"Don’t Fence Me In" or De-constructing the Colonized Religious Mind

Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above,
Don't fence me in.
Let me ride through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze,
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees,
Send me off forever but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in.

Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle
Underneath the western skies.
On my Cayuse, let me wander over yonder
Till I see the mountains rise.

I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences
And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses
And I can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences
Don't fence me in.



The old Cole Porter song that seems to celebrate the free spirit of the American cowboy has become for me, in the last few years, a parable of something else. The “fences” that seek to keep our thinking within normal bounds have been raising a chorus within my mind. The hobbles and the fences within which I lived comfortably for so many years now seem to imprison my spirit, and my soul cries out, “Don’t fence me in.”

First, it must be admitted, that fences inspire a certain sense of security and a great deal of comfort. To know just where we stand, what we believe, what the nature of reality is all make us feel comfortable in our minds and secure in our persons. It is this colonization of the mind by thoughts, ideas, beliefs, which have been imprinted on our minds since we first became aware of the world which surrounded us.

Our experience of the universe is mediated through language, which contain the thought forms that define reality for us. “Mommy, what is that?” we asked. “That is a ‘tree’, dear” we were informed on the authority of a trusted parent, and later confirmed by our experience with others. “Treeness” became a concept that helped us to manage a reality and evolved as we experienced different kinds of “trees”. The conceptualization of this reality in a single word, helped us manage an experience that was still largely outside our field of knowledge. That is “tree” signified a specific object, but apart from a visual and auditory experience we really knew little about the reality we had learned to label.

Language helped us manage reality conceptually. Once we knew the names of “objects” in the universe, we would manipulate them in our minds, as well as in spoken, and later, written, language. In this way language became the first tool of the colonization of our minds. Soon we were able to move beyond “concrete objects”, those which were directly available to sensory experience, to “abstract concepts” and learn names for concepts which were not directly available to the experience of the senses. Learning concepts like “love” or “joy” which were recognizable in our experience, but not directly available to the senses; that is we could not see, feel, touch, taste or smell them.

However, while language makes the world around us more familiar and manageable, reality keeps crowding on us. Sun and rain, day and night, sunrise and sunset, are experiences we have named, but a name is not sufficient. We want to know more about them. “Where does the sun go at night?” We need more than words or names to be able to handle the basic existential questions about suffering, disease and death. Questions about the very existence of the objects which we have learned to label call for more than language in the sense of vocabulary. “Who made the birds?” requires an expansion of the conceptual framework in which we had become comfortable and secure.

So far, our minds have been colonized with linguistic concepts that have helped us to organize our sensual and abstract experiences. The existential questions call for a different technique to help us cope with our experience. Thus religion, philosophy, arts and science are born. They increase our feeling of security in the universe in which we live by supplying us with answers to questions that trouble us. Since the answers we are given are not easily verifiable by the experience of our senses, we develop a capacity by which we can give intellectual assent to concepts we cannot experience and verify immediately, or without mediation. Enter faith.

A third ingredient is needed to implement the process of colonization: authority. The authority of the parent, teacher, preacher, philosopher, artist or scientist is the agent for imprinting the concepts, understandings, or explanations on our minds. Without a parent, who can instruct the child on the linguistic handles to manage the reality that confronts him, the child cannot learn. However, the parent is not only an agent of instruction, but an agent with authority. It is the unquestioned authority of the teacher that makes the implanting possible. Thus, in response to a bit of learning being questioned, “where did you get that idea?” one replies, “I read it in the Bible.”

Thus, the authority of the teacher, preacher, philosopher, scientist, artist, theologian, or sacred writ, is an essential ingredient to the process of the colonization of the mind. In the children’s religious song, “Jesus loves me, this I know,” the basis of the certainty of the knowledge rests on the assertion, “The Bible tells me so.” Thus the Bible, the Koran, the Torah and other religious writ carry the force of certainty, unchallenged and undisputable authority. Within the colony even the thought of questioning the authority risks severe sanctions, both within the individual and within the community.

Side by side with the influence of external authority exists questioning of authority and even rebelling against authority. In other words, authority is not absolute. As disciples, or learners are colonized and feel confident about their ability to function within the context of the colony they begin to develop a level of authority within themselves. Thus the child learns, grows, matures and comes to a point where he/she feels secure in his/her knowledge of the system. No longer a child, the individual begins to assert an authority of his/her own, and even challenge the authority of the parent, teacher, preacher, philosopher, artist or scientist. But even this challenge takes place within the general conceptual framework of the colony. Having been colonized the basic conceptual framework holds sway. The thoughts, notions of the individual is formed in language, and embedded in the individual. Even when one challenges concepts, ideas, theories or dogmas, it is often a reformulation of that against which one is protesting, and seldom a radical departure.

Is a radical departure an option? Can one “ride to the range where the west commences, gaze at the moon ‘til I lose my senses’? “’Aye, there’s the rub.” We are afraid of losing our senses, or even worse, our sense of who we are. We are afraid that having peeled layer after layer of the onion we may be left with nothing or, as the sociologist Peter Berger termed it, “anomie.” The question becomes, is the self any more than the layers of learnings, the conceptual definitions of what we experience in the world around us? Is the individual any more than an onion?

A number of years ago a friend and I decided to take a day off in retreat at St. Benedict’s Center. We invited another member of the clergy group in which we both participated. He declined, as he said that he was afraid he would lose his faith if he shared in discussions with us. The fear of losing our faith, of losing our sense of who we are, of descending into a sense of nothingness, or anomie, keeps us from venturing out too far, lest we fall off the edge of the world. The sense of security that is born of the certainties we have always known, even a false sense of security, hobbles us and prevents us from exploring a world which has no edges off which we might fall.

While it may not be feasible to completely escape the field of gravity that holds us, to completely escape the linguistic formations which enable us to conceptualize our universe, I believe it is possible to broaden our horizons, to inhabit “land, lots land under starry skies above.” I believe it is possible to shake off the “hobbles” and tear down the “fences” which limit us. I believe it is possible to risk and to discover that we are, indeed, more than a series of layers of learnings.

But, first we must begin a process of de-construction. We must risk asking questions. We must not be afraid to question authority. The injunction of the Apostle Paul to “test everything, and hold on to that which proves out” applies. I remember when I was a young boy, just beginning the process of thinking about these things I started to write an essay I titled, “Is He or Isn’t He?” referring to the possibility that God may not exist. I did not get very far, as I felt that the very thought was sinful and blasphemous. We must be willing to shake off the hobbles and ask the questions.

Ultimately the process of de-constructing the colonized mind never ends. We never arrive at definitive answers to the eternal questions. It may be that we may “ride to the range where the west commences”, and “gaze at the moon ‘til (we) lose our senses” and never know any more or any better than we do now. But to be able to broaden our horizons, to inhabit “land, lots of land under starry skies above” we need to shake off the hobbles and tear down the fences. The risk that we may never again know the safety and security that we knew as children, living in homes guarded by loving parents, is real. If it is safety and security we seek then living within the bounds, the fences, and being limited in how far we wander by the hobbles may be where we need to be. It may well be that having our minds colonized is the best for which we can hope. Yet, it is only a tenuous sense of security, at best. As the Apostle Paul says, “Now we see through a mirror, darkly…” In other words we can't ever be certain that what we absolutely know is so. For most of us the time comes when we need to “…put away childish things…” and venture out into the uncertain, and sometimes scary, world of the adult.

ORTHODOXIES

"Sometimes I feel like a heathen," my friend confided to me.
"Why do you say that?" I asked. I had an idea of what she meant, but I wanted her to explore her thoughts further.
"Well, it's not that I don't believe in God," she said, "but I'm not even sure what that means anymore."
"I think I understand," I replied.
"I just can't believe a lot of the things I'm supposed to believe. I know you're a minister and you think it's important for people to go to church, and all that" she continued, "but I'm not comfortable there anymore."
"You think you're a heathen because you don't go to church?" I asked.
"Well, that's part of it," she said. "I just can't get myself to believe a lot of those things."
All of this from someone who was born into in very committed Christian family, attended Sunday School, youth fellowship, Bible Classes, and attended Church Services almost every Sunday from childhood into middle age.

I did not say so at the time, but I think I know the feeling exactly. In recent years I have found that many of the teachings that I had accepted uncritically over the years no longer have the same hold upon me. Sometimes I wonder if anyone believes all the things that they're supposed to. And if they do, what does that say about them? And what does it mean to be a heathen? When we repeat the creed we all say, "I believe in God…" We are all saying the same words, but are we all saying the same thing? And if we're not, whose statement is correct and how do we determine that?

In Christian circles our reference is always back to the Bible. That seems simple enough until we begin to discuss our understandings of what we read there. Convinced of the correctness of our own interpretation it is easy to determine that anyone who does not agree with us is obviously wrong. So going back to the Bible is not quite as simple as it seems. How then can we determine what true orthodoxy is? Even Creeds and Confessions are open to interpretation and debate. No group seems to have the corner either on truth, or, alas, on arrogance.

In my earlier years I attended evangelistic meetings in our village. A regular part of these meetings was the invitation and altar call. If one were "convicted of one's sin" and wanted to "accept Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord" one was invited to raise one's hand, and later during the singing of a hymn (usually "Just As I Am, Without One Plea") one was invited to go to the altar. Even though I carried a deep sense of sin with me throughout my youth I never either raised my hand or went forward. Indeed, I felt a sense of resentment at being told that everything I was doing was wrong. Everyone's belief was wrong except the way the evangelist offered. I resented what seemed to me to be their arrogance.

At the same time I felt a sense of superiority toward my relatives and friends who were Hindu. As a Christian I considered myself to be more enlightened than they. I felt I was more progressive and we often went to their "prayer meetings" to scoff. The irony was that I knew nothing about the spiritual traditions of my ancestors. Indeed, I had no interest in learning anything about it. I was already beyond that, I thought. And why not? I had learned well from my Christian teachers. My Hindu friends and relatives were still "heathen."

There is a coercive arrogance within most orthodoxies. Taken to extremes this arrogance seeks to dominate others and force others to accept our way. The Taliban, which exerted that kind of force in Afghanistan, is a case in point. The Crusades in the middle ages and the Inquisition easily fit into the model, as well. Indeed, the whole missionary movement, which sought to impose a foreign belief system on native peoples on every continent while condemning the spiritual traditions of these native people, witnesses the same arrogance. It was in this context that the term "heathen" came into greatest use in modern times.

Anyone, therefore, who did not accept the Christian orthodoxy was a heathen. Other orthodoxies have different names for those who are outside the fold. "Those who were not Jews were Gentiles." My friend chose this expression well. Her life experience and personal growth had brought her to a point where she no longer felt she belonged to that orthodoxy. She was uncomfortable with the tenets and practices of the orthodoxy. So even though she had greater spiritual maturity than in her earlier years, it did not matter. "Those who were not Jews were Gentiles." Those who were not able to totally accept the orthodoxy of the Christian tradition were "heathen." Over and over in recent years I encounter people who struggle with the same tension. They were raised in the Christian tradition but they no longer feel comfortable there. Their ideas and understandings are not always welcome.

Today there are those who are reclaiming the name "pagan." That, of course, was a term that has often been used interchangeably with the word "heathen." The early missionaries went into the pagan cultures to convert the natives. Pagans, heathen, savages, were all terms which encompassed those outside the orthodoxy of Christianity. Today's pagans refer to their beliefs and practices as "earth based" religion. Although I am not familiar with that tradition at any depth, it seems to me that orthodoxy can easily set in there, as well.

So how important is it to accept and conform to an orthodoxy? How does one respond to the vast array of conflicting and competing orthodoxies? While comfortably ensconced in one orthodoxy it is easy to classify the "heathen", the "infidel", the "gentile". Yet anyone who is sincerely searching and sees value in any orthodoxy other than his or her own is classified as being outside the system.

In every religious tradition the seeker breaks out of the bounds of the orthodoxy in which he was raised. Jesus is the best known example of this. He was constantly in difficulty with the orthodox of Judaism, the Pharisees. He was accused of breaking the law and of blasphemy. His vision and his experience of the spiritual life could not be contained in the orthodoxy of organized Judaism. Similarly Mohammed and Siddharta Gautama (the Buddha) could not be contained within the orthodoxies they inherited. In more recent times men like Martin Luther, John Calvin, and John Wesley outgrew the orthodoxy of their time, Interestingly, all of these have become identified with new orthodoxies, completely contrary to their original intentions.

In every age, in every place, there are men and women who have been compelled by their own inner guidance to go beyond the bounds of the orthodoxy into which they were raised. The blasphemer, the infidel, the heathen may have a vision which cannot be contained in the orthodox. In a sense, most of us grow out of the orthodoxy of our upbringing. We know the words, but the Creeds and Confessions no longer articulate the content of our spiritual experience. Thus when my friend confided, "Sometimes I feel like a heathen," she was expressing the experience of having outgrown the orthodoxy in which she was raised. In a very real sense that makes heathens of a lot of us.

Cosmologies

Foreword

Since my retirement from active appointment I have not spent much time in theological thinking. Perhaps I have become intellectually lazy. The more likely explanation, to me, is that I have been preoccupied with the business of living. However, from time to time I am asked to comment on something as someone who might have the perspective of one who thinks theologically. More and more I find that to be an uncomfortable position.

I freely admit that since my retirement I have not been a frequent attender of worship services. When I have attended I find myself very uncomfortable with hymns, scripture, and especially with the sermons. I have worshipped with the Quakers from time to time and find their silence to be more conducive to meditation. None of this is to be construed to be critical of anyone or any practice. It is where I happen to be at the present time.

I sometimes wonder at my lack of interest in something that was the chief preoccupation of my life for most of my adult years until a couple of years ago. In the essays which follow I attempt to examine some of what has been going on in my thinking and experience. Again, none of this is intended as a reflection on anyone's beliefs or practice. Nor do I intend to discourage anyone from engaging in activities that are important and significant to them.

At the same time, it is an invitation to any who find themselves in similar circumstances to join in the conversation. As I have talked with people over the years I find that as I have shared some of my ideas others express their gratitude as it opens an opportunity for them to share some of what they have been thinking and troubling about. I have come to the understanding that Truth with a capital T is a very rare commodity. So rare, indeed, that if it does exist, few of us are ever likely to apprehend it.

On the other hand, there is much that we share in terms of our common human experience. Even though we sometimes think, "I must be the only person in the world who feels like this," it is more likely that anything that we think or feel is rather commonplace. We hesitate to talk about it because we think that other people may take offence or think less of us for it.

This, then, is intended to be the beginning of a conversation. I lay no claim to having any kind of exclusive grasp of Truth or truth. At the same time I do not hold my experience or understanding to be any less (or more) valid than any one else's. In that spirit I offer these reflections.


ON COSMOLOGIES or
Reflections on a Poem Learned in Childhood

What A Bird Thought

I lived first in a little house,
And lived there very well;
The world to me was small and round,
And made of pale-blue shell.

I lived next in a little nest,
Nor needed any other;
I thought the world was made of straw,
And covered by my mother.

One day I fluttered from the nest,
To see what I could find.
I said, "The world is made of leaves
I have been very blind."

At last I flew beyond the trees,
And saw the sky so blue;
Now, how the world is really made
I cannot tell--can you?


This simple child's poem from one of the readers of my childhood has become for me a powerful statement of how our cosmologies change throughout our maturing experience. The way we view the world around us; the way we construct the universe in our minds; the way we learn to relate to the world around us and beyond; that is what I refer to as our cosmologies.

I remember the first time my first childhood cosmology was shattered. It was early in my career in elementary school that some precocious classmate communicated to me some bits of scientific information that he had heard somewhere. The first cosmology-shattering bit of information was that there as no sky; it was all space up there. The thought that there was a not a blue dome up there covering and protecting the earth was not only inconceivable, but it was totally unacceptable to me. It was clear to me that there was a sky. I could see it. I loved to gaze into the blue dome above.

The second bit of information that shook my view of the universe was that there were not different seas, but it was all one body of water. Although I had never been to the beach at that time of my life I knew that there was Quinam Beach, and there was Mayaro Beach which was somewhere else, and there was Maracas Beach, which was far away in another place. The idea that all these seas were somehow one was in total conflict with my childhood construction of the universe.

I lived first in a little house,
And lived there very well;
The world to me was small and round,
And made of pale-blue shell.
I wish I could say that after that first crack in my cosmic egg it was easier and less traumatic for me to accept new ideas of how the universe was constructed. The truth is that my comfortable world, "small and round, and made of pale blue shell," provided all the security I needed. Any cracks in that cosmic egg threatened not only my intellectual understanding of the universe, but it seemed a threat to undo the entire fabric of my very being.

Eventually our childhood cosmology becomes too small and tight to hold us, and like the little bird we break out of it just by being alive and growing. Our new cosmology provides us of the security of that warmth and comfort of a world that is "made of straw and covered by (our) mother." We are just as loath to have this cosmology violated as we had our first. Yet it is inevitable that we will grow up, learn new things about ourselves, other people, and our universe, however it is constructed. Each succeeding cosmology provides us with a shell of security which we are loath to leave behind. Eventually we must flutter from the nest and discover the world beyond. Then too our utter surprise we discover a new reality and exclaim,
"The world is made of leaves
I have been very blind."

When Christopher Columbus advanced his proposition of going east by traveling west he was challenging the cosmology which defined the world as being flat. When Copernicus advanced a new cosmology in which the earth was not the center of the universe he was denounced as a heretic. When Einstein proposed that the atom, which by definition was indivisible, could be split, he was opening a crack in the cosmology. Over and over the "obvious" truths are challenged and give way to new understandings. These new understandings become the new obvious truths. As the shell of one cosmic egg is shattered, we find our comfort and security in a new cosmology. At each succeeding stage we fight to protect the universe which we have constructed and only go "kicking and screaming" into new understandings.

It may, indeed, be the final stage of enlightenment to come to the understanding, like Socrates, that true wisdom consists in the acceptance that we know nothing. The heart of enlightenment may be, not so much in arriving at a complete understanding of our cosmos, or "finding the answer" as we are trained to think. It may be that the heart of enlightenment consists in arriving at an understanding of our utter inability to comprehend the incomprehensible. The ultimate state of enlightenment may not be scientific or spiritual certainty, but a sense of awe and wonder at the mystery of it all. Even if one were able to read all the books in the world, pay attention to all the television documentaries, know all the scientific theories, master all of the information that is available, know all the wisdom of the sages, there is no ultimate truth to which we can cling. Only a sense of wonder at the mystery of which we are a part comes close to the appropriate cosmology.
At last I flew beyond the trees,
And saw the sky so blue;
Now, how the world is really made
I cannot tell--can you?