Humble.  Gracious.   He has the intellectual curiosity of a Jesuit, the personal discipline of an Ignatian, and the joyous grace of a Franciscan.

Reading through the English version of that interview is worth your time, particularly because it is an exchange between a committed atheist and a Pope that manages to be both mutually respectful and playful.

One of the dynamics that struck me in their exchange was the degree to which the Pope cares about what is real.  Meaning, he grounds the conversation in a gracious, practical mysticism.  It's an approach that views the actual and physical manifestation of mercy, kindness, and forbearance into the world as of far more importance than ideology or doctrinal purity.

This stance seems to charm the atheistic editor, as the Pope chooses not to lecture or convert, but to seek commonality of understanding.  Together, they explore the concept of the Good, with the Pope defining it...clearly and distinctly...as that which spiritually and materially expresses self-giving love for all.

The case the Pope makes, while clearly grounded in his tradition, is also one that his atheistic conversation partner is able to engage.   It's not the in-group babeling of a particular worldview.  It's a case, clear and cogent, for the material and tangible benefits of what is most fundamental about Christian faith.

What is remarkable about this is twofold.  One, how simple and self-evident this approach seems.  Of course this is what is essential.  Well, duh.

Two, how effective it is for spreading Good News.  I mean, gracious, it's so obviously good, by the wild and crazy standard that it makes the world discernably better.  The measure of the good, after all, is not that you think it's good, or that those who share your worldview think it's good, or how aggressively you proclaim it.

It's about the impacts your "good" has on your relationships with others.  If your defense of your "good" cause anger, frustration, pain, and anxiety in all those around you, chances are the thing you describe as "good" is not grounded in the Deep Reality of existence.

It is not Good with a capital Gee.

Pope Universalist the First

Francis is, well, an interesting Pope.

While I'm not on board with some of what he proclaims to the world, I'll have to confess that I find his tendency to wander off the reservation now and again to be delightful.

Setting aside pomp and power? I'm down with that.  Being obviously, directly, and explicitly on the side of the world's poor and struggling?  Yeah, that works for me, too.

And then, this last week, there was his astounding announcement in a sermon that God's love extends not just to those within the Catholic fold, but also to those who aren't.  That's not just Protestants, but non-Christians.  Even atheists, he said, so long as they are doing the good.   As he put it:

The Lord has redeemed all of us, all of us, with the Blood of Christ: all of us, not just Catholics.  Everyone!   "Father, the atheists?"  Even the atheists.  Everyone! ... We must meet one another doing good.  "But I don't believe, Father, I am an atheist!"  But do good, we will meet one another there.

What a remarkably welcoming, joyous, and hopeful view of faith.  And yeah, I know, some atheists may not want anything to do with the Plasma and Corpuscles of our Redeemer, but at least it's focusing on the reality of making the world a kinder and more just place.

This radical statement was quickly walked back by a Vatican Spokespriest.  No, no, he didn't mean THAT, they said, even though that's exactly what his words meant.  And here I was thinking he was infallible.

It struck me, in reflecting on the tensions between the gracious reality that Francis declared and the institutional backpedaling, that grace is something that institutions do rather less well than persons.  As a human being and a child of God, it does me no harm to allow you to believe as you wish.

Openness to other forms of truth threatens organizational integrity and institutional aspirations.   If I say, you know what, those Methodists across the road have a really nice church, or I say, hey, that Baptist actually preaches some interesting things, then I open myself...and my church...to the possibility that people might be free to leave.

Which, of course, they are.   But in our fear of allowing that freedom, we cast up thickets of theology to defend our institutional interest.   Not God's interest, necessarily.  But ours.