For want of better words... the impact of the indescribable

Confronted with a question about belief, Henna Cundill found herself stumbling for words. She contemplates the link between our self-identity and what we can communicate.

Henna Cundill

Henna is a researcher with the Centre for Autism and Theology at the University of Aberdeen.

A woman stops in her stride down a street and pensively runs her hand through her hair as she looks to the side.

Joseph Frank on Unsplash.

I recently got into conversation with a young man who asked me, “Do you believe in God?” When I replied, “Yes,” I almost regretted it, because his next move was to ask, “Why?” and I found this question troublingly difficult to answer.

Of course, I could have dredged up the old philosophical arguments for the logical existence of God – but none of that would have really captured the thing I have no words for. Belief is like… Oh, what is it like? A glitch… no, a glimmer… no, like a glimpse of… No. Goodness. What is it? I’m lost for a word or even a metaphor that will somehow express what it feels to say “yes” and “I believe in God” and in that moment, even if only for a moment, to feel oneself transported or transposed out of this tiresome, human existence and into something that is... well, it’s something…

I think it's fair to say that conversations about believing in God are unusual these days, especially when the circumstance is an 18-year-old lad talking with a woman in her late 30s – albeit the lad in question was a philosophy undergraduate and we were at Cumberland Lodge, where such conversations are welcomed amongst those of all faiths and none. Even so, it still felt rather unusual to be asked a question like that, not out of hostility but just casually over dinner, and to see him genuinely and respectfully interested to hear what I might have to say in response.

Eventually I did come up with some kind of an answer; I can’t remember what. And naturally, I turned the question back on him. Turns out he did believe in God, in fact he was Jewish, so he stumbled out some kind of answer too, but I think it's fair to say that he was hardly more erudite than I was. Eventually, we both agreed that it was rather difficult to describe the indescribable, and our conversation turned to rather easier topics - the food, the weather, geopolitics...

There is a loneliness to the feeling that there is a bit of ourselves that cannot be valued because it cannot be shared, and it is hard to recognise a part of our inner world as ‘real’ and valid if it cannot be communicated and affirmed.

The question of believing in God was done with. Yet here I am weeks later, still pondering why it was so hard for me to articulate what it means to live with that belief, and why that part of the conversation ended, but still felt so unfinished.

Has faith always been so indescribable? I suspect it rather has not. These dark evenings always tend to lure me to my bookshelves, seeking out my “comfort books” that I read and reread year after year. Mostly cosy fiction of course, but alongside those, a non-fiction favourite is Sheila Fletcher's, Victorian Girls: Lord Lyttleton’s Daughters. The book is a fascinating study of a family of young women in the Victorian era, faithfully compiled from their own real letters and diaries, so that the voices of Meriel, Lucy, Lavinia and May Lyttleton themselves can all be heard clearly on every page. I just love to read this book over and over again, entering into the hopes, sorrows, loves and ambitions of these young women – so similar and yet so different to my own.

One thing that stands out particularly is how clearly and easily they each articulate their sense of faith. They were, of course, heavily schooled in Victorian public piety, but there is most certainly a real faith there too. A favourite passage of mine is an excerpt from the teenage diary of Lucy Lyttleton, recounting the day of her Confirmation. She speaks of a ‘nice and stilling’ drive to church, with her parents either side in the carriage, and then:

I seem to remember nothing very distinctly till I went up and knelt on that altar step, feeling the strangest thrill as I did so… and I know how I waited breathlessly for my turn, with the longing for it to be safe done, half feeling that something might yet prevent it.

Oh, to be so thrilled by a religious ritual, and to have both the words and the courage to write about it. After all Lucy, what if someone might be reading your diary 150 years later?

In mainstream society nowadays, most of us simply don't talk about faith, religion, and what it all means to us personally in that way. It’s not the done thing in a (presumed) secular society. Consequently, it is now very hard to write about it too. Yet, many philosophers in the past century have observed a link between our self-identity and what we can communicate. For example, philosopher Charles Taylor describes how our sense of ‘self’ is formed in “webs of interlocution” wherein what we take to be “good” relies on what we can effectively talk about, and thus have affirmed by those we talk to. If we turn Taylor’s idea around, might we say that when there are parts of ourselves that we cannot talk about, parts for which we cannot find social recognition and affirmation, then we cease to value those parts of ourselves as good, or may cease to recognise them at all?

With that comes a sense of isolation. There is a loneliness to the feeling that there is a bit of ourselves that cannot be valued because it cannot be shared, and it is hard to recognise a part of our inner world as ‘real’ and valid if it cannot be communicated and affirmed.

To me it feels that, as we talk about faith less and less, and as the language of faith becomes ever more confined, not even just to private conversations but to our own inner worlds, our “webs of interlocution” are beginning to shrink and disintegrate – until believing in God can feel more like dangling on a loose and solitary strand than being part of any kind of web. It’s a lonely place to be – there is a part of me that feels important, but no one can affirm it.

And yet, by simply asking the question of each other, and being ready to listen respectfully to whatever answer was forthcoming, it seems that me and a teenage lad managed to connect two lonely strands together. It was of no consequence that we worship in different faith traditions, or that neither of us really found the words to say what we wanted to say – a conversation took place, and a certain web of interlocution started to form. For some, reading this, there may be a feeling of resonance, or a moment of understanding, and perhaps that too adds a little to the web, as different people’s words and thoughts and experiences begin to connect across different times and places.

Webs do more than just create connection; webs capture things too. Perhaps, as this web spreads between different readers and thinkers and speakers, that’s what will happen to this question of believing in God. After a certain point, such a web may even become large enough and robust enough to finally start to capture some useful words, or an apt metaphor, that will really help me to say something about what it means to have faith. To be able to say it is to be able to share it, and in these lonely times, being able to say something is really not nothing.

Conviction politics is changing morality

Political dialogue gives way to animal-like culture war.

Barnabas Aspray

Barnabas Aspray is Assistant Professor of Systematic Theology at St Mary’s Seminary and University.

A severed doll head, resembling Donald Trump, lies on dirty ground.

Max Letek on Unsplash.

“We're gathering 100 MILLION signatures to OVERTURN Trump's wrongful conviction!”

I received this SMS message, along with a link, on Monday 10th June. It was the fourth message of its kind I’d received since the verdict convicting former US President Donald Trump of felony. This time, out of curiosity I followed the link. I found a lot of words in capital letters conveying a sense of extreme urgency, but I did not find any evidence or argument for the injustice of the verdict.

Trump’s conviction has been met with a torrent of reactions from people across the political spectrum. Everyone sees the event as an episode in the upcoming US election in which Trump plans to run for president. For those on the left, it’s final and conclusive proof that he is unfit for office; the evidence is clear, the courts have decided, end of story. For those on the right, it’s a further sign of the depraved depths to which the Democrats will go to discredit him; the jury was rigged, and the whole thing was a political stunt to win the election. The legitimacy of the court ruling is something nobody on the left questions and nobody on the right admits.

To me, these responses are another sign of the ever-widening gap between left and right that eats up all common ground, even the rule of law. Political victory now takes priority over truth or justice – or perhaps more accurately: victory for my side is identical with truth and justice. To concede anything to the opposing side is seen, not as praiseworthy, but as betrayal.

My comments in what follows are nonpartisan: I want to point to what is true of both sides equally: the failure of dialogue and its replacement by a warfare mentality. This change affects even what we consider moral and admirable behaviour. It is not only a problem in the US. Ever since Brexit, things have become increasingly polarised in the UK as well.

That is what “culture war” means. War and dialogue are opposites; war is what happens when dialogue has failed.

Formerly in Western nations, rival political parties offered different means to achieve the same end: a flourishing society of justice, peace, prosperity, and freedom. Politicians disagreed but they respected each other. They had faith in the political process in which they all participated. Consider as an example the letter George Bush Senior left Bill Clinton after losing the 1992 US election.

“Your success now is our country’s success,” he wrote. “I am rooting hard for you. Good luck.”

The fact that he was now president was more important than which political party he belonged to.

In such a cohesive society, the legal system was a trusted arbitrator whose decisions would be accepted by victor and loser alike. This does not mean the system was perfect. Everyone knew that justice could sometimes miscarry. But the public did not see themselves as qualified to judge that either way. How could they expect to know more than the jury?

What we are witnessing now is a return to a more animal-like state in which the goal is that my team wins no matter what. If the arbitrator rules in favour of my tribe, they are seen as executing justice. If they rule against my tribe, their ruling must by definition be unjust.

That is what “culture war” means. War and dialogue are opposites; war is what happens when dialogue has failed because both sides have been unable even to “agree to disagree.”

Reasoned debate is seen as no longer effective in light of the vile underhanded tactics of the other side (but not, of course, of my side).

In dialogue, both sides aim to uncover the truth even if the truth turns out not to be what I wanted or thought. Prioritizing the truth means that I might realise I was wrong and concede the point, even at some material cost. For example, in a property dispute, I might become persuaded of the truth of my opponent’s case and give up my claim. That may be painful, but winning was less important than justice being done. In dialogue, both ‘sides’ are really on the same side because they both ultimately want the same thing.

In war, on the other hand, the goal is to defeat the enemy and it makes no difference whether they are right or wrong – or rather, it is assumed without question that they are wrong. If words are used in war, they are weapons in disguise, not meaningful communications.

This transformation from dialogue to war changes morality itself. You are now judged, not by the sincerity of your pursuit of truth, but by how loyal you are to your tribe. Even to take seriously the opposing position is viewed like reading a propaganda flyer dropped from a Nazi airplane: don’t even read it, it will only twist your mind!

Even seven years ago, fans of Jordan Peterson were fond of the phrase “all I want is to have a reasoned debate.” Regardless of your opinion of Peterson or of whether he exemplified this, those who used this phrase revealed a desire for dialogue rather than war. But today, many of those same followers no longer say that. Now they say, “the left is out to get us and must be stopped” and their counterparts say, “the right is out to get us and must be stopped.” Reasoned debate is seen as no longer effective in light of the vile underhanded tactics of the other side (but not, of course, of my side).

What do we want from our political opponents? We want them to listen to us and to take our arguments seriously.

What role can Christianity have in this polarised society? Sadly Christians are often seen as part of the problem rather than the solution: sold out to one political party. But we should be clear that Christianity does not sit neatly on either side of the divide. That does not mean Christians should be moderate or “centrist,” as if none of the issues matter much. Christianity comes down strongly on many things, but those are spread across the political spectrum. The way Christians vote depends on which issues they judge to be the most important or pressing in the current circumstances.

Second, Christians are called to make peace in time of war. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus said, “for they will be called children of God.” Christians are called build bridges rather than burn them, to seek common ground rather than trying to obliterate their opponents. This can start with showing love and respect for the person behind the argument; by celebrating our common humanity before trying to argue a point.

Third, it means exemplifying the kind of attitude we want to see in our opponents. “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you,” Jesus told his disciples. What do we want from our political opponents? We want them to listen to us and to take our arguments seriously. We want them to stop making cheap caricatures of us and represent us at our best. We want them to break out of their echo chambers and read news from a variety of political leanings. We want them to open themselves to persuasion and be prepared to change their minds. Jesus suggests leading by example and doing those things first.

Fourth and finally, the Christian’s allegiance is to truth and justice above any tribe, any agenda. The real political situation is almost certainly complex, with much to be said for and against both sides. There are awkward facts that don’t fit our own political position; let’s admit them. The Christian commitment to truth means being ready to acknowledge the weaknesses, failings, and faults on our own side before we point the finger. It’s hard, I know. I am not perfect at it myself. But it’s a more Christlike moral standard to aim for than that of the culture warrior who excels at demolishing the enemy.

Restoring dialogue won’t be easy and may come at a high personal cost. But the cost is greater if we don’t try. My own desire is to see Christians taking the lead in the restoration process and showing the world what Christlike peacemaking can accomplish.