The Challenge of Practical Theology: Selected Essays

The Challenge of Practical Theology

of related interest

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Ageing, Spirituality and Well-being Edited by Albert Jewell ISBN 978 1 84310 167 3

Making Sense of Spirituality in Nursing and Health Care Practice An Interactive Approach

2nd edition Wilfred McSherry Foreword by Keith Cash ISBN 978 1 84310 365 3

Spiritual Caregiving as Secular Sacrament A Practical Theology for Professional Caregivers Ray S. Anderson Foreword by John Swinton ISBN 978 1 84310 746 0

The World Within Me A Personal Journey to Spiritual Understanding Peter Houghton ISBN 978 1 84310 079 9

Spirituality and Social Care Contributing to Personal and Community Well-being Edited by Mary Nash and Bruce Stewart ISBN 978 1 84310 024 9

The Challenge of Practical Theology Selected Essays

Stephen Pattison

Jessica Kingsley Publishers London and Philadelphia

First published in 2007 by Jessica Kingsley Publishers 116 Pentonville Road London N1 9JB, UK and 400 Market Street, Suite 400 Philadelphia, PA 19106, USA www.jkp.com Copyright © Stephen Pattison 2007

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of a licence issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, England W1T 4LP. Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publisher. Warning: The doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 84310 453 7 ISBN pdf eBook 978 1 84642 593 6 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Athenaeum Press, Gateshead, Tyne and Wear

This book is for Tom Heller Gordon Lynch and Christopher Rowland with thanks for their friendship and help over many years

Contents Acknowledgements

Introduction: The Making of Practical Theology

9

11

Part 1 Ethics and Values in Practice Introduction

26

1. Questioning Values

29

2. The Trouble with Values

40

3. Are Professional Codes Ethical?

47

4. The Value of Ethics

60

Part 2 On Organisation and Management Introduction

68

5. Recognizing Leaders’ Hidden Beliefs

71

6. Faithful Management or Managing the Faithful?

83

7. Some Objections to Aims and Objectives

90

8. Organisational Spirituality: An Exploration

110

Part 3 On Christian Practice and Opportunities: A Critique Introduction 9. Healing: A Flight from Definition 10. Dumbing down the Spirit

120 125 132

11. To the Churches with Love from the Lighthouse

144

12. Frustrated with Sex: Some Observations on Christian Approaches to the Ethics of Sex and Sexuality 155 13. ‘Suffer Little Children’: The Challenge of Child Abuse and Neglect to Theology 164 14. Mend the Gap: Christianity and the Emotions

185

Part 4 On Theology and the Christian Tradition Introduction

194

15. Can we Speak of God in the Secular Academy? Or, Need Theology be so Useless?

197

16. Public Theology: A Polemical Epilogue

212

17. The Shadow Side of Jesus

229

Part 5 On Pastoral and Practical Theology Introduction

244

18. Pastoral Studies: Dust Bin or Discipline?

247

19. The Use of Behavioural Sciences in Pastoral Studies

253

20. Practical Theology: Art or Science?

261

Stephen Pattison – Principal Publications 1980–2005 290 Subject Index

295

Author Index

298

Acknowledgements Acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reproduce articles and chapters previously published elsewhere: The editor for ‘The trouble with values’, first published in The Journal of Health Care Chaplaincy 3, 2, 2000. The British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy for permission to reproduce ‘Are professional codes ethical?’, first published in Counselling 10, 5, 1999. Frank Cass Publishers for permission to reproduce ‘The value of ethics’, first published in Local Government Studies 20, 4, 1994. The William Temple Foundation for permission to reproduce ‘Faithful management, or managing the faithful?’, first published in Foundations 3, 1, 2000. Springer Science and Business Media for ‘Questioning values’, first published in Health Care Analysis 6, 1998, pp.352–59. The Modern Churchpeoples’s Union for ‘Frustrated with sex: some observations on Christian approaches to the ethics of sex and sexuality’, first published in Modern Believing 39, 3, 1999; ‘Organisational Spirituality: an exploration’, first published in Modern Believing 41, 2, 2000. Sage Publications for ‘The Shadow side of Jesus’, first published in Studies in Christian Ethics (copyright ã T and T Clarke, 1995); ‘Suffer little children’: the challenge of child abuse and neglect to theology’, first published in Theology and Sexuality (copyright ã Sheffield Academic Press, 1998). Equinox Publishing for ‘Public theology: a polemical epilogue’, first published in Political Theology (copyright ã Equinox Publishing, 2000). Sheffield Academic Press for ‘Some objections to aims and objectives’, first published in G.R. Evans and M. Percy (eds) Managing the Church? (copyright ã Sheffield Academic Press, 2000). John Wiley and Sons for permission to reproduce ‘Recognizing leaders’ hidden beliefs’, first published in R. Banks and K. Pewell (eds) Faith in Leadership (copyright ã Jossey-Bass Inc, 2000).

9

The editor for ‘Pastoral studies: dust bin or discipline?’, first published in Contact 80, 1983; ‘Healing: a flight from definition’, Contact 101, 1990; ‘Mend the gap: Christianity and the emotions’, Contact 134, 2001. Jessica Kingsley Publishers for permission to reproduce ‘Dumbing down the spirit’, first published in H. Orchard (ed.) Spirituality in Health Care Contexts (copyright ã Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2001). SPCK for permission to reproduce ‘To the churches with love from the Lighthouse’, first published in J. Woodward (ed.) Embracing the Chaos (copyright ã Stephen Pattison, 1990). Continuum for permission to reproduce ‘Can we speak of God in the secular academy?’, first published in F. Young (ed.) Dare We Speak of God in Public? (copyright ã Stephen Pattison, 1995). Paul Ballard for permission to reproduce ‘The use of the behavioural sciences in pastoral studies’, first published in P. Ballard (ed.) The Foundations of Pastoral Studies and Practical Theology (copyright ã Paul Ballard, 1986).

10

Introduction: The Making of Practical Theology The book before you is a collection of selected essays on many topics from ethics through management to theology. They all relate thinking to practice in a number of different spheres. Anyone who is, or aspires to become, a thoughtful or reflective practitioner in any area of life should find material here that will interest them. Counsellors, nurses, managers, care workers, doctors, and members of many other professions, as well as academics and students for the professions, should be able to find a number of essays that will cast light on their thought and practice. Many of the essays are likely to be of particular interest to those who work within Christianity with concerns about the relationship of theology to practice. However, I would be sorry if any assumption were to be made that this makes particular essays, or the book in general, of no use or interest to those who are either practitioners or non-Christians. All action takes place within the context of action-guiding worldviews and belief systems (Browning 1991). For example, we all tend to take the guiding assumptions of capitalism for granted. Those who reject a theistic worldview have worldviews of their own. This book should help readers to become more conscious of their own deep beliefs and assumptions. They can, if necessary, perhaps usefully think against the belief paradigms used here rather than thinking with them. The essays are grouped into five sections. The first consists of papers on ethics and values. There is little explicitly religious content in most of these papers, which were mostly written for non-religious contexts. The second group concerns itself with analysing the action-guiding beliefs that are implicit in non-religious organisations and management. In the third section, I turn more explicitly to an analysis of specifically Christian thought and practice, often sharply criticising the attitudes and practices of my co-religionists. Essays in the fourth section comment on the practice and content of Christian theology generally, suggesting ways in which this discipline might need to be reoriented to 11

12 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

include more within its purview. The final section then contains essays about the nature, history, and future of practical theology specifically. My advice to you from hereon in is – get lost! Each of the essays included here is autonomous in its own right. Perhaps the most stimulating and useful way to read the book will be to dip in at the places where it seems to offer help or interest. Many of the essays were produced in response to requests from other people and were used to start conversations and discussions. It may be that they can be used similarly by a new set of readers. For those who wish to follow themes and issues through different essays, there is a comprehensive index at the back of the book. For most practical purposes, then, there is no need to read the rest of this introductory section, or the introductions to the five sections, for the sake of using the rest of the book – or such parts of it that interest you. However, for readers who are interested in my motives, overall approach and thinking, in the context which brought particular pieces into existence, and in the possible continuing use and value of an essay, the remainder of this introduction and the short editorial section introductions may be of value.

The making of a practical theologian Having allowed those who want to engage with the substance of individual essays to depart into what I hope will be contented browsing, I will use the remainder of this introduction to contextualise the essays within my overall personal, practical and intellectual concerns. I apologise at the outset for the necessary solipsism that will be apparent here. Most of the references included here are to my own work, contained herein or elsewhere. I am not a self-thinking thought; normally I would expect to reference other authors much more often and more fully. However, this is an introduction to one author’s work so I hope I may be forgiven for drastically limiting external reference, even as I feel painfully embarrassed at doing so. References to essays included in this work are included in square brackets, thus: [1]. It might reasonably be expected at this point that I would provide a discussion of the nature, scope and main features of practical theology in general. I have done this so many times in different contexts that I hope I may be excused it here (Pattison 2000a; Pattison and Lynch 2005; Pattison and Woodward 2000). Suffice it to say that, functionally, I understand practical theology to be: A place where religious belief, tradition and practice meets contemporary experiences, questions and actions and conducts a dialogue that is mutually enriching, intellectually critical, and practically transforming. (Pattison and Woodward 2000, p.7)

INTRODUCTION / 13

Instead of discussing the general nature of practical theology, I want to draw out some of the themes and ideas running through the essays in this volume. This should enable readers, if they wish, to see more of the commonalities that link a collection that spans two decades of writing. The oldest essay in this collection [18] was written in 1983 and the last [20], also about the nature of practical theology, and hitherto unpublished, in 2003. The easiest way of introducing the overall nature of my concerns is to be semi-autobiographical and to provide something of a chronological structure. In practical theology, heavily influenced by the social sciences, postmodernism and liberation theology, there is no such thing as a view from nowhere, a text without a context, subtext or pretext, or an essay without an author formed of dust and social forces. The context and origin of these papers is my personal, professional and institutional life. I will now outline something of that context to provide an overall authorial interpretative horizon against which the individual essays below might be read. To begin with my childhood, I was brought up in the 1950s and 60s on the then industrially depressed margins of England beside the cold North Sea in Sunderland, with three non-English grandparents, one a Jewish businessman from Denmark. One of my grandparents was a parish minister with academic and writing interests in Ireland, and my mother was a doctor. Perhaps this begins to explain my interests in religion, health and social care, manifest in some of the essays below [e.g. 9, 10, 13, 17]. My parents were religiously committed people, being Anglican and Quaker by conviction respectively. Eventually I was sent to a Quaker school. There I dissented from the ‘established’ religion by becoming a fairly high church sacramental Anglican. From Quakerism with its deeply humanistic emphasis on social justice, practical good works in the everyday context, and its universalistic seeing that of God everywhere and in all people, I ingested a profound belief that God is not to be found just in churches, Christians or overtly religious practices. Indeed, I learned to think that perhaps religious life is not necessarily unequivocally good for people and may divert them from more important concerns, a theme I have picked up many times in my work [11, 12, 13, 17] (Pattison 1997, 2000b). I also gained a useful suspicion of the over-valuation of hierarchies, clerical castes, and ritual and cognitive belief at the expense of full, equal human relations amongst all people. Furthermore, Quakerism fundamentally convinced me that Christianity is basically a metaphysically sceptical religion, relatively unconcerned about the hereafter and that which cannot be seen. Subsequently, I have always had a blind spot about the value of systematic theology and its attempts to decipher the divine and discern, for example, the relationships existing between the persons of the Trinity. For me, it is enough that God has to be accessed and worshipped through the human, as found in the man Jesus.

14 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

I have always engaged with theology with profound admiration for those who are ‘doers of the word’ (James 1.22) and with deep scepticism as to the real value of words and concepts. This, combined with a first-hand acquaintance with the tradition of dissent from establishment, has often made me sharply critical of the introverted theological guild and what it tries to accomplish [15,16]. However, I definitely did not admire Quaker sectarianism, exclusivism, anti-sacramentalism, anti-intellectualism and a kind of self-justifying complacent moralistic asceticism that I perceived around me at that time. Quakers are often deeply suspicious or dismissive of theology per se. I, however, believe that good theories and theologies can be helpful and practical, as well as beautiful, intriguing and insightful. There is nothing so practical as a good theory, as a former colleague was wont to say. One of my frustrations with contemporary theology is that it so successfully hides its riches and delights under a proverbial bushel [16]. If God exists and is everywhere, so that the whole of life is potentially open to theological encounter and reflection, it seems perverse that theology often seems to be the last place that this kind of wonderful, universal perception is communicated in such a way that people can share its fascinations [16]. One of the tragedies of theology seems to have been its capacity to make even the idea of God boring! I never expected to spend my life primarily teaching, writing, or thinking. I was one of those people who got into university by the skin of their teeth. I saw education as a necessary rite of passage before I could get on with my chosen practical career, which had been, for many years, parish ministry in the Church of England. If I had not got into university or been selected for ministerial training, I would have become a nurse if I could have got into that profession. I often wonder about that road not taken. Between school and university, I spend a very important, but miserable, six months living and working as a Community Service Volunteer in a large, isolated and decrepit psychiatric hospital in Northumberland. I don’t know quite what motivated me to go there, other than that a number of my family had experienced what would now be called severe mental health problems. The hospital was a place on the margins, populated by staff and patients who stayed for very long periods of time (some had been in since before World War I and had been admitted for things like pregnancy outside wedlock then called ‘moral imbecility’), and who appeared to have little hope of ever returning to life in the community. It was a kind of hell on earth. I guess this was where I really realised how bad life could get for some people and committed myself to trying to look at religion and the world from their point of view, a set of concerns that were to be developed some years later when I became a part-time psychiatric hospital chaplain and started to do research on mental health and illness (Pattison 1994).

INTRODUCTION / 15

On the academic front, sadly, it turned out that I was right to see a degree in theology as a poor preparation for anything practical. The syllabus at Cambridge University, into which I entered thanks to my swift tongue, not because of my paper qualifications, in 1973, consisted almost entirely of biblical studies and historical study of doctrine. There was almost no contemporary theology, nor study of non-Christian religions. The syllabus ended, suddenly, in 451CE. My teachers had no apparent interest in, or methods for, relating the theoretical study of theology to the contemporary world, though many of them were themselves devout, active ordained ministers. I had a very few, but important, intellectual experiences in my studies that eventually led on to other things. First, immersion in critical approaches to the texts of the Bible made it clear to me that this was, endearingly – and thank God – a human, social, and emotional document, not in any simple sense a divine communication. Second, I encountered WHC Frend’s book, The Donatist Church (Frend 1971). This suggested that perhaps doctrinal and sectarian disputes might be seen as reflections of practical social, economic and geographical factors within and outside the early church. It planted the notion that ideas and doctrines should not be taken necessarily at face value. It was my first acquaintance with what I later came to understand as the ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’ whereby religious and theological phenomena are analysed using the insights and tools of other disciplines like the social sciences [19] (Pattison 1994). Third, I read St Augustine’s Confessions (late C4 [1991]), and became intrigued by the concerns and methods of a practical pastor who also managed to reflect and write deeply and beautifully theologically. I return to Augustine constantly, with a mixture of fascination and revulsion [13] (Pattison 2000b). Finally, I spent a great deal of time studying apocalyptic and, in particular, the Revelation of St John the Divine, the last book of the Christian Bible. This fascinating, tantalising, frightening and beautiful work provided much material for wondering about the nature of religious experience, relationships between communities, perceptions of the world, material reality, history, politics and religious devotion. Again, it forms an important point of reference in my continuing theological engagement [13, 17] (Pattison forthcoming). Alongside my humanistic studies of the Bible and historical theology at university, I was deeply involved in the Student Christian Movement (SCM). This was a socially and politically aware and committed liberal theological movement, dedicated broadly to ‘making and keeping human life human in the world’. Liberal theology, committed to taking a critical standpoint on belief, to taking the whole of human life seriously, and to dialogue between Christianity and other ideologies and practices such as politics and social structures, is now rather unfashionable. It was, however, in SCM that I first encountered liberation theology, feminist theology, black theology and all the other theological movements

16 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

that were focussed on the theological ‘turn to the human’, solidarity with the oppressed, and practically improving the human condition in the light of the gospel so there is life before, and not just after, death. At the end of my last year, I attended and contributed to the inaugural conference of the (then) Gay Christian Movement held at SCM headquarters. By the time I left university, the die was cast for many of the concerns and methods that I was to apply in my work and writing for the next thirty years. I don’t suppose that I would ever have published a word had I not been regarded as too ill-qualified and too poorly motivated to do a postgraduate degree while at theological college in Edinburgh. Instead, I was sent to the Department of Christian Ethics and Practical Theology at the university to do a diploma in pastoral studies [18]. Practical theology did not exist as an academic discipline in England. Scotland, however, followed the German paradigm of theological education outlined by the ‘father’ of practical theology, Friedrich Schleiermacher (1988). Here, training for ministry had always been undertaken in the universities rather than in theological colleges or seminaries, allowing it, at least potentially, some academic importance and rigour. I was lucky to go to Edinburgh in the late 1970s. It was then the centre of a revival in practical theology as thinking about and analysing experience and theology rather than just teaching ministers how to ‘do’ practical things like baptising babies. I was also fortunate to fall under the tuition of Alastair Campbell, who became a role model for me. Alastair, who retired from a chair in health care ethics in the medical school at Bristol University in 2004, was a brilliant academic practical theologian who wrote insightfully about things that seem to matter to ordinary people like anger and health (Campbell 1984, 1986). He is also a fine ethicist who pioneered the growth of health care ethics throughout Britain as the first editor of the Journal of Medical Ethics. In Alastair, I could see that it was possible for theology to be critically and subtly related to pastoral practice, and also that practical theologians could make useful contributions well beyond the sphere of church, religion and academy. This confirmed my nascent universalism and feeling that if theology is worth thinking about at all then it should be of public interest well beyond the religious community. Like Alastair, I have always tried to keep a finger in writing about ethics for professionals who have nothing to do with religion and Christianity [1, 3, 4, 5] (Pattison 1997, Pattison and Pill 2004). The happy or providential accident of being sent on the diploma in pastoral studies was the making of me. The course, modelled on a similar course in Birmingham started in the early 1960s, was a sudden and thrilling immersion into ‘otherness’. It was interdisciplinary (pastoral theology, pastoral care, sociology, social medicine, ethics, taught on their own terms and not ‘potted’ for theological students) and above all, experiential, interprofessional, and based on a huge

INTRODUCTION / 17

amount of supervised reflection on practice in the chaplaincies of two Edinburgh hospitals, one acute, the other, once again, a psychiatric hospital. This kind of reflective education challenged me personally and engaged me intellectually. Above all, perhaps, working in chaplaincy, with patients and staff of all faiths and none confirmed for me that God is bigger than the church and theology. There is much goodness and wisdom to be found in non-believers in the face of realities like suffering and death. Furthermore, members of professions like social work and nursing have much to contribute to the understanding of the human condition. To have a big picture of the world, it is necessary to learn from others and find theological wisdom for life where it lies, not just in the works of those who claim to have privileged access to the divine. In the dialectic of theory and practice implicit in the diploma in pastoral studies, I found a paradigm that would allow me to integrate personal, intellectual, theological and other perceptions with what actually faces people in practice. To my surprise, I found that I was quite good at correlating experience with theological insight – and I started to write reasonably competently. My diploma dissertation was a study of the political implications of models of hospital chaplaincy, which later became my first publication (Pattison 1980). At last I had found something that seemed to justify putting effort into thinking and writing about it. I even thought it would be good to pursue my interest in politics and pastoral care by doing a part-time PhD. However, at this point, in 1978, the time had come for me to enter the professional practice for which I had so long prepared myself and I became an assistant curate back in England. Unfortunately, practical theology as an underpinning discipline was unknown in the parish ministry of the Church of England at that time. The model of training new clergy was one of apprenticeship – you learned your craft by watching a more senior colleague and then imitating and obeying him if you could bear it. I had been trained for a church that did not exist and did not know what to do with me and my concerns. I lasted exactly one year in the parish. At the end of this, I continued with my work as a part-time psychiatric hospital chaplain and took up the doctorate. This eventually became an interdisciplinary study using the methods of sociology to analyse the political role and implications of chaplaincy in psychiatric hospitals in the light of the insights and methods of the liberation theology which was then becoming well known in the UK through translation (Pattison 1994). In this document, I pondered what it might mean to try to be a pastor in an organisational context with a bias to the poor and powerless. I also spent a good deal of time pondering the nature and politics of health and illness, which was later to emanate in my book, Alive and Kicking (1989) [9].

18 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

I have spent a good deal of time on this early period of my development because it set the agenda, approach and methods that I have used subsequently. Most of the papers in this volume reflect, to a greater or lesser extent, attitudes, beliefs and approaches that I developed nearly twenty-five years ago. Indeed, presently I am working on theories of images – a theme that I dealt with first in my diploma dissertation in 1978. My book Shame (2000b) was the answer to an essay question set me by Alastair Campbell in 1977. I would characterise my theology as universalist, liberal, inclusive, humanistic, non-metaphysical, interrogative (seeking to ask some of the right questions rather than to know all the answers), and dialogical with people and insights of many different disciplines and professions. It is based upon the belief that God takes humanity with absolute seriousness, to the extent of imaging Godself as material human being in history. For me, this implies that all humans should take all other humans seriously in their material being and situation, too. God is to be found in all people and places, and can be learned about best often at the edges of orthodox religious communities and thought systems [11]. In terms of method, I believe that theology cannot supply all the knowledge and insight it needs if it is to fully engage with reality. Thus it is necessary to be interdisciplinary and dialogical in investigation [19]. In terms of focus, I have attempted to address issues and questions that are likely to be of importance to all people in their contemporary everyday lives, not just a self-identified Christian few [1, 5, 14]. In terms of scope, I have particularly attended to issues of injustice, inequality and delusion whereby the powerful are likely to abuse and misuse the powerless as well as fooling themselves [11, 13, 17]. In terms of style, my work is often born of frustration at stupidity, one-sidedness, exclusion, or injustice; it is frequently polemical and partial to effect some kind of change or transformation of perception or practice. In terms of intellectual sympathy, I look at the world in socio-cultural rather than individualist terms; that is because I cannot see that persons can flourish without attending to the wider socio-political factors that condition and constrain them [9]. In terms of purpose, my work is evangelical – I write to help people gain insight into the world and their situation within it so that they can, with the rest of us, develop more fully their own interpretations of the image and likeness of God and practices that might allow them as individuals and communities to flourish. If I were asked briefly to characterise my approach, I would like to think it was, at least some of the time, ·

practical (applied and realistic, related to what I and other people actually do)

·

pastoral (committed to human flourishing so that people attain their God-given potential)

INTRODUCTION / 19

·

personal (related to phenomena and ideas that are important to persons, including me)

·

political (committed to understanding the social, organisational and institutional forces that shape individual and communal lives)

·

popular (focussing on things that are of significance to people in their ordinary, everyday lives)

·

partial (self-consciously aware of its own limits and biases and committed to seeing things from the perspective of those that are excluded)

·

passionate (concerned with things that really matter and with all aspects of human existence including the embodied and emotional aspects thereof, both in style and substance)

·

public (intended to speak to all people in ways that they can appreciate and understand)

·

polemical (oriented to challenging inadequate intellectual or practical response).

Perhaps another ‘p’ that might be added to the list is ‘professional’ or ‘practitioner orientated’. Professionals are often (and rightly) regarded with suspicion in the consumerist market place as oppressive, self-glorifying, mendacious monopolies. It seems to me that we do need professional skill and expertise, however it is organised and expressed in individual encounters (cf. Ecclesiasticus 38:1 (REB): ‘Value the services of the doctor for he has his place assigned to him by the Lord.’). Much of my intellectual life has been concerned with helping professionals critically explore their values, identity and performance so they can change it to be more responsive and responsible in relation to their clients [3, 5, 6, 7] (Pattison and Pill 2004). In this context, I have also tried both to be academically professional (competent, critical, conscientious, judicious) as well as being critical of my own role and function within my occupational context. If I were to summarise my work in terms of guiding mottos or quotations I would select the following two: ‘God has never been seen by anyone, but if we love one another, he himself dwells in us; his love is brought to perfection within us.’ (1 John 4.12, REB) ‘The philosophers have only interpreted the world in different ways; the point is to change it’ (From Karl Marx’s theses on Feuerbach, cited in Bottomore and Rubel 1963, pp.82–4). So much for the personal ‘manifesto’ – you may not recognise any of these qualities or emphases in the essays that follow. I should, however, just say a little more about what happened to me after I finished my PhD on liberation theology

20 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

and pastoral care in psychiatric hospitals, for this is the context in which most of the papers herein have actually been written. In 1983, I went back to work in my old theological college in Edinburgh as director of pastoral studies – then a new and largely unknown discipline in Anglican colleges. After a year, I was appointed to a lectureship in pastoral studies at Birmingham University, becoming, to my surprise, the successor of the people who had started off the pastoral studies movement in the UK [19]. I combined my work at the university with work in the local teaching hospital as a part-time chaplain, thus continuing to keep my theoretical feet on the ground. (I have always tried to resist the temptation to write or teach about things that I am not engaging with in practice – a resolve that I cannot always maintain.) The funding of my lectureship was insecure, so after five years I left to work as a manager in the National Health Service. It was at this point that I developed my interest in management studies, studying for a postgraduate degree in public service management [5, 6, 7, 8] (Pattison 1997). A very important mentor, Tony Dyson, professor of social and pastoral theology at Manchester, had suggested to me that, if I did return to academe, there was no particular reason why I should return to theological education. Armed with my universalist theology and, by then, quite a long track record in health care and ethics, and threatened with redundancy in the NHS, then undertaking yet another of its reorganisations, I obtained a post as lecturer in reducing the risk of cancers at the Open University (OU). The OU is a remarkable institution that is probably the only organisation I have belonged to that I entirely approve of because of its commitments to giving away knowledge, nurturing the development of all its members, and promoting real interdisciplinary research and education. Here I began to ponder the value of theological training for people and disciplines in the wider world of nurturing health and well-being [15, 16]. At the same time, I continued to engage with thinking about inequality and began to think about the implications of abuse for theology and the Christian tradition [13, 17]. At the OU, I was able to work on courses about disability, mental health, understandings of health and illness, health promotion and professional roles in care. All of this has broadened my understanding of the theory and practice of ‘doing being human’ in practical terms. I have never ceased to think of myself as a practical theologian – a critical inhabitant of an action-guiding worldview (Christianity) who attempts to correlate and bring into dialogue aspects of the Christian tradition with contemporary experience and understandings of humanity that emanate from other disciplines for the purposes of change and transformation [15]. Now back teaching in and managing a religious and theological studies department, I am glad to be home in my native disciplinary ecology. To be happily interdisciplinary, one must have a secure base in a discipline of one’s own. However, I still make strenuous efforts to

INTRODUCTION / 21

work with members of other professional and academic disciplines to explore, for example, the nature of professional values, the meanings of genetics, and the significance of vision and visual objects for people (Pattison and Pill 2004). In this connection, much of my most important and enjoyable writing has been jointly undertaken with nurses, doctors, social workers, philosophers and management academics as well as fellow practical theologians. If I were to give a full picture of the challenge of practical theology as professed by me, it would certainly need to include some of the 38 jointly authored publications (some 25% of my total output) that manifest my commitment to doing theology beyond the narrow confines of my own mind and concerns, theological faculties and churches. Collaborative and interdisciplinary work is notoriously difficult to do because individuals are constantly being pulled back into their own disciplines and traditional ways of thinking. When it can be done and the forces of ‘craft idiocy’ can be kept at bay, it is the most incredibly rewarding work possible because one learns so much and sees the world in such different ways. There is a discipline called social theology. I have often thought that developing a model of sociable theology, a theology based on friendship and conversation between different individuals, groups, professions and disciplines, would be the greatest advance that theology could practically and theoretically make to enhance its relevance and sheer capacity to inform, transform and delight. Maybe sociable theology could be enabled by what a former student serendipitously misread as ‘felicitators’ – people whose job is to help other people learn and delight in growing and understanding. The point I am trying to make is that a book like this, which appears to be written by one author from a single perspective, disguises the many ghosts and persons that have informed its pages. Practical theology is profoundly social and collaborative. But this may not be the impression that a monograph gives.

The context of this book The essays in this book are a selection from my entire output. A full list of my principal publications can be found at the back of this volume along with an index that will allow readers to pursue themes and issues through the whole book. The criteria of inclusion and exclusion used were these. First, any essays that did not appear to have continuing contemporary relevance and value were excluded. Second, any essays written with others were also excluded, as was any work that has already been extensively reprinted and so is easily obtainable. Having thus whittled down the number of possible essays for inclusion, the essays included are those that either I or John Swinton, the long-suffering series

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editor, thought deserved a wider audience. Some of the essays are included because they address issues that seem destined to run and run (e.g. sexuality [12]), others because they fill in a gap in my published opus about practical theology as a discipline [18,19,20], and others because they provide a clear discussion about an issue at a particular moment in time that it might be helpful to remind readers about [11,13]. It would be very tempting to revise every single one of the essays included and to update their bibliographies. However, I have chosen to let them stand as they were originally published in the hope that they may still provoke thought and discussion. The editorial material at the beginning of each section explains the origin and purpose for which each essay was written to locate it within my work and life overall. I also offer some brief comments on its continuing significance and usage where this seems appropriate. In closing a rather personal introduction, I would like to thank Jessica Kingsley for agreeing to publish this collection, John Swinton for pursuing me as far as contract and for patiently guiding the selection of papers, and the editors and others who solicited or published the essays in the first place. Most of all, I would like to thank my conversation partners and collaborators from many different disciplines and times in my life. Almost everything I have ever written has emerged from a face to face conversation with someone. I am very lucky to have had such stimulating friends and critics. Thank you all for your encouragement, cajoling, questioning and provocation.

References Augustine, St (late C4 [1991]) Confessions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bottomore, T. and Rubel, M. (1963) Karl Marx on Sociology and Social Philosophy. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Browning, D. (1991) A Fundamental Practical Theology. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress. Campbell, A. (1984) Moderated Love: A Theology of Professional Care. London: SPCK. Campbell, A. (1986) The Gospel of Anger. London: SPCK. Frend, W.H.C. (1971) The Donatist Church. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pattison, S. (1980) ‘Images of inadequacy: some theoretical models of hospital chaplaincy.’ Contact 69, 6–15. Pattison, S. (1989) Alive and Kicking: Towards a Practical Theology of Illness and Healing. London: SCM Press. Pattison, S. (1994) Pastoral Care and Liberation Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers: When Management Becomes Religion. London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (2000a) A Critique of Pastoral Care. London: SCM Press (third edn). Pattison, S. (2000b) Shame: Theory, Therapy, Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pattison, S. (forthcoming) Seeing Things: Deepening Relations with Visual Artefacts.

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Pattison, S. and Lynch, G. (2005) ‘Pastoral and Practical Theology.’ In D. Ford and R. Muers (eds) The Modern Theologians. Oxford: Blackwell. Pattison, S. and Pill, R. (eds) (2004) Values in Professional Practice: Lessons for Health, Social Care and Other Professionals. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. Pattison, S. and Woodward, J. (2000) ‘Introduction to Pastoral and Practical Theology.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. Schleiermacher, F. (1988) Christian Caring: Selections from Practical Theology. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.

PART 1

Ethics and Values in Practice

Introduction Over the last two decades ethics and values have grown in prominence in all areas of life and practice. Moral dilemmas in health care are everyday headlines in the news. Politicians and economists constantly appeal to (ill-defined) values and ethics. Professions like nursing and social work formulated codes of ethics or conduct in the 1980s. They have been followed by most other groups – even clergy now have codes of practice (though, like most other professionals, they seldom seem very well acquainted with them). Most recently, academics have begun to think about whether or not they themselves should have codes of ethics, values and conduct. In almost all public institutions and organisations, and many private ones too, statements of values and ethics, with committees to oversee their implementation, abound. All of which, as far as it goes, is entirely to be welcomed. However, it is not clear that the superficial flourishing of concern about values and ethics goes much beyond rhetoric and skin depth. While many groups now have some initial training in ethics, there are many professionals who have had none, and continuing professional development in ethics and values is negligible. Such training as is given often seems to be concerned with cultivating ‘good professional behaviour’ and avoiding litigation rather than helping people broaden their minds and practices to become responsible, responsive professionals. For many, the promulgation of some kind of code of ethics or practice seems to be both the beginning and end of their encounter with ethics. This is symptomatic of the fact that ‘ethics and values’ are treated as an encapsulated area of life that becomes problematic at certain moments of crisis rather than being seen as an omniprevalent aspect of everyday existence, both within and outside the workplace. Furthermore, ethics and values are mostly discussed only with regard to individuals in moral difficulties and not to the normal, everyday habitual behaviours of organisations and collectivities. Instead of being situated within an important, ongoing public discussion about the large questions of who human beings are, where we are going, and why we are going there, ethics

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INTRODUCTION / 27

and values are treated as procedural matters, or problems of governance and conformity, to be quickly glanced at, then ignored. At the most basic level, many people are confused about the terms of thought used to understand ethics. Does ‘ethical’, for example, mean doing the right thing by one’s own lights, behaving according to the law or professional rules, behaving in a way that conforms to stringent moral reasoning, aspiring towards the greatest good of humankind, or just being able to negotiate the kinds of arguments advanced by moral philosophers? The term is used in all these ways, sometimes in the same conversations by people who therefore end up talking about different things while using the same language. In the papers in this section I have tried to clarify some of the confusions about ethics and values in practice and to put this whole area within a larger horizon that might make the resources of thinking about these subjects more useful to practitioners of various kinds. Lying behind and beyond the ethical decisions and possible dilemmas of everyday life are fundamental values and commitments that shape people’s identities and within which they make their everyday choices. ‘Questioning Values’, written at the beginning of the King’s Fund project ‘Living values in the National Health Service’ (Malby and Pattison 1999), is a broad survey of the language and concepts that compose the amorphous field of values. There are many different understandings and kinds of values, not all of which are moral, but all of which can be important in everyday life and practice. So, for example, aesthetic values can play an important part in determining the actions of some people. I have not come across a similar introductory paper to values. It therefore provides a useful orientation to the field for ordinary people. Values are much appealed to but little understood in either theory or practice. While this paper does not resolve the ambiguities of concepts of values, it may at least provide some clarity as to the kinds of issues and questions that are at stake in this field. For those who do not want a full frontal assault on the theories of value and values considered in ‘Questioning Values’, the next paper, ‘The Trouble with Values’, provides a summary of some of the main points considered. It then goes on to consider the values that are appealed to within the British National Health Service (NHS), summarising the operant values that seem to prevail in everyday practice and suggesting that practitioners might need to be more actively engaged in thinking about how they intersect with the values of their organisation. The paper, originally commissioned by The Journal of Healthcare Chaplaincy, was aimed specifically at chaplains, who, one hopes, should have a particular concern for the values that determine the shape of this important British institution. Values, however, are everybody’s business and members of other professional groups in health and care organisations should find material there to stimulate their own response to, and management of, their organisational and professional

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commitments. (For those who wish to explore values further, I suggest that they consult the edited interdisciplinary volume, Values in Professional Practice (Pattison and Pill 2004).) Ethics are perhaps better understood and explored in public life and professional practice than values. However, it is not clear how far professionals really understand the scope and potential value of ethics to themselves and those with whom they work. Protesting against the narrowing of ethics into conformity to professional codes, ‘Are Professional Codes Ethical?’ discusses the extent to which these documents can really help people to become better, more responsive and more responsible practitioners. While some of the codes in nursing, counselling and social work that I use to exemplify my arguments in the paper have now been revised, the same general issues and problems about the status and use of these documents as springboards for practice remain. While they are potentially a useful source of guidance, a general lack of clarity and vision limits their value to practitioners and their clients. Since most people now ostensibly work to some kind of professional code, this paper should be useful for helping to raise awareness of the assumptions and limits that some of those codes embody. (For further development of the ideas in this essay see Wainwright and Pattison 2004.) The last essay in this section, ‘The Value of Ethics’, was originally written for health services managers. Managers and others with corporate responsibilities (many of us, in fact, at some point in our lives) are often not perceived either to have, or to need, ethics when ethics is understood in a narrowly individualistic paradigm. However, if anything, the need for an understanding of the corporate and institutional aspect of ethics is greater and more neglected than in the personal and individual sphere. In this paper, I explore how the resources of a fairly traditional kind of academic ethics might become more relevant to corporate managers and make a case for its importance. While the paper was first aimed at managers, it should be of interest to anyone who is interested in the ethical dimensions of corporate life, whether in churches, schools or any other kind of institution that has managers and attempts to promote human flourishing in its work.

References Malby, B. and Pattison, S. (1999) Living Values in the NHS. London: The King’s Fund. Pattison, S. and Pill, R. (eds) (2004) Values in Professional Practice: Lessons for Health, Social Care and Other Professionals. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. Wainwright, P. and Pattison, S. (2004) ‘What Can We Expect of Professional Codes of Conduct, Practice and Ethics?’ In S. Pattison and R. Pill (eds) Values in Professional Practice: Lessons for Health, Social Care and Other Professionals. Oxford: Radcliffe Press.

1

Questioning Values

The more I have thought about values the more confused I have become. The language of values is everywhere in contemporary society. Everyone is deemed to have them, and to have a competent view on values (while ethics seem, perhaps, a more esoteric realm that is the province of experts and professionals). Prima facie, the possession of values seems to be deemed a good thing (Aaron et al. 1994). Value-driven organisations are thought to be admirable because of their clear convictions. Individuals who have a set of articulated values are often lauded over against others who are muddled or inarticulate about theirs. Politicians who talk up values are in vogue – so long as their lives are not lived in too flagrantly a contradictory manner to the values they commend. But what are values, and why do they command such uniform interest and respect at the present time? My aim here is to problematise the notion of values and the uses to which this notion is put. My working hypothesis is that the concept ‘values’ is one of those portmanteau concepts which chase after meaning, like ‘community’. It derives its popularity and legitimacy from the fact that it is an apparently simple, universally accessible concept which has a simple unexceptional primary meaning (a value is something which people value) which conceals a large number of secondary meanings and understandings. This enables people to find in it many nuances of meaning and to use it in many different ways and contexts. The notion of value and values can happily slip, chameleon-like, between users and utterances, delighting all and offending none because most people do not take the trouble to think about what it actually means in their own lives or those of others.

Definitions and synonyms Having started with meanings, it is perhaps appropriate to start with the issue of definitions and synonyms for values. The primary definition of the noun ‘value’ in the 1971 edition of the Oxford English Dictionary is firmly economic. The value of something is ‘that amount of

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some commodity, medium of exchange, etc., which is considered to be equivalent of something else; a fair or adequate equivalent or return’. The verb ‘to value’ means ‘to estimate or appraise as being worth a specified sum or amount’. These definitions immediately prompt some observations: (a)

The concept of value emerges basically from the world of economic exchange, or the market. Perhaps this is why it has come to prominence over the last 20 years.

(b)

The 1971 edition of the Oxford English Dictionary does not note the use of value to connote a moral context, though it does note the use of the term to evaluate persons and their merits. This suggests that the current dominant use of values in an essentially moral context is a relatively recent phenomenon. It would be interesting to know why this usage has come to prominence in this way over the last couple of decades.

(c)

The notion of value or valuing something is relative in its very essence. The value or estimate of something is not something fixed but transitory. Essentially, value is in the eye of the beholder, valuer, or evaluator. At the core of the apparent concreteness of the notion of ‘values’, relativity is built in. Value and values are, then, not platonic ideals or innate concrete realities, but rather transient and thoroughly embedded in a fluid process of change. I believe that it is this inner relativity obscured behind the apparent concreteness and static nature of the noun ‘value’ that provides the notions of value and values with much of their conceptual slipperiness. The concepts are, so to speak, thoroughly postmodern; they appear to refer to some kind of tangible external reality while in fact this is illusory and they are thoroughly non-realist and, at best, only partially referential. Gold is only valuable to those who value gold – and those who value gold may do so for many different reasons. The metal, being itself inanimate and an object, does not require people to value it.

(d)

Talk of gold brings me to thoughts of ‘standards’ and the way in which this particular metal is taken by many to underwrite and guarantee the economic orders. A similar intrinsic and unconscious positive valuation of the concept of ‘value’ as worthwhile in itself seems to perform an analogous purpose within the social and moral order. If we have values then all will be well. However, as is well known, all that glitters is not gold. Gold cannot perform many important functions, e.g., it is not a good material for cooking with. The notion that somehow values in and of themselves will form a

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foundation for life and the social order is a (perhaps necessary) illusion. While illusions and faith systems may indeed be necessary for individual and social functioning, the belief in values must be recognised as just such a faith system. The reification of values to the status of pre-existent, indispensable entities is an act of human creation – or, indeed, valuation. These preliminary observations highlight the relativity and conceptual slipperiness of the notions of value and values outwith the economic realm. They provide a valuable framing perspective on some of the synonyms and alternative words that often seem to be used alongside or instead of the words themselves. It will be noted that some of these synonyms, substitutes and associated words are far from having the positive, desirable and solid resonances that so often surround the concept of ‘values’ itself.

Preferences, choices and desires This group of words comes from the economic domain where it is thought that what people prefer, desire or choose is what they value or confer worth upon. What is preferred, desired, or chosen is what people are prepared to pay for and so value. To find out what people value, one must look for what they choose and express a desire for, or more concretely, what they will pay for. It is this set of meanings that often dominate in discussion of values in the public policy arena (Aaron et al. 1994).

Attitudes and beliefs From the psychological domain come the notions of attitude and belief. From this perspective, what people are attitudinally predisposed towards, or believe in, whether they articulate it or not, is what they value. Attitudes and beliefs, and the values that they uphold or sustain, can be discerned by watching people’s behaviours, e.g. voting for a particular party in an election, as well as by asking them what they believe in or are well-disposed towards.

Norms, assumptions, expectations, judgements and prejudices Social norms, assumptions, expectations, judgements and prejudices are the province of sociology. They are what holds people together in groups so that society is coherent and individual behaviour is to some extent predictable and conformist. Embedded in social norms, assumptions, judgements and prejudices are shared views of what is good and bad, desirable and undesirable. Interestingly, values in common parlance are often presented as desirable while assumptions are questionable! I have values – you have assumptions and prejudices. The person with

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values may be thought of as moral, while the person with assumptions may be perceived to be unthinking or uncritical. This is just one instance of the phenomenon of value and values being differently evaluated and perceived according to the vocabulary used.

Standards, visions and goals The world of management and manufacturing provides the concepts of standards, visions and goals that relate closely to those of value and values. Standards are norms of what is expected and required, they make clear what sufficient value will be from the perspective of the person who creates them. Visions provide ideal standards and points of reference to which the vision creators aspire – they point to the value that the vision maker wants to create. Between visions and standards lie more proximate goals, or specific value targets which must be reached. Again, goals point to what is worthwhile and valuable.

Morals, principles and commitments From the domain of ethics and morality come words like morals, principles and commitment. Morals are precepts and habits that are oriented towards attaining what is good and desirable, i.e. what is valued. Principles embody values and are designed to ensure that certain values are realised. Commitments can be intellectual and/or emotional, conscious and unconscious, theoretical or enacted (‘I belong to the Conservative Party but I don’t do anything for them’). They are the form of active consent to and the prosecution of values so that values are potentially concretised in some way. If one can find out what a person or group’s principles and commitments are, then one has gone a good way towards identifying their values. Principles and commitments, unlike norms and prejudices, often have a halo of virtue attached to them though in fact these words are in many ways synonymous; this can be seen by substituting one set of words for the others. The real difference and distinction, which does of course exist between words, lies in matters of nuance, connotation and context surrounding particular terms and their usage in specific contexts. Thus prejudice may be regarded as more or less automatically ‘blind’, while commitment may implicitly be nuanced with notions of enlightenment. There are probably many other terms that act as synonyms or are closely associated with values; ideals, virtues and goods, for example, within the world of moral philosophy are further examples of terms that act much like values. Enough has been said to point up the problematic nature of defining and understanding the meaning of value and values and to substantiate the assertion that these terms have a slippery, chameleon-like nature. This perspective is useful when approaching definitions of values such as the following:

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A value is an affective disposition towards a person, object or idea. [A value is] something we recognize as good and worthwhile. A value is a personal belief or attitude about the truth, beauty or worth of any thought, object or behaviour. Values appear as attributes of things and events themselves rather than as an activity of the self or as the result of such activity of the self or as the result of such 1 activity. (Tschudin 1992, p.24)

In the light of the above discussion about words, it will be recognised that many of these definitions of value and values are at best partial and often simply arbitrary and even misleading. In particular, they are heavily weighted towards what I have identified as the psychological domain and basically away from that of the sociological or economic domains. This is not necessarily very helpful in trying to gain a reasonably complete picture of what values might be in human life and language. An interesting definition of values that appears in Tschudin’s workbook on identifying and working with values comes from the author herself and is much less limited and mysterious, while remaining intriguing, than any of those quoted above: Values are closely related to meaning – the meaning of life. The inner meaning of an action, an experience or an attitude gives us our values. (Tschudin 1992, p.2)

This definition preserves the fact that values are created by human beings and are, therefore, situated within the realm of human meanings. At the same time, it maintains a sense of the relative incomprehensibility and uncircumscribable nature of values with the notion of inner meanings. As creatures who live and breathe meanings, it is very difficult for us to stand outside them and survey them dispassionately, least of all when they concern the fundamental way in which we perceive and operate in the world. Just as we breathe air and cannot see or describe it in any very nuanced way, we mostly breathe values and meanings, assuming them rather than interrogating their nature. What is missing explicitly in Tschudin’s definition is the degree to which individuals commit themselves emotionally to values, though it can be argued that individuals are necessarily very committed to inner meanings. People certainly suffer much emotional pain when values and fundamental meanings are threatened, lost, or disparaged. A good via negativa procedure for discovering what an individual or group’s basic values and meanings are is to notice or ask them what distresses them or makes them unhappy in their life and work.

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The nature of values The foregoing discussion reveals a wide diversity of understandings and definitions that surround value and values. It might be concluded that these concepts only retain the sway they possess because people fail to examine their meanings and usage. Thus people can talk past each other while using the same words. It is not surprising, then, given fundamental conceptual confusion, that we are confused about values in practice. More analysis needs to be undertaken to create typologies of the meaning and nature of value and values. It could be that different so-called values actually have different elements and natures. This is not the place to outline such a typology or to develop a detailed understanding of the qualities and natures of particular kinds of values. One useful and basic comment on the distinction between different kinds and usages of the term ‘value’ can be made here. This is the distinction between what might be called ‘normal’ values and what might be designated ‘aspirational’ values. Both kinds of values are highly valued but they behave in rather different ways.

‘Normal’ values ‘Normal’ values are close to the sociological notion of norms, rules, habits, expectations and assumptions. They are the bricks and mortar of the everyday social world, comprising the basis of the worldview upon which human affairs are conducted. As such, they are mostly unexceptionable and unnoticed, do not require active commitment (though they may require active decommitment if a person wishes to escape from or challenge them) and appear to be so much a part of reality that one could not do without them. It would be wrong to think, however, that they do not have effects upon human behaviour and that they do not have an affective aspect, however humdrum they may be. These ‘normal’ values, often associated with social conformity and leading a ‘respectable’ life, can arouse enormous passion and interest if they are challenged. When ‘normal’ values of bringing up children, dealing with strangers, conducting business etc. are challenged or problematised, then people can become very upset, defensive, hurt and angry. These values go to the centre of personal and social identity in particular contexts. They may be deeply, if not consciously, and passionately, held. Thus, exiles in alien cultures may suddenly discover that they are ‘British’ or ‘Indian’, becoming very conscious of threats to values and identity when these things are challenged in a way that they would not be if they had stayed in their culture of origin. ‘Normal’ values function much like some domestic object such as a shoe scraper. Mostly they are ignored and unused, but they are missed with irritation if absent or stolen when it is expected that they will be there and they may be fallen

QUESTIONING VALUES / 35

over with actively damaging results by those who are unaware of their presence in the way. Anyone who has ever fallen over an unexpected shoe scraper will know exactly how much hurt and passion can be aroused by this! Curiously, when politicians and others talk of the need for fundamental, solid ‘normal’ values such as the desire to support oneself by work or not to cheat the social security system, often harking back to a past when such values were thought to have been present, they bear witness to the endangered, fragile, relative and problematic nature of these values. It is only when they are threatened in some way that people talk about them. Like religion, ‘normal’ values function best when everyone accepts them to the point that they are not worth mentioning. When they are being discussed anxiously and very consciously, they are probably under threat of some kind.

‘Aspirational’ values ‘Aspirational’ values are close to notions of ideals, goals and visions and are values that are sought rather than assumed. They provide a yet-to-be-realised direction for life and society. They are likely to be quite conscious and people are likely to have an overt emotional investment in them if they espouse them at all. Those who do not espouse them may have an emotional aversion to them that negatively images the positive investment of their proponents. ‘Aspirational’ values are likely to have the qualities of being freely chosen by individuals and groups from amongst alternatives and they are often overtly prized and proclaimed, as well as being consciously implemented in life and practice (cf. Tschudin 1992, p.27). It is difficult to imagine a world without both ‘normal’ and ‘aspirational’ values as people value both stability and change, homogeneity and distinctiveness. Both kinds of values engage people’s interests and emotions, but not in the same ways and circumstances. Clearly, it is possible for these different kinds of values to clash in very direct and painful ways. However, it would probably be a mistake to try and exalt one kind of value above the other. So, for example, it makes no real sense to disparage the conservative, assumed nature of latent ‘normal’ values just because they are not controversial or requiring direct assent in favour of ‘aspirational’ values that require conscious assent and overt ongoing expression and commitment. Both are needed, in their several ways. It is worth noting, en passant, that often those who appeal to what appear to be ‘normative’ values that purport to represent past and tradition are in fact laying out a vision of ‘aspirational’ values that are designed to change the present and shape the future. This sleight of thought is readily apparent in political discourse. It forms a particularly important feature of the ‘communitarian’ critique of society and social institutions that is presently influentially in vogue (Etzioni 1995).

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Some further features of values and their usage If we could become clearer about what we mean by value and values, and also about the kinds and natures of values that are around, then our thinking and communications about these indispensable components of human life would be greatly facilitated. However, this would still leave a vast terrain of issues to explore further. Here are just some of the issues and tensions that I continue to ponder.

Values as a mixture of undifferentiated elements It seems to me that to have any meaningful significance at all values must attract a mixture of attitudes, beliefs, cognitions, affections and behaviours. Without any of these elements values lose some of their reality and importance. However, it is not at all clear what proportions of these elements need to be present for a value to be said to have significance.

Anti-values? Having said that values elicit a measure of commitment, whether active or passive (intellectual, affective, attitudinal etc.), can there be such things as anti-values along the lines of anti-matter in terms of physics or debt in terms of the market? Can things to which people are not committed or to which they are antagonistic be described as anti-values? If so, what effects do these disvalued things have on the social and moral world?

Ropes of values It seems likely that most values do not exist in isolation, but form ‘ropes’ or perhaps ‘constellations’ within individuals and within social groups. At any one moment in time, certain values may be uppermost while others may be wholly or partially subordinated, just as constellations change in the night sky as the months go on. As far as I can see, we know little of how values are constellated, which adhere to which, for what reasons, and in what ways, much less how and why they change in relative prominence in the lives of societies and individuals. Perhaps the sociologists can help here with their studies of social norms.

Conscious/unconscious, articulate/inarticulate values Mostly people talk about values as if they have direct knowledge and access to them. However, often people’s behaviour is at odds with their overt beliefs and convictions: organisations, too, often espouse values on paper (vision statements, missions etc.) which are not enacted in practice. The question here is, What

QUESTIONING VALUES / 37

relation do expressed and unexpressed values bear to each other? Are implicit enacted values as or more significant than explicit unenacted values? What is the relationship of ‘official’ articulated values to unofficial values, e.g., health care facilities may claim to value their users and seek to do them good while actually being run for the convenience of the staff ? How can we find out what our real, i.e. operational and enacted values, are? Here again, there seems to be a deficiency of clarity and knowledge.

Changing values It seems self-evident that many individuals and groups change their values over time. Also, they may often change their attitudes and relationships to values that remain basically constant over time. Perhaps in one day, talking or being with different people or groups, an individual might express and re-prioritise his or her espoused values many times, obeying the rules of group norming and of explanation to an audience. It seems probable that people are likely to be engaged in a constant process of relative commitment and decommitment to their values. Here again, we know little of what goes on and its significance for individuals and wider social groups.

Contradictory values One of the interesting things about life is that one often encounters people who seem to be able to hold values that are on the face of it completely contradictory. So, for example, some right wing Catholics espouse the absolute value of life while advocating the death penalty for murderers. We appear to know little of how this apparent fundamental value clash is integrated in the individual given that they do not seem to suffer from any sense of cognitive dissonance as such.

The effect of values Values as social norms have the effect of producing social consensus and regulation, while values as aspirational ideals provide a basic kind of direction. Over and above this, it is very difficult to say what values do and whether people who lack articulate or deeply held values, e.g. sociopaths, are deeply disadvantaged by doing this. What are the actual effects of values on individuals and groups?

The negative effects of values It is sometimes assumed that values are a good thing in and of themselves and that they must, therefore, tend to have a beneficial effect upon those who hold them. It may even be assumed that the more tenaciously and firmly values are held, the

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more beneficent their effects will be. This is certainly not the case. Adolf Hitler had very strongly held values that he prized, but their effects on others were disastrous. Values are not unequivocally beneficent and good just by virtue of being values, nor are their effects necessarily positive, especially if they are placed in a properly relativistic perspective. I have shown in The Faith of the Managers that enormous monolithic clarity about values can lead to the exclusion of important concerns, individuals and groups which can be very harmful, e.g., in public service which needs to be open to different cultures, values and interests (Pattison 1997). Rob Paton has demonstrated the ambiguous effects of strong values on voluntary organisations (Paton 1997).

Values and stories It seems to me that asking people directly what their values are is unlikely to elicit much knowledge about what values are operational in their lives as it concentrates only upon the cognitive aspect of values. If, as Alasdair MacIntyre suggests, we are narrative creating creatures and it is by this means that we manufacture and discover meaning in life, then it seems to me that it is worth considering stories and narratives as sources for discovering the values that people actually live by rather than those that they theoretically espouse (MacIntyre 1981, p.201). Operant values worth studying are likely to be embedded in stories and practices rather than principles perhaps (Pattison et al. 1998).

The social location of values All values come from somewhere, are created by someone, and are espoused by particular groups and individuals. While there may be what passes for universal agreement on some values, such as the importance of not taking life, it should be remembered that all values belong to some group or another and that it may be that another group’s values may be ignored or ridiculed as a result. Values participate in the power and influence struggle between groups. They do not stand above the social fray as an unequivocal court of certainty and appeal. The implication of this is that we need to become much more critical and conscious of where values come from, how much they are formulated and used, and whose interests they serve.

The cost of values To return to the economic, market domain whence value’s primary use and meaning came, it should not be controversial to point out that valuing some things over others has a cost. Some things become sought after and desirable while others are denigrated and discarded. This may have a real cost to individuals and groups. It

QUESTIONING VALUES / 39

certainly seems to be the case that if workers in public service are caught with the wrong values, they feel uncomfortable and fundamentally rejected. In this sense, they pay the cost of the introduction of new values. It is probably always worth asking the question: ‘Who pays the cost for my/our values?’

Conclusion The whole subject of values is surrounded by partiality, ignorance, confusion and ambiguity from the conceptual level down to the nitty gritty level of everyday practice. Some of these problems have been exposed in a preliminary way in this paper. A great deal more, and more detailed, work at conceptual and practical levels needs to be undertaken before we can really start to talk intelligibly and in a non-confusing way about value and values. One thing is clear. We will never completely escape from the relativity and conceptual slipperiness that inhere in the very nature of valuing some things over others. Values are created in an ongoing dynamic process, not revealed. In the short term, however, this knowledge will not convince politicians and other ideologues that values may not be in and of themselves a wholly desirable thing!

Note 1.

As a theologian I am much reminded by the last quotation of Feuerbach’s critique of religion as an alienated human construction whereby values seem to be reified facticity that stands over and beyond the human beings who created them. This view of values also has similarities with some ideas about conscience that see it as having a power and reality that lie almost outside the control of the individual and make demands upon him or her. The reified demands of conscience derive their authority and power from within not from outside the agent, albeit that the agent has internalised social norms and these are powerfully internally reinforced by what might for shorthand purposes be called the ‘superego’.

References Aaron, H., Mann, T. and Taylor, T. (eds) (1994) Values and Public Policy. Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution. Etzioni, A. (1995) The Spirit of Community. London: Fontana Press. MacIntyre, A. (1981) After Virtue. Duckworth, London. Paton, R. (1997) ‘The trouble with values.’ Unpublished paper. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers. London: Cassell. Pattison, S., Malby, B. and Manning, S. (1998) ‘What are we here for?’ Health Service Journal 108, 5595, 26–8. Tschudin, V. (1992) Values. London: Ballière Tindall.

2

The Trouble with Values

Introduction Values are in fashion in contemporary Britain. The present Labour government in particular is keen to present its policies as the fruits of deeply held values. Thus Tony Blair suggested to the gathered religious communities at the beginning of the new millennium that the future of society would be rooted in religiouslyderived values. This a few months after Greg Dyke (1998) reported on the need for a new national values statement that would provide fundamental direction for the National Health Service. Values and concern about values are all around us. Indeed we self-consciously swim in a sea of values as perhaps never before. But do we really understand the nature and character of values, particularly as they affect the everyday lives and work of ordinary citizens in their private and work lives? The aim of this essay is to introduce and problematise some of the issues that surround the use and discussion of values in Britain today, relating this particularly to the NHS. Values are of enormous importance. However, there is little real understanding of what they are and how they function at different levels in society. Furthermore, there may be a significant gap between the official, high-level values proclaimed by politicians and leaders and those that are actually enacted at grass roots level. This has important implications for chaplains and those with whom they work, for the distance between ideal and reality can cause people considerable psychological or moral pain. It might well be a significant role for chaplains, as members and representatives of moral communities with a very distinctive value system, to play the role of values analysts and critics (Gill 1998). This could form part of a ministry that tries to reconcile ideal with reality and to present more choices to individuals and groups. Unless people understand the nature of the value systems by which they are embraced, they cannot have their values. Rather, their values have them. They (and one might want to say ‘we’) are thus trapped in an uncritical culture that may well obstruct the promotion of human well being in its widest sense. This article is offered to chaplains as a

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THE TROUBLE WITH VALUES / 41

stimulus in their vital work of discerning and promoting values in health care practice. It is not comprehensive or complete in any way.

The trouble with defining and understanding values The trouble with values begins as soon as one begins to consider how they might be theoretically defined and understood. Not only are many specific values socially contested and disputed. While everyone talks about values as if they had a clearly understood common meaning, like ‘community care’, ‘values’ is a portmanteau concept that has no one fixed meaning (Pattison 1998) [1]. Here are a few definitions of values that give some idea of the range of possibilities in this connection: A value is an affective disposition towards a person, object or idea. [A value is] something we recognize as good and worthwhile. A value is a personal belief or attitude about the truth, beauty or worth of any thought, object or behaviour. Values appear as attributes of things and events rather than as an activity of the Self or as the result of such activity. (Tschudin 1992, p.24)

A particularly interesting definition of values for religious practitioners such as chaplains comes from Verena Tschudin, a theologian and nursing theorist. She suggests that Values are closely related to meaning – the meaning of life. The inner meaning of an action, an experience or an attitude gives us our values. (Tschudin 1992, p.2)

The definitions just cited are interestingly varied, but mostly focus upon personal and psychological aspects of values. The psychological vocabulary of beliefs and attitudes does not exhaust the synonyms and secondary meanings that can be associated with the concept of values. In the economic world, values are defined and measured as economic preferences and desires, what people will ultimately pay for. This economic view of values is perhaps the dominant one in contemporary society, even if it is often well-hidden beneath a welter of more engaging, altruistic rhetoric (Aaron et al. 1994). In the sociological realm, social norms, assumptions, expectations, judgements and prejudices behave in many ways like values – ‘You have prejudices, I have strongly-held values’. The standards, visions and objectives that characterise the managerial arena also function as values, as do the goods (moral and non-moral), principles and commitments that are found within the domain of moral philosophy. All of which goes to show that there is much vagueness about what values distinctively are, according to which thought world you may be inhabiting at any particular time. You cannot necessarily be sure that what you mean by values is what someone else means.

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Once one gets beyond the confusions and ambiguities of basic conceptualisation, there are further difficulties that revolve around the issue of whether or not there are different kinds of values. There is a basic debate about whether values are humanly created or simply discovered. This parallels debates about whether moral principles are absolute and inherent or are human artifacts (Mackie 1977). Beyond this, one can begin to speculate whether there are particular kinds of values that function in distinctive ways. Are aesthetic values the same as social values? Are moral values the same as political values? In what ways might they be defined and function similarly or differently? Some people would argue, for example, that a distinction must be made between personal and public values. Thus New suggests that public values are ‘conceptions of the morally desirable, in the realm of state activity’ (New 1999, p.12). Sharp-eyed readers who have been subjected to the values of effectiveness, efficiency, and economy over the last decade or so will recognise that there is an element of idealistic arbitrariness in this definition; New might legitimately have substituted ‘economically desirable’ for ‘morally desirable’ here. Indeed, it might have been more phenomenologically accurate for him to do so. Just another example of the contested nature of both the form and content of values. Readers of this essay may well be familiar with concepts of ‘religious’ values and of ‘spiritual’ values (Cobb and Robshaw 1998; Conger 1994; McCarthy 2000). The latter, it seems to me, are essentially values of personal and corporate meaning such as depth, belonging, and care for self and others falling outside the realm of the economic choice and devoid of the disciplines and dogmas imposed by the particularity of belonging to a specific religious community. Fashionable as it is to talk of spiritual values, I am sceptical as to whether this rather nebulously defined set of values will prove to be distinctive and robust over time. Spiritual values could be redefined as simply human or individual values. One thing is certain; if particular groups of humans do not sustain particular habits and values, they cannot survive. I am doubtful that spiritual values can or deserve to survive in a convincing, action-influencing way without religious communities to sustain them. However, in the postmodern world where people are keen to believe but not so keen to belong, who can say whether virtual communities might not be able to sustain virtual values (Bruce 1996; Davie 1994)? Having thoroughly muddied the conceptual waters, I want to make some further points and distinctions about values. First, it should be noted that values in and of themselves are not necessarily good and desirable, though they are often talked of as if they must be so. To put the point starkly, Hitler had very well articulated values which he implemented directly and with vigour. It is doubtful that one would want to aspire to have values like his. The possession of strongly held, articulate values is not necessarily a virtue.

THE TROUBLE WITH VALUES / 43

Secondly, it is useful to distinguish between normative values and aspirational values. The former are the norms that sustain smooth social functioning. Mostly, they are unnoticed in everyday life unless they are threatened or challenged, at which point they will often be vigorously defended. People travelling into different cultures are often unaware of their normative, assumed everyday values until they find themselves defending ideas, habits and practices that up till that point they had not realised they valued! Aspirational values are more like ideal goals or visions. They are not yet normative and they draw people into the future and different ways of thinking and behaving. Religious values may have much of the aspirational rather than the normative about them, as do the values used to inspire organisational change (Pattison 1997). Unfortunately, in common parlance aspirational and normative, functional values are not clearly distinguished. A further distinction can be made between espoused values and enacted values. Here again conflation occurs. While people may have certain very clearly articulated values (normative or aspirational) that they espouse and believe to be important, these may be different from the values that they actually put into practice. As religious believers know well, what is said with the mouth might be completely different from that which is actually enacted or witnessed in practice. Thus confessed values may not be a good guide to what actually occurs in the lives of individuals or organisations. To identify enacted values, it may be necessary for external observation of behaviour to occur rather than just listening to what people say about what they value in theory. This is the familiar distinction between words and theories on the one hand and acts and practices on the other. Anyone who works in an organisation is likely to be painfully aware of gaps between espoused values (the kinds that are embodied in mission statements and professional codes) and the actual enacted values that may in fact completely contradict or subvert the former. A similar differentiation can be made between ‘official values’ that are formally espoused by organisations and individuals and the ‘unofficial values’ that may be unarticulated but operant in the lives of individuals and groups.

Living Values in the NHS Having complicated the theory and conceptualisation of values, and made some basic distinctions about the ways in which values may be thought of and used, I turn now to values in the NHS as an organisation. There is probably no organisation in British society that is more concerned with embodying moral values than the NHS, an organisation which is seen by many as an embodiment of the highest values of civilisation. It is therefore somewhat surprising to discover that there is not, and never has been, a clear, agreed

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statement of the underpinning values of the NHS (Powell 1997; Seedhouse 1994). A number of scholars have tried to deduce the founding and normative values of the service. Most agree that there are three main principles or governing values. These are comprehensiveness, free access, and equity of provision and treatment. To these Seedhouse adds the value of economy, i.e., providing health care at the lowest possible cost (Seedhouse 1994, p.15). We might all agree that these underpinning values are important and that they help to provide overall direction and orientation for the NHS. However, it should be noted that, as in many areas, these fundamental values can conflict with each other. Hence the frequent battles in the NHS, e.g. about resource allocation, in which values of equity and comprehensiveness clash with the value of economy (Hunter 1997). There is some value in identifying the overall values of the NHS, which are in many ways aspirational. However, this tells us little about the values that are actually enacted at a local level within an organisation that, over the last fifteen years, has become increasingly localised and fragmented. It was for this reason that the King’s Fund sponsored a project called ‘Living Values in the NHS’ during 1999. Its aim was to try and discern something of the espoused and enacted values that pertain at a local level within the NHS and to see to what extent these were similar to, and differed from, the ‘official’ values promulgated by politicians and senior managers at the centre of the organisation. One way of undertaking this project would have been to observe health care workers and users in situ and to try and deduce from their behaviour and attitudes what their values were. Another possibility would have been to deploy the usual panoply of questionnaires, interviews, etc. to see what people felt about values and which values they felt were most important. However, this would only have allowed us to know what formal values people espoused and we were anxious that this way of proceeding would not have revealed much about the different, informal values people hold and the complexity of their individual and social value ecology. A direct question such as ‘What are your values?’ is likely only to produce a limited range of ‘apple pie’ statements such as ‘I value equality’, or ‘I value patients’. We decided that a good way of progressing would be to get people to tell stories about critical incidents that made them aware of their own values or those of their organisation (Malby and Pattison 1999; Pattison et al. 1998, 1999). By getting small groups of health service workers (including one spiritual care department manager) together, and inviting them to tell stories about important, value-laden experiences they had had, we were able to build up a somewhat more complex view of the ways in which values complement, contradict and lie alongside each other within contemporary health care.

THE TROUBLE WITH VALUES / 45

The story-telling method proved to be a congenial, participative, empowering and even therapeutic way of getting groups of people with different degrees of investment, professional seniority, and background to share important experiences in which values and value issues in all their ambivalence, contradictoriness and complexity could become apparent. Subsequent to the small workshops that were held, we were able to identify a number of value themes that seemed to characterise life in the contemporary NHS (Malby and Pattison 1999). These were: ·

Mismatched expectations. Both health service users and workers had high expectations of themselves and the NHS but these expectations were often at odds. The espoused values of communication, understanding and mutual appreciation were thus negated by experiences of disappointment, misunderstanding and disillusion.

·

Disparity in care. The espoused value of equality of access to and provision of care was often vitiated by overt experiences of inequality between different areas and services. This caused moral distress to health care workers.

·

Working the system. Health care users and workers told stories of heroic and sometimes despicable efforts to ensure that the health care system delivered to them what they needed. A kind of dogged determination seems necessary to get what you want, and although beating the system is individually satisfying, it was not thought to be desirable.

·

Abuse of power. Many of the stories told indicated that there is a culture of blame and fear within the NHS. This vitiated official, aspirational values that emphasise empowerment and participation.

·

Being valued. There was a pervasive sense amongst many story tellers that they were not valued as people by the NHS. This in contrast to the rhetoric of valuing people and their efforts.

·

Opportunities. A very positive value theme that emerged was that some people feel enormously valued and enabled by the NHS.

The ‘Living Values’ project was fairly informal, and on a small scale. However, it encouraged us to think that a good deal more needs to be known about the nature of the enacted values within the NHS and how they function in the lives of health service users and workers. Without paying more attention to the actual values that are enacted on a day to day basis within this huge, complex organisation, there would seem to be little hope that centrally promulgated values statements written on pieces of paper will be of much relevance to those who actually use and deliver services.

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Studying values Despite the rhetorical omniprevalence of values, we still know remarkably little about the ways in which in general and particular they function in the lives of individuals and groups. In this essay, I have tried to show some of the conceptual and definitional problems that surround values, and also to illustrate one way in which more might be discovered about the functioning of values within the NHS. I hope that it might encourage closer interest from chaplains in this area. With their knowledge of, and concern for, individuals, institutions, narratives and ethics, it seems to me that chaplains are in an excellent position to advance the analysis and understanding of values within the NHS. Above all, chaplains might have an important role in helping individuals and groups to discern what their values are and to help them to realise circumstances and arrangements in which they might become more practically applicable.

Bibliography Aaron, H., Mann, T., and Taylor, T. (eds) (1994) Values and Public Policy. Washington, DC: The Brookings Institute. Bruce, S. (1996) Religion in the Modern World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cobb, M. and Robshaw, V. (eds) (1998) The Spiritual Challenge of Health Care. Edinburgh: Churchill Livingstone. Conger, J. (1994) Spirit at Work. San Francisco: Jossey Bass. Davie, G. (1994) Religion in Britain Since 1945. Oxford: Blackwell. Dyke, G. (1998) The New NHS Charter: A Different Approach. London: Department of Health. Gill, R. (1998) Moral Leadership in a Postmodern Age. Edinburgh: T and T Clark. Hunter, D. (1997) Desperately Seeking Solutions. London: Longman. McCarthy, M. (2000) ‘Spirituality in a Postmodern Era.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. Mackie, J. (1977) Ethics: Inventing Right and Wrong. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Malby, B. and Pattison, S. (1999) Living Values in the NHS. London: The King’s Fund. New, B. (1999) A Good Enough Service. London: The King’s Fund. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers. London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (1998) ‘Questioning values.’ Health Care Analysis 6, 352–359. Pattison S., Malby B. and Manning S. (1998) ‘What are we here for?’ Health Service Journal 108, 5595, 26–28. Pattison S., Malby B. and Manning S. (1999) ‘I want to tell you a story.’ Health Service Journal 109, 5643, 22–24. Powell, M. (1997) Evaluating the National Health Service. Buckingham: Open University Press. Seedhouse, D. (1994) Fortress NHS. Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. Tschudin, V. (1992) Values. London: Ballière Tindall.

3

Are Professional Codes Ethical?

Over recent years, codes of ethics and practice in health and social care professions have proliferated (UKCC 1992; BASW 1996; COT 1997). The British Association for Counselling (BAC) has produced its own Code of Ethics and Practice for Counsellors (1997) which is constantly reviewed and revised. I do not intend here to review in detail the contents of the various codes, the circumstances that have brought them into being, or the fascinating and often inexplicable differences between them. Rather, I want to ask the basic question, ‘Are professional codes ethical?’ To put it more specifically, ‘Do ethical codes such as that produced by BAC actually foster and elicit ethical awareness and behaviour?’ I ask this question from the perspective of a lay person who has made extensive use of counselling and psychotherapy over the years and who is an academic applied ethicist. I believe it may be of interest to counsellors, not only because of the wide range of ethical issues that they have to cope with on a day to day basis, but also because it raises issues about professional identity and responsibility and the broad intellectual and social context of counselling practice and theory. While I shall refer fairly often to the BAC code to illustrate my argument, I do not provide a comprehensive critique of it. Furthermore, I believe it may help counsellor readers to gain a better sense of perspective on their own code if I make reference to the codes of other professions. I hope that this article will encourage counsellors and others to think more carefully and more widely about the nature, scope and content of their ethical and practice codes as well as about professional responsibilities and training needs in relation to ethics.

The meaning of ethics Are professional codes ethical? Do they promote ethical behaviour and awareness? To the casual observer, these questions might seem otiose. Some codes, like that of BASW (1996), overtly describe themselves as codes of ethics, or as codes

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48 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

of ethics and practice (BAC 1997). They proscribe and prescribe particular moralities, together with certain actions and attitudes in professional practice. The presumption must therefore be that such codes promote ethical behaviour and awareness. If ethics is understood to be synonymous with the inculcation of a particular morality my questions are largely absurd. If, however, the realm of the ethical is understood to be larger and more critical than the laying down of particular principles by a certain group that has an interest in promoting conformity amongst its own members for reasons that might be only partly ethical and moral, they become more interesting and important. Their significance can best be discerned if I outline an ideal vision of what I take ethical behaviour and judgement to be. I will then look in detail at what might be considered to be some of the ethical limitations of professional codes.

An ideal vision of the ‘ethical practitioner’ For better or worse, the majority Western philosophical tradition has put at its centre the notion of the rational agent with free will and choice of action (Singer 1991). Within this understanding, the ethically responsible person is one who rationally assesses courses of behaviour and action having regard to salient factors and, particularly, to the needs and interests of other morally significant beings. Such a person might adopt a utilitarian or a deontological stance in assessing situations and deciding upon actions. Thus they might choose to weigh the balance of pleasure versus pain that might result from a particular course of action, or they might choose to employ some version of the Golden Rule: ‘Do unto others what you would that they should do unto you.’ It is also possible that they might adopt some rules and foundational principles that have been found over time to be useful in structuring moral life. Thus they might adopt principles of seeking justice, equality and liberty for all, or those of respect for persons and their autonomy, beneficence and nonmaleficence. The important point is that any espoused ethical principles and approaches should be freely adopted. Moral agents must also be able to provide some kind of rational account for their adoption and application in particular circumstances. From this broad philosophical perspective, the ideal ‘ethical’ person is one who has regard to others, uses their own rational judgement, and freely assents to and adopts a course of action, albeit that the chosen course of action might in fact be to conform to certain social rules and conventions if these are thought to promote well-being, good, and the avoidance of harm within the moral scheme adopted. This ideal ‘ethical’ person should not be regarded as a detached free spirit or atomised individual who only follows their own lights and interests. That would

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be contrary to the notion of paying attention to the universality of reason, taking into account the needs and interests of others, and being able, in principle, to give an account of one’s actions and choices as other-regarding and reasonable. However, neither should such a person be seen as a mindless conformist. Being ‘ethical’ requires using one’s critical reason, making up one’s own mind, freely adopting a particular principle or course of action, and then being able to account for this publicly using words and arguments that other rational beings will be able to understand and evaluate. If this ‘ideal type’ of the ethical person is concretised in practice, an ethical counsellor, say, would be someone who understood and took seriously the rules and conventions governing society generally and counselling practice in particular. If these were sensible, this person would tend actively to assent and conform to them. However, one would also expect such a person to have the capacity to make their own judgements about the applicability of rules and conventions in particular situations. One might hope that this hypothetical counsellor would have regard not only to professional rules and conventions, but would also on occasion have an eye to the larger principles governing human existence and behaviour. So, for example, if his or her practice was being used to support or sustain situations of abuse, harm or the violation of human rights, one would hope that she would exercise her own judgement and autonomy (for which she would surely be held to account) to desist from the offensive practice, and to protest against it, perhaps by whistle-blowing or by making some other kind of disclosure. This idealised vision extrapolates from a fairly normal vision of the kind of human behaviour that is commonly characterised as ethical. It posits an actively discerning practitioner who uses reason to identify and pursue the good and to avoid doing harm. This person uses their own judgement freely to exercise choice and evaluates choices against reasonably universal human ethical principles such as beneficence, non-maleficence, respect for autonomy, and justice (Beauchamp and Childress 1994). Because this practitioner freely adopts attitudes, practices and ways of acting or not acting, he or she can be held responsible for his or her actions as a moral agent. If practitioners simply obey rules determined and enforced by others, theirs may not be a truly ethical stance. They may very well not be held responsible for their actions, except insofar as they have assented to obeying the commands and strictures of others. If they have been coerced into certain kinds of actions against their own reason and will, then they cannot be held responsible for what they have, or have not, done. The ethical practitioner is a person who actively chooses, questions and judges, not a mindlessly conforming automaton, albeit that the acts of a mindlessly conformist automaton might be judged as good in their effects by others.

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I suggest that it is this kind of thoughtful, autonomous practitioner who possesses a measure of independent critical judgement and practical wisdom, together with having regard to a hinterland of wider human values and principles, that both professionals and consumers of services would hope to meet and work with in care arenas. But do professional codes actually promote the existence of such professionals or might they in fact in some ways militate against their emergence? Worse, could it be that codes even inadvertently promote unethical or immoral attitudes and practices among professionals? It is my contention that, in many ways, professional codes can be unwittingly antipathetic to the kind of ethical practice and ethical practitioners that I have characterised above. In what ways, then, might codes engender the ‘unethical’?

The ‘unethical’ in professional codes As an ethicist, my main anxiety about professional codes is that they do little to develop or support the active independent critical judgement and discernment that should be associated with true moral responsibility, and indeed, good professionalism. They may engender confusion, passivity, apathy and even immorality – the antithesis to ethical discourse and responsibility. This regrettable conclusion eventuates from consideration of the cumulative effects of the ethical defects and inadequacies of many codes which I shall now outline.

Terminological confusions and ambiguities To be fair to some of the code-makers, most significantly the UKCC, they do not all label their products as codes of ethics. BASW does label its professional code, which includes principles for practice, a code of ethics, while BAC entitles its document a code of ethics and practice. Whether or not the word ethics is used in the title, all the codes prescribe certain practices, values and attitudes in greater or lesser degrees of detail. In this sense all the codes outline practical moralities. Thus, in common parlance, they can be described as ethical, ethical being understood to mean anything to do with prescribing behaviour and outlining dos and don’ts. Furthermore, their authors would doubtless hope that nothing in them actually encourages people to do wrong or avoid doing good in commonsensical terms. In this sense the codes embody at least a basic moral orientation and a broadly ethical outlook upon practice. The problem here is that the concept of the ‘ethical’ is not discussed, nor are its different uses, ambiguities and understandings explored. The clear implicit understanding of all the codes is that if people conform to them they will be acting to all intents and purposes ethically. In this context, ethical basically means conforming to professionally chosen and mediated values and norms of practice rather than exercising rationally informed autonomous choice and judgement.

ARE PROFESSIONAL CODES ETHICAL? / 51

Conformity to a code is not necessarily the same thing as acting ethically in the broad philosophical sense discussed above. Indeed, if conformity is uncritical it may actually be unethical. The danger is not recognised in the codes I have read, though most at least implicitly allow for a measure of individual interpretation and judgement. Doubtless the re-titling of codes as ‘codes of morals and practice’, or ‘codes of habits, values and commands’ would be rejected in ‘helping’ professions because it might sound heavy, moralistic and judgemental. It might, however, be more honest and less ambiguous. Most codes do not set out to help people to act ethically in the broadest sense but to outline norms and exact a degree of fairly narrow conformity. There is nothing necessarily wrong with this so long as authors and users understand what is going on. Here it might usefully be pointed out that honesty, clarity and exactitude are much prized as virtues that obviate needless and possibly damaging confusion in philosophical ethical discourse.

Arbitrary values and principles Confusion about ethical terminology in codes is amplified by the fact that they do often adopt some high, universal moral principles that would be recognised as such by any audience. So, for example, the UKCC Code of Professional Conduct makes its first stipulation that nurses shall act in such a manner as to ‘safeguard and promote the interests of individual patients and clients’, a duty that clearly derives from respect for the dignity and autonomy of service users. This code also requires nurses to serve the interests of society – this represents a muted appeal to notions of justice and equality perhaps. BASW bases its Code of Ethics upon notions of the citizenship and rights of both service users and workers, while BAC postulates the values of integrity, impartiality and respect as the basis for ethical practice in counselling. There is not necessarily anything wrong with the selected principles in themselves. However, there is an element of arbitrariness in their selection. Why should nurses not work within broad notions of citizenship and rights if social workers do? Why should not counsellors have to pay attention to the universally important value of justice as part of the framework for their activity? And why does no professional code enshrine the principle of truth-telling or honesty, surely an important basis for trust in relationships of all kinds, when working with members of the public? Such broad, reasonably universal principles might be held to be relevant to all caring work, indeed to living in general. In some cases they might provide a much-needed point of reference and critique of professional norms and behaviour when important moral dilemmas arise. Would integrity, impartiality and respect provide any kind of moral challenge for counselling practice within a

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totalitarian regime, or justify the moral protests of those who objected to the social effects of that regime, for example? A broad, inclusive framework of moral principles that would be recognised as important and acceptable by a general audience of citizens might be a useful addition to most codes if they are actually to promote ethical behaviour in professionals in its widest and proper sense.

Ethical intelligibility and coherence Arbitrariness in the selection of principles is compounded in a number of codes by an apparent failure to understand, or at any rate satisfactorily explain, the nature and status of components of the code and how, in fact, these relate to each other and to wider ethical methods and themes in a rationally coherent and defensible way. The BAC code, for example, appears significantly defective here. This document starts with a statement of the fundamental values of counselling (integrity, impartiality and respect) and then claims that six principles arise from these (responsibility, anti-discriminatory practice, confidentiality, contracts, boundaries and competence). These six principles then form the basis for the subsequent code of practice in counselling. The defects of this way of proceeding are apparent. First, no rationale is advanced for the adoption of the three basic values out of the many others that might have been adopted. We are simply told that these in fact are ‘Counsellors’ basic values’ (BAC 1997, A). This immediately raises the problem of whether these are values to which counsellors aspire (aspirational values), whether they are, in fact, manifest in the practice of all counsellors all the time (observable normal values), or whether they are a mixture of both kinds of value (partly normal, partly aspirational) (Pattison 1998) [1]. Moving on from the question of what sort of values these might be, there is then the question of what the words ‘integrity, impartiality and respect’ mean and to whom they apply. The code provides no definitions or explications. From the ‘is’ of the code’s value normativity we are then invited to see the arising ‘ought’ of six action-guiding principles. Here again, the code leaves out reasoning and explanation. This means that it is actually rather difficult to see on ethical grounds why these particular six principles as opposed to six others are advocated and held to arise from the fundamental values. I have particular difficulty in seeing how ‘integrity’ informs any of them, but since I do not understand what integrity means in the first place in this context that is not surprising. Interestingly, the code moves straight from values as goods to be promoted and sought to principles of practice. These are then characterised as ‘ethical principles’ (BAC 1997, B). However, no attempt is made to justify this claim to moral status or to relate them to the discipline and practices of academic ethics and moral philosophy even at a basic level. Within ethical discourse, it would be more

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usual and often more helpful to move from the vision of the moral good broadly understood, through some consideration of general ethical principles pertaining to the attainment of that good (e.g., promoting justice, truth-telling) and only then to consideration of particular practices and habits. This intermediate stage of moral discourse that links ethics to practice is missing. Effectively the BAC code moves from the generalities of high moral vision to everyday pragmatics in one line space! In this sense, it might be argued that it is not a code of ethics at all in any philosophically recognisable way, but rather a statement of values and principles for practice. Moving beyond the opacity of the basic values and their connection to principles that dangle from them in the BAC code, the moral voice in this document also raises problems of coherence and intelligibility. At some points this voice appears to be indicative and descriptive but, confusingly, sounds as if it is really trying to be normative and prescriptive. We are told, for example, that ‘the counsellor–client relationship is the foremost ethical concern’ (BAC 1997, B1.1). At other times it is straightforwardly prescriptive and imperative: ‘Counsellors must not exploit their clients financially, sexually, emotionally, or in any other way’ (BAC 1997, B1.3.2). Sometimes the voice is exhortatory and advisory. In relation to conflicting ethical priorities, for example, counsellors are simply ‘urged to consider the particular situation in which they find themselves and to discuss the situation with their counselling supervisor and/or other experienced counsellors’ (BAC 1997, B1.6.3). None of these usages of voice are necessarily inappropriate. However, a certain unevenness and lack of explanation for different usage adds to a measure of intellectual incoherence that characterises this particular code among others. In particular, ambiguously conflating description with prescription and ‘is’ (the case) with ‘ought’ (to be the case) cannot easily be seen to contribute to ethical clarity and responsibility in professional guidance and practice.

Mixing ethical and other norms The problem of the arbitrary selection of reasonably universal principles and values is compounded by mixing them with norms and principles that emerge from other concerns. In the UKCC code, for example, the foundational principles of safeguarding and promoting the interests of individual patients and clients and serving the interests of society are clearly important, morally derived and altruistic principles of the first order (UKCC 1992). They would be recognised as valuable by most people. However, alongside these, and apparently equal to them, are the principles of acting so as to ‘justify public trust and confidence’ and to ‘uphold and enhance the good standing and reputation of the professions’.

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It is certainly desirable that people should adhere to these latter principles, particularly from the profession’s point of view. It can be argued that they maintain the capacity of the profession to be useful to clients and patients, which may be seen as a good (Koehn 1994). Unfortunately, I do not think it can really be argued that these latter principles are of the same moral standing as the first two. Insofar as they might be seen to be mainly self-interested and self-protective rather than altruistic, they might even be regarded as unethical. They appear to invite practitioners to take upholding the reputation of the profession with the same degree of seriousness that they take safeguarding the interests of individual patients or clients. There seems to be here, as in other codes, an unfortunate and misleading elision of principles of different types and weights which might lead practitioners to believe that they are acting ethically in the general sense when in fact they are acting mainly in the interests of the profession. So it proves in practice when nurses follow the Code of Professional Conduct by failing to whistle-blow, i.e., to publicise practices that threaten the interests of individual patients, once they have reported their concerns to ‘an appropriate person or authority’ (Hunt 1995). It is doubtful that any group of lay people would ever think that protecting the reputation of a profession is in any way morally equivalent to preventing the abuse and neglect of individual service users by all possible means. In the same way, it is doubtful that any group of lay people would ever think that ‘the counsellor– client relationship’ is a greater or equivalent ethical principle to that of ‘ensuring that the client suffers neither physical nor psychological harm during counselling sessions’ (BAC 1997, B1.3.1). The point here is that important ethical and lesser, specifically professional, principles of practice should be kept separate. The latter should be firmly subordinated to the former. Mixing the two types of principle indiscriminately lends an aura of moral authority and force to what are properly subordinate professional principles. This they should not be allowed to enjoy.

Failure to prioritise and arbitrate between values and principles Many codes do not discriminate between different levels and kinds of principles. Furthermore, they do not rank or prioritise them in any way. Nor is any guidance given as to how to moderate between principles if they clash or contradict one another, as is common in the delivery of any kind of care. The most unfortunate and limp example of this occurs in the BAC code. Having suggested that practitioners who find themselves in difficulties over fundamental conflicts between ethical priorities should consider their situation and discuss it with their counselling supervisor or other experienced counsellors, the code rather feebly concludes its all-too-brief desiderations on this subject with a truism: ‘Even after

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conscientious consideration of the salient issues, some ethical dilemmas cannot be resolved easily or wholly satisfactorily’ (BAC 1997, B 1.6.3). So much for helping practitioners become effective managers of their ethics, values and choices.

Lack of real ethical guidance Substantial ethical dilemmas arise for many care professionals on a daily basis. Curiously, however, professional codes stop short of giving the kinds of detailed guidance on such dilemmas that would really be of practical use. At the same time as giving very specific guidance about professional matters such as gifts, fees and sexual relationships with clients, some codes seem to go out of their way actually not to show and demonstrate their relevance to a large number of common ethical issues that cause professionals moral pain (Sawyer 1989). So, for example, the UKCC code does not give guidance on the appropriate actions, or the kind of moral reasoning that might be appropriate, in evaluating nursing participation in, say, abortion, or the administration of Electro-Convulsive Treatment, much less on the nature and role of conscience in nursing practice. The BAC code does not give guidance upon the nature and place of conscience in practical decision-making either. Furthermore, it does not, for example, explore the ethical problems that might arise in couple counselling where there may be competing individual interests. Nor does it suggest what might happen when a counsellor becomes aware of relevant facts that are obtained about a client or third party inadvertently, e.g., due to informal social relationships. Crucially for individuals who often work on their own in private practice outwith an institutional setting, it makes no suggestions about what should happen when a counsellor feels so embarrassed about a case that they choose not to bring it to the attention of their supervisor. In this particular instance, the client effectively loses any protection that supervision might afford in the counselling relationship, a situation made all the more dangerous by the fact that it is often in such ‘embarrassing’ cases that real mistakes may have been made or personal boundaries breached. None of the codes that I have examined impose on professionals the obligation to consider, audit and learn about the ethical issues that they confront. Ethical sensitivity, knowledge and ongoing development is not specified as a specific professional competence. If case studies or examples were used as illustrations of implementing principles and values, and pertinent specific questions were asked around them, it is possible that practitioners would be in a much better position to evaluate situations and the ethically responsible actions that would be appropriate to them. Thus they might become more competent, autonomous ethicists, as well as better interpreters of the professional code in practice. Instead,

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codes often exist at a level of principle that is so abstract and general that they are open to being either misinterpreted or ignored.

The exclusion of ordinary moral experience Codes often fail to address and give guidance on approaches to common, but very important, ethical problems and dilemmas. Similarly, they appear to give little value to the moral experience and judgement of professionals, specifically that which emerges from their experience of living and developing within the moral community which forms society. Edgar points out that implicit in most codes is the notion that the professional world is a different, very particular world into which professionals need to be socialised (Edgar 1994). Part of their socialisation is to acquire the notion that the beliefs, values and experiences that they bring with them into their professional work are of little or no value. They must be subordinated to the values and strictures embodied in the professional code of conduct. The consequences of this kind of myopia can be personally emasculating and morally disastrous. Quite apart from the fact that many people will find it impossible to ‘forget’ what they know and think as ordinary human beings with a lifetime of experience to draw on, if they do succeed in doing so, they may find themselves acting entirely unethically. Edgar cites evidence to show that most whistle-blowers who attempt to expose real evils are usually not members of professions which oblige them to follow a code of practice. He infers from this that faithful obedience to a code of practice may actually blunt ordinary moral sensibilities. Thus professionals collude with, or remain silent about, what would widely be thought to be unethical behaviours and practices.

The effects of codes in practice At the beginning of this essay, an ideal type of the reasonable, critical, autonomous ‘ethical’ practitioner who strives to make life-respecting and life-enhancing choices amid the confusion and ambiguities of everyday professional life was described. It seems reasonable, even desirable, that professional codes of practice should promote, or at least not make less likely, the existence of such practitioners. By the same token, it seems reasonable to ask what practical effects codes of practice actually have. Do they achieve the benefit of enhancing the lives of professionals and their clients? Or might they harm and narrow the lives of these people? At one level, these questions cannot be answered. As far as I know, no one has ever properly evaluated the effects of codes upon the actual behaviours and attitudes of professionals, nor the uses to which codes are put in practice. This might suggest that it is possible that codes have no effect either for good or ill. If so, it could be argued that they are literally not worth the paper they are written on.

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In a world where resources of professional care are often in short supply, it could be suggested from an ethical perspective that the effort put into compiling and propagating codes could be more reasonably deployed elsewhere. I suspect that whatever their good effects in terms of clarifying standards, expectations, accountability etc., codes contain considerable potential for harm and limiting ethical awareness. By failing directly to consider and include many ethical principles and dilemmas that members of the general public as well as professionals would think directly relevant to the provision of care, codes may narrow the sensibilities and responsibilities of professionals. Insofar as codes exact unswerving adherence to their own narrow field of vision and regulation from professional members, they may discourage them from developing and exercising appropriate autonomous ethical judgement. By including an undifferentiated mixture of professional and broader, more philosophical ethical norms, codes may induce a false sense in professional members that, when they are following and obeying the code, they are in fact automatically acting ethically. This, too, might lead to a suspension of individual judgement. In that codes require obedience to some clear norms and precepts, they may encourage professionals to be passive and legalistic rather than actively morally discerning. Related to this is the fact that it is possible for some people to work down to overtly expressed standards and practices rather than these forming a basis for positive, thoughtful action. Codes can easily become a narrow cage rather than a springboard for responsible ethically informed action. Insofar as codes may be used to evaluate professional behaviour within a professional disciplinary system or a legal system, e.g., if complaints or crimes are identified, codes may become normative in a way that requires professionals to behave in a legalistic, self-preserving and defensive way which may be inimical to acting ethically. All of which might lead to the conclusion that codes have the potential to be actively ethically disempowering for professionals.

Conclusion It would be possible to identify further ethical problems with codes, not least the fact that they are mostly created by professional groups with their own interests at heart. This raises questions about their public legitimacy and acceptability. One suspects that many codes are not the product of extensive, effective public consultation. They are certainly not couched in terms that members of the public could easily understand. However, it is now time to conclude. Professional codes of practice and ethics have evolved to articulate, maintain and perhaps raise standards of care as conceived by the professions who formulate them. In this paper, I have tried to show that while the principles and language of ethics are often to be found in codes, there are considerable problems with these

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documents from an ethical point of view. Generally, they have a narrow and confusing view of ethics that may be misleading or even downright harmful. They are unlikely to engender or promote the emergence of ethically competent, responsive and responsible professionals who exercise autonomous, rational critical judgement and choice in the light of universally important moral principles and concerns. This is particularly so because they are largely unaccompanied by the kinds of commentaries, case studies and detailed explanations which would provide for active induction and pedagogy into the critical world of ethics. I recognise the rights of professions to require certain behaviours and attitudes of their members, whether or not these are directly related to ethical norms and principles of a philosophical ethical kind. However, if professional codes are basically codes of behaviour that may or may not have much to do with ethical norms and principles as they appear in philosophy, they should be overt and clear about this. This would allow their status and authority to be discerned and evaluated more adequately by professional members and by the wider moral community of the general public. Furthermore, there seems no good reason why professional codes should not situate themselves within a broad ethical framework and relate themselves to it (Berwick 1997). It might be illuminating to see all codes relating themselves directly to principles such as liberty (promoting autonomy), equality (promoting justice), and fraternity (promoting mutual responsibility), to notions of citizenship and rights (the basis of the BASW Code of Ethics), and to important universal declarations such as the Declaration of Human Rights. This would place professional work on a much broader canvas. It would properly relativise the interests, conservatism, self-protectiveness, narrowness and defensiveness of particular professions. It would also provide a built-in mechanism of self-criticism and appeal for those who do see the importance of broad ethical responsibility and judgement. Beyond this, it would be appropriate for professions to nurture positive individual ethical awareness, choice and responsibility such as that attributed to my ideal type ‘ethical practitioner’ in their members. Part of being a professional is to accept responsibility and to account for one’s own judgement and choices. Aiming to produce professionals who are confident in their own ethical judgement would obviate the dangers of blind, possibly unethical obedience to a code of practice. It might also increase the competence of those professionals in such a way as to enhance their senses of responsibility, accountability, trustworthiness and even enjoyment. Virtuous attitudes and practices based on truly ethical principles and approaches might thus be internalised and routinised rather than being confined to the pages of a document, one of whose principal present uses may be to threaten and coerce people rather than helping them positively to develop creative, life-enhancing professional practice.

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References Beauchamp. T. and Childress, J. (1994) Principles of Biomedical Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Berwick, D. (1997) ‘An ethical code for everybody in health care.’ British Medical Journal 315, 133–4. British Association for Counselling (BAC) (1997) Code of Ethics and Practice for Counsellors. Rugby: BAC. British Association for Social Workers (BASW) (1996) The Code of Ethics for Social Work. Birmingham: BASW College of Occupational Therapists (COT) (1997) ‘Code of ethics and professional conduct for occupational therapists.’ British Journal of Occupational Therapy 60, 1, 33–7. Edgar, A. (1994) ‘The Value of Codes of Conduct.’ In G. Hunt (ed.) Ethical Issues in Nursing. London: Routledge. Hunt, G. (ed.) (1995) Whistleblowing in the Health Service. London: Edward Arnold. Koehn, D. (1994) The Ground of Professional Ethics. London: Routledge. Pattison, S. (1998) ‘Questioning values.’ Health Care Analysis 6, 352–9. Sawyer, L. (1989) ‘Nursing codes of ethics: an international comparison.’ International Nursing Review 36, 5, 145–8. Singer, P. (ed.) (1991) A Companion to Ethics. Oxford: Blackwell. United Kingdom Central Council for Nursing, Midwifery and Health Visiting (UKCC) (1992) Code of Professional Conduct. London: UKCC.

4

The Value of Ethics

One of the latest ‘bolt-ons’ now required in the managerial repertoire is awareness and competence in ethics and values. It is not my purpose here to explore practical issues and theories in everyday managerial life; this has been done elsewhere (Wall 1989). I hope to offer instead some solace to those who feel eviscerated by ethics and vitiated by values by putting these things in a wider perspective. While it is appropriate and human to be confused here about values and ethics, there is no need for despair. The problems managers face in ethics and values are not theirs alone. They stem from a wide variety of factors which make ethics very problematic in all parts of society at the moment.

Why ethics? Why now? The fact that ethics and values have assumed such importance in public service management recently contrasts starkly with the relative indifference shown as recently as ten years ago. A number of factors have contributed to this change. The whole management function has been revised and upgraded; managers, like any other good aspirant profession, feel the need for a code of ethics as part of attaining new identity. At a more practical level, significant decision-making and responsibility have been devolved downwards so many feel the need for greater guidance and for more skills of value judgement. Ethical and value issues become more apparent and more contested when radical change takes place and custom, tradition and ‘common sense’ can no longer serve as a complete guide to behaviour. No-one would argue that public service organisations have not experienced radical change over the last decade. The fact that many of the changes which have taken place have in themselves been driven by a powerful moral vision of free-market values has only served to make ethical concerns more visible. We now self-consciously function in an ethical and value market place, as much as in any other kind of market place. The problem is that while there may be a big vision about where the public service

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should be going, lack of specific guidelines coupled with organisational change and fragmentation means that the details of responsibility and judgement are not filled out, so individuals at the local level have basically to formulate their own values and ways of implementing them. Ironically, while public bodies have become much more politicised and overtly value driven, politics, which from Plato onwards has been the art of debating social values and determining the public good, has been edged out of the public domain with the exclusion of elected, representative politicians from responsible bodies. This has left an ethical vacuum which contributes to the present need to develop professional ethical codes and awareness as a partial substitute. The consensus on the welfare state and the meaning of the public service ethic has disappeared and we are now in a period of exploration and change, sharpened by severely practical concerns about probity in corporate governance, corruption and failure of judgement in public bodies, and the ever-present need to make controversial decisions about the use of ever-scarcer resources. In these circumstances, it is not surprising if public service managers feel a bit at sea, rather confused and isolated, terribly responsible for many things at different levels and needing to get it right first time, without really knowing what ‘right’ means any more.

Can the academics help? It would be nice to report that help is available in the form of concrete answers for managers from the field of theoretical ethics, but a brief encounter with this area throws up more rather than fewer problems for the public service manager. As the recent debate on ‘back to basics’ reveals, it is not at all clear what basics are and even the apparently simple summons to identify right from wrong can be problematic. Here are just a few examples of ethical concerns actually complicating rather than simplifying managerial reality.

Conflicts within and between basic principles You do not have to think long about ethics and values before it is apparent that there are conflicts in the implementation of ‘motherhood’ principles such as freedom, justice and equality. Events such as the Laura Davies case in the NHS, where one little girl required millions of pounds’ worth of treatment in America if she was to survive, illustrate the fundamental clash between honouring the individual’s need for resources over against the needs of a larger population. Even solid-looking principles like that of justice appear to disintegrate when it is realised that this might mean distribution according to means, deserts or needs (Miller 1976). Which principles should the manager then adopt?

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Decline of the moral consensus and authority When Baroness Warnock wanted to define the parameters of human fertilisation and embryology she was reduced to invoking a lowest common denominator of social acceptability for particular scientific procedures rather than being able to find a set of common moral principles (Warnock 1985). We live in a racially, religiously and morally pluralistic society in which there is no single moral authority and there is a lack of moral consensus on many things. What moral presuppositions and codes are appropriate to managers responding to many different groups in public service?

Individualism At the heart of traditional ethics has been the individual moral agent who makes decisions based on the use of reason. Leaving aside the question of whether or not individuals are actually rational in the decisions they make, this means that much ethical discourse has had little to do with the nature of decision-making in organisations. There is a long way to go before ethics can cope adequately with the nature of morality in corporate organisations. What is a manager to do when most ethical resources are individually focused while her responsibilities are about performing as a member of a group? How much responsibility does she and should she take for the collectivity she works in?

The personal, not the social political Just as ethics has focused upon the individual as decision maker, it has tended to avoid thinking about social and policy issues in concrete terms. There is much about what individuals might think and do in relation to, say, euthanasia, but relatively little ethical material on, for example, community care, or the nature of health care policy. As members of organisations concerned with social as well as individual well-being, where is the manager to turn for ethical guidance and reflection?

Reflection versus action Far from being the practice of telling people the difference between right and wrong, much ethical activity is concerned with the lengthy interrogation of concepts and issues surrounding particular issues. If you want a quick, easy answer about what you should do, do not ask an academic ethicist! Academics like time and space to analyse and consider before reaching a provisional judgement. This critical reflective activity stands in stark contrast to the instantaneous, decisive, action-focused nature of managerial life. How is a busy manager to integrate

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meaningful ethical analysis and reflection in a job which may be dominated by decisions which feel as if they should have been made yesterday?

Inevitable ethics In the light of the problematic nature of ethics both in theory and practice many managers may be tempted to follow the example of Michel Montaigne, the fifteenth-century essayist, who tired of being a man of the world and fled to his library stating that ‘To make a choice or a change is to presume to judge’ and so opted out. Others might hope that contracts and market forces generally will sort the whole thing out in the end so there is no point in getting too bothered by the whole issue. Both these options are inappropriate and they may be premature. I want to argue now that in fact we cannot avoid ethics and values in management (even if we choose not to think about them) and the news is not all bad. It should not take Peters and the management gurus to make us aware that we never cease to be involved in the world of valuing some things and choosing some things over against others (Peters and Waterman 1982). Participating in a world of language means that we are constantly involved in valuing some things and disvaluing others – consider the way in which the market language of the NHS has brought some things into prominence (e.g., competition, suspicion, consumers) while obscuring others (e.g., co-operation, trust, patients). We constantly swim in a sea of language and values, adding our own value preferences and performances to this sea. It is, then, not a matter of choosing whether or not to have ethics and values in management. Rather, it is a question of which values should be selected and affirmed and whether we want to be unconscious about these values (in which case our values have us and we are uncritical) or conscious of them (in which case we have the values and can be critical of them). There are a number of implications to this idea of the omniprevalence of a world of ethics and values and our participation in it. First, ethics and values are not only present and relevant in acute dilemmas and crises, though, of course, they present themselves here in a very sharp way. Ethics and values are part of everyday life and experience. They have as much to do with the way we plan our time or communicate with other people as they do with how we make hard decisions about how to distribute scarce resources or discipline staff who have transgressed. Secondly, we all have a good deal of experience of working with ethics and values even if we are not articulate about this – ethics and value management is something we do practically anyway and we are often pretty good at it. Indeed our responses to ethical dilemmas and crises are shaped by what we have previously become in our whole being (thought, attitude, belief, emotion, experience), not just by present events and circumstances.

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The implication of this line of argument is that values and ethics are much more ordinary than we think. They are not just marginal concerns which need to be brought into management ways as a bolt-on, they are there already and we already have some competence. Slightly less comfortingly, the scope of our thinking about ethics and values must be widened to cope with the whole of normal reality, not just with occasional big or problematic issues.

The challenge of ethics and values We live in interesting and problematic times. The integral importance of values and ethics is becoming apparent and initiatives are being taken to develop and codify ethics for managers. This is largely a useful exercise, but there is a risk that ethics will be thought about too narrowly and will not be allowed a full and creative part in managerial life. Thus, some may be tempted to feel that once a professional code has been developed all that is required is rigid adherence to it. It is unlikely that such a rigid code, encompassing all eventualities, can realistically be developed. (Would it look like the Oxford English Dictionary and come with a magnifying glass perhaps?) It is undesirable, too, that individuals should hand over their critical judgement to a book. Others may use the language of ethics and professional codes in a purely defensive way, as a shield to hide behind when times get rough – ‘I was only doing what the book told me to do’. Another stance is to create a kind of ten commandments, a set of shiny organisational principles which can be hung up on every office wall together with the mission statement. This can be polished, admired, reverenced – and basically ignored! A more complex but ultimately equally uncreative use of ethics and codes is to create a private language of obfuscation which makes the user feel better while confusing the ignorant – yet another ill-understood managerial language for making the powerless feel better about their powerlessness, a linguistic fig leaf for managers to conceal their nakedness. In the same vein, more intellectual managers can use ethics and values as an esoteric entertainment to take their minds off urgent practical problems. While recognising that it may be necessary or inevitable for ethics and values to be treated in these ways some of the time, one hopes for something better. The theory and practice of ethics is not a simple matter (nor is life!). At its best, involvement in this area is a process of education, judgement discernment and even of risk which may involve getting things wrong. It is perhaps best seen as a creative and artistic endeavour rather than as mindless obedience to a set of unquestionable verities. There can be no doubt of the need for managers who can self-consciously manage values and ethics in an imaginative and creative way (by ‘creative’ I do not

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mean things like ‘being creative with the truth’!). Equally, there can be no doubt that managers will need help, training in skills of analysis, and hard work to become really skilful in this area. The kind of training they will need will consist not just in acquiring intellectual skills but a training in judgement and character – oddly enough, the kind of training which the Greek philosophers reckoned that people needed if they were to play a full and appropriate part in public life. This goes well beyond the promulgation of codes and prohibitions – it also makes ethics and values much more interesting and a greater resource for public service. While there may be a cost to acquiring ethical competence in terms of time, money and effort, the benefits should be tangible and cost-saving. Managers will become clearer and more confident in their analysis and decision-making, obviating confusion and unnecessary hesitation which can be expensive. Skills of understanding and expression will be developed, enhancing inter-professional relations and increasing understanding, communication and mutual accountability with members of the public. The professional judgement and confidence of managers will be enhanced, enabling them to take responsibility for devolved decision-making more competently. Last, but not least, managerial morale might be enhanced by education into greater complexity of analysis, vision and understanding. The cost of not becoming competent in the area of ethics and values is also very high: Human history is full of examples of ‘simple solutions’ to moral problems. Usually this has resulted in some group or other being despised, exploited or liquidated, because they did not fit well into someone’s master plan. (Campbell and Higgs 1982, pp.106–7)

References Campbell, A. and Higgs, R. (1982) In That Case. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Miller, D. (1976) Social Justice. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Peters, T. and Waterman, R. (1982) In Search of Excellence. London: Harper and Row. Wall, A. (1989) Ethics and the Health Service Manager. London: The King’s Fund. Warnock, M. (1985) A Question of Life. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

PART 2

On Organisation and Management

Introduction Like ethics and values, management has become much more prominent during the last twenty years. When I was a primary school child, my father was the only parent in my class who would have described himself as a manager – he ran a shop. Nowadays, managers are to be found in all types of institutions and all walks of life from factories to general practices and universities. Many of the more senior of them these days would prefer to call themselves leaders rather than managers (perhaps because leadership seems more visionary and dynamic than management, which might connote a more bureaucratic and static approach to organisational work). It is likely that almost every reader of this book will at some point have to take managerial responsibilities of some kind, whether or not they are prepared or trained for them. In 1988, I stopped teaching practical theology at Birmingham University and became a manager in the National Health Service (NHS) as chief officer of a Community Health Council charged with representing the needs of users in the NHS. At the time, the health services along with all public sector organisations were experiencing a managerial revolution as ideas and techniques flowed in from the private sector and the USA where management was consolidated as a discipline after World War II. I was fortunate to be sent, at NHS expense, on a postgraduate degree course in public sector management which enabled me to understand much better what the organisational and management revolution was all about. One of my main perceptions about the theory and practice of management is that it has many of the characteristics and functions traditionally performed by religion. Unfortunately, management and managers do not recognise the religious and faith aspects of their theories and practices. So a main part of my work over the last decade has been to create a theological critique of management, both in secular and religious organisations. My main thinking in this area is contained in The Faith of the Managers (Pattison 1997). The papers included here both give a flavour of the overall thesis of that book, but also advance aspects of my critique of management further. 68

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‘Recognizing Leaders’ Hidden Beliefs’, commissioned by the US DuPree foundation, gives a good flavour of my overall thesis that management can act as a surrogate religion. In many ways, this picks up on the discussion about values [1] in which I point out that many of the values and assumptions that form basic identity and practice remain implicit and inarticulate. My hope is that this essay may provoke readers to problematise and articulate the implicit beliefs and assumptions in management and other practices. This with a view to their being able to look at and choose their beliefs and assumptions as critical ‘theologians’ of their own inhabited worldviews rather than being passive victims thereof. It is not just managers who need to become critics of their faith positions. The next two essays are directed principally at ecclesiastical audiences. If management has some of the features of a religion, then introducing its practices into religious organisations is likely to affect the beliefs, ideologies and practices of those organisations, perhaps in unintended and surprising ways. In ‘Faithful Management or Managing the Faithful?’ the introduction of management into Christian communities as an ostensibly ‘neutral’ set of techniques is questioned. It is not that management ideas and technologies might not be appropriate and helpful. Rather, they need to be critically adopted and adapted so that churches retain that which is good and desirable in their lives and practices. Churches can be very vulnerable to importing techniques from the ‘secular’ world, only recognising the problematic effects they may have long after they have been introduced. American pastoral care was distorted for decades by an over-emphasis upon ideas and techniques derived from individualistic psychology and counselling (Pattison 2000). While management is at least corporately and organisationally oriented, it may be no less misleading if uncritically adopted in a wholesale manner. This is something that social services and voluntary organisations also need to be careful about. Moving from general approaches to a particular aspect of Christian activity, ‘Some Objections to Aims and Objectives’ questions the effect that the emphasis on aims, objectives and measurable outcomes so central in managed organisations might have on pastoral care training and practice. If pastoral care is a diffuse and varied activity which needs to attend to meanings and immeasurable dimensions of life, then too narrow a view of its task, role and effects might be limiting and harmful, as it has been in some other kinds of health and social care where evidence-based practice has been allowed to supplant narrative-based and other kinds of practice. This essay is obviously of central interest to those interested in religiously based pastoral care. However, it should also be useful to anyone working in health and social care in assessing the direction and purpose of their work. As with the essays on values, it is important to be aware of the deep assumptions and structures that will facilitate and constrain activity so that worthwhile, if intangible, ends and directions can be sought. Life is more than clarity,

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measurement, rationality, cause and effect. Those who work with the complexity of human relations and communities need to be reminded of this in an age that is increasingly rationalistic in the narrowest and most unrealistic way. You do not have to be a religious believer to recognise that care must remain broad and flexible if it is to meet human needs that transcend the measurable and material. The last essay in this section was commissioned for a conference on spirituality and health care. In ‘Organisational Spirituality: An Exploration’ the category of spirituality is expanded beyond the individual subject and some categories derived from Christian theology are used to open up the question: Do organisations have a spiritual life of their own which needs to be attended to? The focus of analysis in the paper is the British NHS, but the categories and questions raised here could be applied to all kinds of organisations. Many readers will be familiar with the feeling that the organisation they work in has a distinctive character or personality that constrains and enables different concerns and kinds of action. This paper will help to provide a vocabulary for thinking about the nature of this character and how it might be related to. Again, hopefully, this helps to provide usable imaginative space for organisational inhabitants to think in a different way about their everyday reality so they have more choices within it. Thus theological methods and insights beyond the church can be seen to have wider relevance and value. I will pick up the nature and understanding of spirit and spirituality again in essay 10 in the next section, which looks more specifically at Christian organisations and practices.

References Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers: When Management Becomes Religion. London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (2000) A Critique of Pastoral Care. London: SCM Press.

5

Recognizing Leaders’ Hidden Beliefs

Leadership, although often not expressly connected with faith, is nevertheless supported by assumptions and beliefs that shape a fundamental view of the world and of reality, and that influences leadership’s active expression. Religious and quasi-religious beliefs permeate the leader’s realm. There are even so-called secular leadership principles that are held as tightly as any religious tenet. To find the hidden forms of faith among leaders, it is necessary to evaluate both categories. My approach to this essay stems from my perspective as a British theologian with a long-term interest in leadership in the public sector. From this vantage point, I consider the religious styles of leaders, particularly those in corporate organizations; in many ways, leadership in that context parallels leadership in a religious cult. I also raise questions about the underlying worldviews of leaders and the assumptions of faith that are made with respect to the nature of reality. There follows a discussion of a salient, religionlike aspect of leadership style – namely, the use of language, of such words as vision and mission – because the power of language deserves close scrutiny. This discussion in turn is followed by a critical consideration of some quasi-religious rituals that pervade organizations and may function, at a deep level, as expressions of faith. In the early 1980s, just as North Americans were beginning to lose faith in certain methods of management and leadership (Locke 1996), the same problematic methods were being introduced into the United Kingdom. “New wave” theories, such as those of the management guru Tom Peters, were readily accepted as gospel in mainstream British universities, social service agencies, public utilities, and health service agencies (Huczynski 1996; Peters and Waterman 1982). Services and organizations that had been professionally led and administered (rather than managed) were suddenly blessed with the benefits of business-style leadership and management.

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The change was unmistakable and profound. In the British National Health Service (NHS), for example, chairs of health authorities, directors of finance and personnel, community physicians, nurse managers, general managers, and aspirants to management listened to the prophets of this new order. Influential business professionals, pioneering administrators, reforming researchers, and members of the new NHS management board outlined their dream, a vision that was both organizational and moral. According to Strong and Robinson, “this was not just another way of restructuring the health service, it was also a crusade. The vast, million-strong organization was being remolded along new and highly radical lines.” (1990, p.3) It was shortly after these transformations were introduced, in 1988, that I started to work full-time for the NHS as a health service manager. My background was in practical theology, as a university theology teacher and part-time hospital chaplain. I signed up at the local university for a course in public sector management and started to learn about management and leadership. It was not long before I began to realize that, having left one arena in which belief was overtly important, I had stumbled into another, in which it was just as significant but apparently much less conscious (Pattison 1991). This realization led me to study the unrecognized faith and beliefs of business leaders (Paton and Pattison 1996; Pattison 1997). Let me say here that I do not see belief as a fanciful substitute for knowledge: all social life and human action depend on provisional assumptions about the nature of reality; beliefs of some kind are essential to living, whether these beliefs are essentially religious or not. Moreover, although I recognize differences in emphasis and function between management and leadership, managers in the British public sector are often called on to exercise leadership, and so in this chapter I seek to provide a balanced use of both terms. The beliefs of managers in the British public sector are similar to those of North American business leaders; indeed, the latter, through both the deliberate and the unwitting export of their ideas and practices, have shaped many of the beliefs and practices of the former (Locke 1996). My hope is that the perceptions outlined in this chapter will illuminate the unrecognized beliefs and practices that are often found in leadership, whether in the public sector or the private sector, and whether in Britain or in the United States. It may be easier, in fact, to recognize such beliefs as faith-based assumptions by examining them in a context other than the one in which they are normally encountered.

Leadership and the context of belief Probably no society, culture, group, or individual can survive without beliefs and assumptions of some kind, and leaders are no exception to this rule. Fundamental

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religious needs, and desires for meaning, efficacy, belonging, and security, may change from one era or culture to another, but they do not go away. In our postmodern, millennial era, certainty and security are in short supply. Therefore, it is not surprising that some people, seeking a sense of control and security, turn to the solid-looking techniques and theories of management and leadership. As they do, they may find themselves unwittingly but perhaps gladly imbibing a unique and unrecognized system of faith. It is often argued that the Enlightenment emancipated human beings from religion by giving them the freedom of reason and providing the impetus for the process of secularization. It can also be argued that human beings still tend to need to believe in something, even if they have less faith than before in formal Christian religious institutions. The practice of management and leadership offers a socially credible system of faith in our secular age. Perhaps business leaders’ recent overt expressions of interest in spirituality demonstrate the continuing importance of active, inhabited faith in modern society. It should not be assumed that Christianity is without influence in the contemporary world. The United States remains a country with high rates of participation in formal religion. Protestant Christianity and business in North America have been influencing each other since the middle of the nineteenth century. This explains, in no small part, the overtly Christian cast of some management beliefs and practices. If we believe that secularization is just one moment within the larger history of Christianity in the West, we can argue that management represents a transmutation or a new manifestation of Christianity in the modern world. It is also worth noting that some influential, foundational leadership theorists have always seen management beliefs and practices as having significance beyond their pragmatic organizational functions. For example, according to Beatty (1998), Peter Drucker has expressed a strong interest in the nineteenth-century philosopher and theologian Søren Kierkegaard, and Drucker himself (1974, p.261) has articulated a high moral doctrine of management as “the keeper of society’s conscience and the solver of society’s problems” – that is, as a global guardian of freedom and decency, against totalitarian forces such as those that drove him from his native Austria. This kind of function was traditionally played, at least in part, by religion. Other theorists, although they do not express any kind of overtly Christian faith or commitment, have drawn extensively on religious styles and methods of persuasion to gain sway in the business world (Pattison 1997).

“Religious styles” in leadership As preachers know all too well, beliefs are truly significant only if they find embodiment in behavior and practice. I first began to suspect that the model of

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leadership and management being imported to Britain from the North American business sector was built on a quasi-religious belief system when I noticed the following similarities and parallels between behavior and assumptions in the business world and in some radical, often sectarian, Christian groups (see, for example, Hill 1973): ·

radical commitment from every member of the organization, regardless of position

·

corporate identity that is intensely prized and jealously guarded, with members of the organization required to be loyal and to adhere to a common set of values

·

attention to such distinctive features of the organization as its values and identity (with the organization itself deemed good, virtuous, beneficent, salvific, and altruistic, whereas other, similar organizations and the world outside are either damned or ignored)

·

abundant dualistic language of apocalypse and mysticism in such concepts as vision, mission, and doom scenarios

·

conversion of people to the aims, values, and practices of the organization as the means by which they will find a sense of purpose, community, and belonging

·

seeking of perfection, in the form of excellence or quality, on the part of all organizational members, to ensure that consumers aren’t lost

·

prizing of personal experiences and stories (rather than theory, analysis, reading, and research) as resources for understanding and action

·

values of obedience and conformity, despite rhetoric of empowerment and liberation

·

fear and insecurity, as encouraged by the use of short-term contracts, reinforced with the threat of rapid dismissal, to ensure conformity (compare the place of hell, damnation, and exclusion from the community of salvation in some Christian groups)

·

evangelization within the organization and its client base, with the requisite emphasis on what are enigmatically called communication skills

·

clear, simple, indisputable theories and statements about the organization.

As for how leadership is exercised in such organizations, other kinds of parallel behavior are also often noticeable:

RECOGNIZING LEADERS’ HIDDEN BELIEFS / 75 ·

a rhetoric of communal and individual empowerment, but with a leadership style that is often directive, and with leadership from above

·

rather than an elaborate hierarchy of leadership, a flattened structure that is distinct and definite

·

leadership based essentially on charismatic authority rather than on professional training or knowledge, with qualifications embodied primarily in personality, gifts, competence, and experience

·

assessment of leaders according to performance, or outcomes (as other charismatic figures are also assessed), even though the features essential to leadership may be vague or disputed

·

requirement that leaders (particularly senior-level leaders) exercise personal asceticism, devote themselves to their organizations, and view their commitment as a kind of vocation that takes precedence over other demands and relationships

·

unique positioning of leaders, because of their charismatic gifts and authority, to create visions that their organizations should pursue

·

leaders’ periodic attendance at conferences (rallies or revivals) where traveling evangelists (such as Tom Peters) uplift them with heartwarming personal stories of managerial success (Crainer 1997), thereby helping them reinforce their authority and confirm their identity, vision, and inspiration (business leaders may prefer convention centers to old-fashioned revival tents, but the means used by such conferences, and the messages they convey, are similar to those found among successful Christian evangelists, and these conferences often appeal more to the hearts than to the minds of those who attend them).

The parallels just outlined do caricature somewhat the style and nature of the business leadership that was introduced into British public service (and I think these parallels apply to the North American context as well). Despite this stereotypical condensation, however, many people will find, for better or for worse, a large measure of truth in these descriptions.

Examples of leaders’ worldviews All kinds of human activity, behavior, and practices express fundamental views and beliefs, or assumptions, about the nature of the world. These assumptions often remain implicit, for they constitute everyday reality; they are essentially invisible and unquestionable. They are embodied in deep metaphors and images

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that condition, perhaps unconsciously, people’s views of reality and of the nature of the world. Almost every popular book on leadership presents a set of techniques and concepts that, if followed (it is claimed), will transform an organization and guarantee its success. This is particularly true of the books produced by any of the so-called gurus. These books are characterized by a sense of forward-looking optimism about the possibilities in a changing world (Handy 1995; Peters 1987). In many ways, theorists and consultants are selling faith, hope, and meaning as much as specific knowledge or techniques. The kinds of belief systems or action-informing worldviews that they are propounding often embody, to a greater or lesser extent, the following assumptions: ·

People, as long as they have the right techniques, can largely control the world and effectively colonize the future.

·

Clear goals and objectives can be set for the future, and they can and will be attained.

·

Customers or consumers should be able to have exactly what they want, when they want it.

·

Everything that is significant can and should be measured objectively.

·

The greatest good is the prosperity and flourishing of the organization.

·

Well-motivated organizations and their employees can do no harm.

In many ways, the unspoken faith or belief system is laid bare in these assertions. Most of them are open to fundamental criticism, question and dispute, particularly from the perspective of Christian theology. For example, Christian theology would affirm the importance of human activity in the world and does not oppose creative thinking about the future. It is obvious, however, even to those who do not work within the paradigm of Christian thought, that people cannot and will not be able to control major events and factors in the future, in all, or even in most, respects. Utilitarians have discovered, to their embarrassment, that things seldom work out as they are expected to. The hope of colonizing the future is a myth. It looks as if this theory, although it has ingested from the Judeo-Christian tradition the importance of human creative activity and responsibility, has also lost, unfortunately, the corresponding aspect of that tradition, which emphasizes the limits and fallibility of human activity and suggests that the future is ultimately not in the hands of mortals. Similar comments can be made about the practices of setting goals and objectives and assuming that the future will be better than the present. This

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forward-looking optimism finds some of its roots in Christian eschatology, where the promise of humankind’s liberation is expected to find fulfillment in the future Kingdom of God, with the return of Christ. In Christianity, however, there are also substantial warnings that what the Second Coming will represent for some is a time of judgment, condemnation, and woe; the future lies in God’s hands and will not necessarily be worked out according to human desire, all of which throws the notion of unthinking optimism into question. And this skepticism is entirely congruent with everyday experience, in which objectives are often quickly dated, strategic plans look unrealistic after only a short time, and nothing quite works out as it was expected to. Most people have enough experience of negative and unexpected outcomes to realize that things are as likely to get worse as they are to improve; if we are lucky, there is a balance as some things get better while others get worse. Ultimately, business leaders and their organizations cannot know whether their goals, objectives, and values will produce a better future. Like all believers, they must assume that a better future is forthcoming and, like the rest of the population, they must wait and see. The only thing that can be expected with any confidence is the unexpected. As for the sovereignty of the customer, it is one of the principal themes of business leadership theory, and it has crept into all parts of life. For example, Drucker (1974, p.67) argues that the main aim of business is “to create a customer.” Moreover, what lies at the heart of total quality management is the ideology that everyone is the customer of everyone else inside and outside the organization, and that customers’ true needs and requirements are sacrosanct. It is laudable that people are considering the interests of others. It is questionable, however, that the richest, most adequate model of human relationships should be the model of customer and supplier – not least because many people on earth will have only very limited access to the money required to be an effective “customer” in the first place. Furthermore, the notion that individuals can have exactly what they want, when they want it, is profoundly false. No moral imperative in the natural order suggests that people should always have what they want and should have constant access to an ever-available, inexhaustible supply of goodies. One of the most interesting aspects of life and of education is the discovery that, although we have not received what we thought we wanted, we can make use of different, unpredictable, and unexpected types of goods and experiences. Learning to see the benefits of not getting our way, finding treasures in the very experiences we normally shun, is in fact a spiritual practice. Another important assumption of leadership thinking is that everything worth doing can and should be quantified in some way. Drucker (1974) sees objective setting and measurement as two of the five main management tasks, whereas Handy (1996, p.137) relates that as a junior manager he was taught, “If

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you can’t count it, it doesn’t count.” This kind of thinking is very dominant in Britain’s public sector organizations: because resources are limited, results and optimal effectiveness are all-important. But this is a reductionist approach to the nature of existence. Many of life’s important aspects are actually intangible and cannot be measured; the relational aspect of work is but one obvious example. There may be intrinsic value (in terms of friendship and creativity) in going to work, as well as intrinsic benefits (for example, access to health and happiness) in being employed. Nevertheless, some theorists’ advocacy, on the basis of shared commonsense experience, of the notion that everything worth doing can be predicted and objectively measured is an absurd distortion. Many businesses and their leaders have recently become more conscious of their social context and their inherent responsibility to it; attention to business ethics flourishes as the conscience of organizational life. Most leaders continue, understandably, to see the productivity and profitability of their organizations as an unquestionable first priority and unchallengeable good, and arguments can certainly be cited in support of this assumption; for example, an unproductive and unprofitable organization is unlikely to supply secure employment for its staff. A broader social perspective, however, may lead to the belief that robust organizational growth is not always the greatest good. It seems probable that no group of individuals and no organization, however morally dubious it may appear to an observer, can cope with the notion that its effect on the world and those around it is fundamentally negative. People need to feel that they are doing good and useful work, at least in their own eyes. This need, combined with the recent emphasis on organizations being value-led and having clear aims and ethical standards, has conspired, perhaps, to reinforce a fundamental belief in “organizational goodness”: because we have clarified our aims and enunciated clear values, and because we are well-motivated, decent people, it can be assumed that our organization benefits humankind and does no harm. But we don’t need the protests of ecologically concerned groups, or of consumers harmed by some commercial product, in order to recognize that most leaders and organizations do harm as well as good. This is the nature of the human condition, and it has to be accepted and lived with, not denied or ignored. On the whole, organizations of all kinds, together with their leaders, are very poor at acknowledging the harm that they do and seeking to make real amends for it – what Christians would call repentance, making restitution and seeking reconciliation. Perhaps the capacity for corporate repentance should be seen as a necessary social virtue, not just an optional religious one. The beliefs I have been describing may be necessary and basically immutable among leaders in the world as we currently know it, but that should not be a facile excuse for leaders not to acknowledge these beliefs and take more responsibility

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for them. When we are unaware of the beliefs to which we (tacitly) assent, we become their possessions rather than their possessors, and our power to make much-needed changes is limited.

Mystical metaphors The use and manipulation of language is perhaps the main tool that leaders use in their influential roles. According to Mangham (1986, p.82), “Language is the currency of interaction at all levels of encounter and its manipulation is a key feature of persuasion. … Organizations are created, maintained and changed through talk.” The unrecognized beliefs of leaders are often most vividly displayed and implied by the use of words and concepts. I have been fascinated by leaders’ acceptance of words and concepts that have overtly religious resonances, and that are used in important ways to obtain commitment and legitimacy in organizations. Nevertheless, leaders and managers often seem oblivious both to the provenance of their vocabulary and to the hidden and secondary meanings that might be implicit in it. Two of the most prominent of such concepts are those of the organizational “mission” and the organizational “vision.” The organizational vision is what is supposed to motivate an organization – to give it a sense of ultimate direction and even ultimate meaning. The organizational mission, often embodied in a short mission statement, points to what the organization intends to do in order to realize its vision. The concept of the mission has positive connotations: clarity of purpose, urgency, outer-directedness, and the need for change. But it also has more negative connotations, evidenced in the history of religious and other ideological movements: unquestioning response to a command “from above,” dualism, a view of the world as a hostile place that needs changing, and a perception of those outside the organization as alien or even demonic “objects” needing conversion or elimination. Christian missions have often been aggressive, violent, exploitative, and colonial (hence also the utility for the military of the concept of the mission). Those who use this concept in leadership need to be aware of its negative as well as its more positive associations and underlying meanings. Similar observations can be made about the concept of the vision. On the one hand, it has connotations of changing things for the better, not accepting an unsatisfactory present, and thinking about the future. On the other, it can be associated with arbitrariness, fending off challenges (after all, who challenges a vision?), top-down planning, and obedience and passivity in the face of an authority that cannot be questioned. I do not mean to suggest that leaders should refrain from using powerful, motivating concepts that embody important beliefs about the nature of reality. I am simply suggesting that there may be something to be gained from

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recognizing the nature of our beliefs and the effects that they may be having on us, our organizations, and our wider social context.

“Religious” rituals A belief system is seldom if ever merely a free-standing collection of abstract ideas and assumptions. It usually comes with a matching set of practices and rituals, which, like the belief system they support, may not be as instrumental and rational as they appear at first sight. In the case of contemporary organizations, many practices have the quality of rituals. In this context, I use the term rituals to mean activities that are symbolically important but that do not necessarily have the direct instrumental function that they may be assumed to have. In the Christian Church, for example, the Eucharist is a ritual act because, although it is a meal, people do not actually partake of it to gain nutrition. Strategic planning is a good example of an activity that is undertaken by many organizations with great seriousness, and at great expenditure of effort. There are exceptions, but the typical strategic plan is irrelevant almost as soon as it has been completed: the internal and external environments change so quickly that the information used to formulate the plan is already outdated. Unfortunately, this fact does not necessarily stop planners from sitting down and repeating the planning exercise all over again. What is going on in this situation, where this kind of activity can be thought of as essentially futile? Cleverly (1971) suggests that strategic planning functions are a means of coping with anxiety in the face of an unknown and threatening future. This is a classic use of ritual, and Cleverly likens it to the Roman practice of killing birds and examining their entrails in order to predict the future in times of crisis and war: the greater the threat, the more birds were sacrificed. In a similar way, strategic formulation or implementation that does not reckon with variables that are actually shaping the future allows people to feel as if they are in control, as if they are doing something to gain mastery (an illusory sense of mastery) over the unpredictable future. There are many other practices in leadership and management that are more ritualistic and symbolic than rational and functional. The importance accorded to leadership itself, and the dominance of the mythical “bottom line,” are two further examples of phenomena whose significance may be different from the meaning actually ascribed to them by their protagonists (Grint 1995). Here again I must reiterate that I am not suggesting the jettisoning of practices and ideas supported more by faith and assumptions than by measurement and empirical evaluation. Rather than live without faith and beliefs of any kind, the point is for us to recognize and critically assess our inhabited systems of faith, our beliefs, and our rituals.

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Conclusion Belief- or faith-free leadership is probably not realistic or even desirable in the contemporary world. Leadership is, to a large extent, a creative and aesthetic activity. It contains important symbolic, nonrational, and even spiritual elements (Alvesson and Willmott 1996). It is easy to ignore or deny them, but instead they can be usefully acknowledged, befriended, and owned. Instead of aspiring to become free of faith or beliefs, leaders might become more critically aware of their basic beliefs and assumptions. This awareness would allow them to engage in more careful assessment of the nature, content, effects, and desirability of their beliefs. It could also help them positively choose or change their beliefs. In this way, it would become possible for managers to possess their faith systems more dearly rather than be possessed by them. They would then have a critical, questioning faith.

References Alvesson, M. and Willmott, H. (1996) Making Sense of Management. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Beatty, J. (1998) The World According to Drucker. London: Orion Business Books. Cleverly, G. (1971) Managers and Magic. White Plains, NY: Longman. Crainer, S. (1997) Corporate Man to Corporate Skunk: The Tom Peters Phenomenon. Oxford: Capstone. Drucker, P. (1974) Management: Tasks, Responsibilities, Practices. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann. Grint, K. (1995) Management: A Sociological Introduction. Cambridge: Polity. Handy, C. (1995) The Empty Raincoat. London: Arrow Books. Handy, C. (1996) Beyond Certainty. London: Arrow Books. Hill, M. (1973) A Sociology of Religion. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann. Huczynski, A. (1996) Management Gurus. London: International Thomson Business Press. Locke, R.R. (1996) The Collapse of the American Management Mystique. New York: Oxford University Press. Mangham, I. (1986) Power and Performance in Organizations. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Pattison, S. (1991) ‘Mystical management: a religious critique of management in the public sector.’ Modern Churchperson 33, 3, 17–27. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers: When Management Becomes Religion. London: Cassell. Paton, R. and Pattison, S. (1996) ‘The religious dimensions of management beliefs.’ Iconoclastic Papers 1, 1. Peters, T. (1987) Thriving on Chaos: Handbook for a Management Revolution. New York: Knopf. Peters, T. and Waterman, R. (1982) In Search of Excellence: Lessons from America’s Best-Run Companies. San Francisco: Harper San Francisco. Strong, P. and Robinson, J. (1990) The NHS – Under New Management. Buckingham: Open University Press.

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Additional readings Flanagan, H. and Spurgeon, P. (1996) Public Sector Managerial Effectiveness. Buckingham: Open University Press. Fleming, S., Bopp, K. and Anderson, K. (1993) ‘Spreading the “Good News” of Quality Management.’ Health Care Management Review 18, 4, 29–33. Stewart, R. (1996) Leading in the NHS. Old Tappan, NJ: Macmillan.

6

Faithful Management or Managing the Faithful?

In 1991, just before he ascended the throne of Augustine in Canterbury, George Carey gave an interview to The Reader’s Digest. In it, he suggested that the church needed to become more businesslike in its organisational methods. The theological rationale for this was that Jesus himself was a manager. There is no doubt that during the 1990s the leadership of the churches has been converted to the theories and practices of management. The first fruits of this conversion are now apparent in many parts of the church. At parish level, clergy are becoming familiar with the importance of constructing ‘business’ plans with clear, measurable aims and objectives; clerical supervisors – circuit superintendents, rural deans, archdeacons and the like – are increasingly at home with the management speak of strategic planning, human resources, and vision and mission formulation; and, at the highest echelons, archbishops hang upon the words of management ‘gurus’ and parrot the rhetoric of becoming ‘a learning organisation’. The apotheosis of this managerialising trend has been realised in the advent of corporate logos and the belated appearance, in 1999, of the Church of England’s mission statement. The management revolution, if that is what it is, has been supported by the emergence of MODEM (Managerial and Organisational Disciplines for the Enhancement of Ministry) and by the inauguration in 1999 of the first MBA programme in Church Management for clergy. It seems that management and religion have kissed and are in the process of happily lying down together. This is not necessarily a bad thing. All organisations need structure and direction. They also need to be able to utilise resources effectively, efficiently and economically. The church, diminished in terms of finance and personnel in a secularising society, is no exception. Furthermore, the contemporary religious

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community should not be insulated from major international social practices such as management. So some of these developments are welcome. But, before relaxing into a managed future, it is perhaps worth trying to evaluate some of the assumptions underlying the kind of popular theory and practice that tends to be adopted by organisations new to management. This is particularly important because management can be seen not just as a collection of useful and neutral techniques, but in some ways as a faith or religious system in itself. According to Geertz (1993) one definition of a religion is that it is: (1) a system of symbols which acts to (2) establish powerful, pervasive and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by (3) formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and (4) clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that (5) the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic. Understood thus, management appears to perform many of the functions that Christianity and other religions have provided in the past. It acts as ‘a panacea, a comfort, a source of all meaning, a path to identity, morality, wholeness, progress, worth’ (Cooter 1984). Indeed, some kinds of management seem more religious than conventional religion itself. Readers will be familiar with the proliferation of language of vision, mission, hope and chaos that abounds in some popular managerial texts and organisations. They may also have encountered prophets and other charismatic figures who discourse on values, leadership and shaping the future. In this essay, I cannot explore all the religious implications and analogies of all kinds of management; but I aim to point up in general terms some of the implicit ‘theologies’ and faith assumptions underlying ideas which might, on the face of it, appear to be religiously neutral. And I will briefly interrogate these assumptions from the perspective of the Christian theological tradition, with a view to engendering debate on the nature, value and place of management within religious communities.

Implicit ‘theologies’ of management Management ideas and practices embody and communicate basic assumptions, values, ideas and ways of behaving. That is to say that they are ‘theory laden’. According to Browning (1991): ‘All our practices, even our religious practices, have theories behind and within them. We may not notice the theories in our practices. We are so embedded in our practices, take them so much for granted, and view them as so natural that we never take the time to abstract the theory from the practice and look at it as something in itself.’ A major underlying assumption of management – that stems from its origins in capitalist industrial society – is that the present economic order, with its

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emphases upon growth, change, consumption and exploitation, is unproblematic. Despite the rhetoric of social responsibility and ethics, very few management techniques or principles challenge the capitalist status quo and the right of managers to exploit resources and people more efficiently and to their own benefit. This is not surprising, because most management theory and practice is developed and paid for by those self-same capitalists. It is, however, problematic if seen from a religious perspective of stewardship. This suggests that the world belongs to the whole human race under God and that exploitation and growth may not in themselves be unequivocal goods. A further, related assumption is that life and activity are best conceived in terms of a single, simple, unifying purpose. This is what mission and vision statements are intended to accomplish. Unfortunately, single-minded clarity often excludes legitimate plurality and diversity. This may be acceptable in certain contexts where, for example, direction can be determined by a quick consultation of share prices. However, religious communities arguably have a ‘mission’ to prize diversity and difference of purpose and intent, even when this is profoundly difficult and uncomfortable. In this context, clarity of purpose may inadvertently lead to the creation of a very narrow church. Clarity of purpose and exclusion of diversity may be accompanied by a kind of implicit dualism in which the managed organisation is self-perceived as good and legitimate, a realm of light, while other organisations and those around are thought of as being in a kind of darkness. The upshot of this kind of thought is that those inside the organisation are expected to be perfect, to provide ‘total quality’ and excellence of service, while outsiders either need to be evangelised or eliminated. This split way of seeing the world is by no means confined to management practice – the Christian church has perfected dualistic demonisation in many contexts historically. However, Christianity also contains within it an understanding of the universal love and care of God for all, whether organisational members or not. This same God sends the rain on both good and bad and seems to require that we should love and respect our perceived enemies and rivals rather than seeking to destroy them. The Christian God also seems to recognise that individuals and groups are not perfect, but that their imperfections, evil-doing and sin may not be the end of the world or of relationships in a community characterised by forgiveness rather than scapegoating and blame. Management has its roots in competitive capitalism. Many of the techniques it employs embody an implicitly violent view of the world and other people. ‘It’s a jungle out there’ seems to be a mentality shared by many hard-pressed managers. In this context, if you are not winning and growing you are losing and dying. You have to fight to survive. The only sorts of positive relationships that are possible between people are well-defined legal and financial ones specified in clear legal contracts whereby we all become each others’ customers or suppliers. This

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mistrustful, quasi-Hobbesian perspective must be problematic in a religious community that sees the world as graced by a beneficent creator who covenants rather than contracts, that believes in a Kingdom of God where all work together for a common good, that holds the hope that people may sue for peace in a world where they are content with what they have already, and that characterises the relationships between people in terms of undefined brotherhood and sisterhood rather than in those of contractor and employer. One of the most important features of modern management has been its emphasis upon ‘accountancy values’ such as measurement and evaluation. ‘If you can’t count it, it doesn’t count’ is an unspoken maxim that underlies life in many managed organisations. The problem here is that many intangible qualities and experiences in life rate as negligible or non-existent from this point of view. This has to be of some concern from a religious perspective. Here it is often the case that things that are inherently unquantifiable, such as love, compassion, friendship and care, need to count for a good deal. Crude materialism and measurement may thus prove to be an enemy of spirituality and complex relationships. Despite the rhetoric of empowerment, organisational flattening and creativity that has accompanied some modern managerial thinking, management often increases bureaucracy, engenders complex mechanisms of upward accountability, and elaborates hierarchies of command and control. Managers demand the right to manage and to determine organisational objectives. They set in place mechanisms such as appraisal that reinforce the need for obedience and conformity on the part of workers. This kind of de facto hierarchical managerial autonomy is at odds with any kind of vision of a religious community that suggests that it should exist principally for the benefit of outsiders. It also contradicts any kind of notion that authority given through the Spirit should be diverse and disseminated. Inevitably, the practice of contemporary management finds little space for the Christian incarnational kenotic inversion of power and authority whereby the meek inherit the earth and the ruler washes their feet. One of the most notable assumptions underlying contemporary management theories and practices is an unfailing forward-looking optimism. Management presents itself as an infallible instrument for controlling and manipulating the future for the better. The past is forgotten, together with the failures of managers and management, in the confidence that, with good management, tomorrow will be better than today. This kind of unalloyed hopefulness is characteristic of capitalist eschatology. Unfortunately, it fails to take into account the fallibility or sinfulness of managers and those who work for them as well as the fact that the future is not, in fact, controllable in an entirely beneficent way. The Christian belief that the future lies in God’s hands creates an important boundary of unknowing that questions managerial Pelagianism and hubris.

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This kind of theological critique of the assumptions and limits of management could be prolonged. Of course, I have allowed an element of caricature to creep into my portrayal here. There are many different kinds of management theory and practice, some of them sophisticated and socially concerned. Equally, most managers are not power-crazed manipulators who are wholly uncritical of the capitalist social order. However, the point I am making is that the world views implicit in much popular managerial theory and practice should not go unquestioned from a theological and religious perspective.

On having a critical faith So far, there has been little attempt at effective critique of the use of management techniques within the church. Thus, for example, a recent anthology on managerial leadership in the church provides a negligible amount of religious thought about leadership while enthusiastically commending managerially derived ideas to a religious audience (see Nelson 1999). While the introduction of management ideas into the churches is probably unstoppable and, in many ways, welcome, it is essential that religious communities should engage critically with the underlying religious and ideological nature of management. In the first place, the adoption and use of management techniques will probably fundamentally influence the nature and character of the church. While this may confer benefits, valued aspects of its nature may be lost. These might include, for example, the valuing of the intangible, the importance of power coming from below rather than above, and a concern for the whole world rather than just the success of the ecclesiastical organisation. Similarly, some rather undesirable aspects of ecclesiastical existence such as hierarchical power, cosmophobic dualism and rating success by numbers (cash received, pews filled), may be reinforced by managerial ideology. More worryingly, the wholesale, uncritical adoption of management and business methods may diminish the church’s ability to perform a prophetic role in society. The introduction of management and the ways of the market may be symptoms of the de-politicisation and privatisation of religion. If religious communities become the ‘spiritual services on offer in the religious supermarket of the modern world’, they will ‘take on the characteristics of the goods on sale’. Where religion becomes a commodity, ‘one does not have to be a fundamentalist to see this as practised atheism’ (Moltmann 1999). Considering the almost complete rapprochement and mutual assimilation between US business and religious organisations whereby the latter have ‘exchanged the emotional fervour of Christianity, its deep and moving feeling for the terrible burden of human depravity’ for ‘a breezy faith in efficiency’, Moore writes that ‘normal’ religion is alive and well in American life. ‘The downside of

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this statement is that wellness does not carry with it transformative power. The paradigm-busters are nowhere in view … Where are the real religious prophets?’ (Moore 1994). What profiteth a church if it becomes a standard modern managed organisation at the expense of its quirky soul? Management is permeating all parts of modern society. In some ways it is a new world religion that is likely to affect the lives of every soul on earth. Traditional religious communities are unlikely to be able to avoid its effects and techniques entirely. However, it behoves them to ensure that they can continue to offer their own distinctive view of human possibilities and futures. This may be in the interests of the long-term survival of churches that are generally unwise to marry the prevailing spirit of any age or culture. It is also an important service to all those whose lives and well-being are affected by management and who seek something different from religious communities than more of what they get at work every day. Managers and the managed need to have access to imaginative and symbolic space in which they can sing the songs of Sion and catch a glimpse of the something more and something better figured by the Kingdom of God rather than having to murmur the mantras of quality, leadership, consumerism, standards, audit and excellence. In many ways, managerial ideology is an attempt to eliminate risk and uncertainty and to establish rational control in an increasingly precarious, uncertain and threatening world. Much hope and expectation is being invested in management and managers as guarantors of order, calculability, predictability and control. It is unlikely that these idealising expectations can be met. The fate of the managers is the kind of disillusion and contempt that have set in with other technologies of hope such as counselling and social work. In this context of anxiety and threat, maintaining hopeful, imaginative pastoral space for the managers and the managed is perhaps one of the most important services religious communities can offer in the contemporary world. God is not a manager. Jesus was not a management expert. The Spirit blows where it wills, creating and disturbing, making the world both more unpredictable and more interesting than the management gurus will ever guess. We are living in a graced world in which we are not on short-term contracts or performance related pay. In this context, it is important for Christianity to hang on to the faith that is its real treasure rather than trying to become a third rate kind of Marks and Spencer that prizes customer satisfaction over vital questions about life and death.

References Browning, D. (1991) A Fundamental Practical Theology. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Cooter, R. (1984) The Cultural Meaning of Popular Science. Cambridge: CUP.

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Geertz, C. (1993) The Interpretation of Cultures. London: Fontana. Moltmann, J. (1999) God for a Secular Society. London: SCM. Moore, L. (1994) Selling God. Oxford: OUP. Nelson, J. (ed.) (1999) Leading, Managing, Ministering. Norwich: Canterbury Press.

7

Some Objections to * Aims and Objectives

Introduction Somewhere in Gower Street, London, stands an undistinguished terraced house bearing, like many of its neighbours, a metal plaque beside its front door. The name-plate declares it to be the offices of the Institute of Measurement and Control. I have no idea what this Nineteen Eighty-four-ish-sounding organization actually does, though I suspect it has something to do with industrial processes. It is probably run by delightful, helpful people who have no wish to rule the world and have never read George Orwell. Nonetheless, the existence of this Institute points up the value put upon control and measurement in contemporary society – a McDonaldizing society. In a book that is both amusing and worrying, The McDonaldization of Society, George Ritzer argues after Max Weber that late capitalist society is bent upon becoming ever more rational (Ritzer 1996). This means that the principles of efficiency, calculability, predictability and control are bound to become more and more important, not only in business, but in organizations in general, and throughout social institutions ranging from family life through to education, healthcare and government. Among the chief propagators of rationalization or McDonaldization are contemporary managers. Despite the rhetoric of creativity, liberation, democracy and empowerment that often characterizes the popular paperbacks produced by ‘new wave’ management gurus like Tom Peters (Huczynski 1996; Peters 1993), much of the reality of management is about centralized control and domination of the workforce (Locke 1996). Frederick Taylor’s ‘scientific management’ (with its emphasis on treating people as part of a mechanical process that can be specified,

*

This essay is a revised and considerably expanded version of a paper called ‘Should pastoral care have aims and objectives?’ that first appeared in Contact 120 (1996), pp.26–34.

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measured and controlled) remains a dominant tradition in management theory and practice today (Pollitt 1993; Ralston Saul 1998). A main function of management is to control activity by setting objectives and measuring performance against them (Drucker 1974). Managers and the rationalizing assumptions of management are now becoming more familiar in the ecclesiastical world. It is, then, perhaps worth asking whether the principles of rationalization embodied in management are entirely appropriate to the religious community. This community may have, and wish to preserve and bear witness to, distinctive values and practices that may be somewhat inimical to efficiency, calculability, predictability and control. McDonaldization proceeds apace in the ‘secular’ world, as the spread of McDonald’s restaurants clearly shows. It appears to carry all before it, effortlessly destroying traditional values and life patterns. Before churches succumb to rationalizing management and the inevitable changes of value and practice that this will bring about, it is to be hoped that they will ponder what might be lost as well as what might be gained. McDonaldization, like the capitalist economy that it reflects and upholds, is not necessarily beneficial in its effects. If churches want to maintain the possibility of providing alternative, wider visions of what it is to be human that transcend and find space for that which cannot easily be measured and controlled, then they need to be wary of importing management techniques and their underlying assumptions uncritically (Pattison 1997). In this chapter I will address the dangers of uncritical managerial rationalization in churches by tackling the more specific question, ‘Should pastoral care have aims and objectives?’ Pastoral care has been selected as a locus for specific concern because it is a distinct and universal form of Christian practice which embodies, or at least should embody, the basic values of the Christian community in which it is situated. The arena of the ‘pastoral’ can be very broadly taken to refer to all the practical activities that ministers and laypeople undertake as part of their service for Church and world. Discussing pastoral care is a slightly more specific way of raising the general question ‘Should ministry have aims and objectives?’, or indeed, ‘Should Christian living generally have aims and objectives?’ With a little imagination, my discussion of pastoral care can be extended to other areas of Christian life, ministry and discipleship. The issue of adopting aims and objectives has been selected as a surrogate for discussing managerial ideas and techniques more generally because the adoption of aims and objectives is often the way that the rationalizing managerial worldview is incarnated in practice at a very basic level. I shall conclude that, insofar as the adoption of aims and objectives may be narrowing, reductive and fragmenting, they should be rejected in Christian ministry. My objections to the uncritical adoption of an aims and objectives approach are situated within wider concerns for the nature of truth and religious

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reality which are threatened by the assumptions and mechanisms lying behind the structures which have thrust aims and objectives into prominence. I want to find a way of thinking about purpose and direction in pastoral care which is faithful to the nature of this activity as religiously based and consonant with aspects of the Christian theological tradition. This is not easy at the present time, but it is necessary if pastoral care specifically and ministry generally are to preserve some kind of savour of religious perception and insight and to make a distinctive contribution to human well-being that extends beyond McDonaldization. First, a word about the nature of aims and objectives. For present purposes aims may be regarded as general, overall statements of purpose and aspiration, while objectives are statements of the constituent tasks which must be accomplished if the overall aims are to be realized. To accomplish specific objectives, particular competences and skills are needed. So, for example, to attain the overall aim of producing a chapter on aims and objectives in pastoral care, it is necessary that I should attain the objectives of, first, fully researching the relevant literature and, secondly, summarizing adequately on paper what I have learnt from it. To meet these objectives I will need the skills of reading, abstracting, summarizing and writing, among others. If I do not have these skills, I need to acquire them, or perhaps to change my aims and objectives so they are more realistically matched to my resources.

Introducing aims and objectives There was a time, say in the early 1980s, when it would have been offensive to ask members of any group or profession what their aims and objectives were. Individual professionals were presumed to know what they were doing and why they were doing it – they were educated and paid for it – and it was not for others to enquire too deeply into what was going on. Nowadays, any individual or group that cannot give a clear statement of its purpose, aims and objectives, together with measurable evidence of the outcomes of their activity, is regarded as retrograde and suspect. If you have not got aims and objectives you are not living in the real (McDonaldized) world. What does this radical change, which affects almost all activities in all areas of Western society, from coordinating refuse collection to the organization of brain surgery, betoken? The prevalence of formally stated aims and objectives at all levels in organizations (preceded often by the ubiquitous ‘Mission Statement’) is a reflection of several important factors which have had an influence throughout society. These include: ·

shortage of resources (financial and other) leading to the necessity of using what is available economically (economy)

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the need for direction so that the resources that are available are used purposefully and without unnecessary waste (efficiency)

·

the need for measurable goals and criteria of success so that it is clear that resources are deployed in such a way that they are actually useful and effective (effectiveness)

·

the need for accountability so people have confidence in the way resources are deployed

·

distrust of occupational groups, for example, professionals of all kinds, to behave responsibly so that services are apposite, useful, economic, effective, efficient, etc.

·

the turn to the consumer so purchasers and users of services know precisely what they can expect and can be sure it will meet their needs

·

the introduction of managerial ideas and techniques into many institutions and organizations from the private sector (these inevitably focus on the purposeful use and deployment of resources towards clear aims).

Many of these factors have a very positive aspect to them. Very few people would want to argue that large amounts of money should be thrown at, for example, health services or social problems, without anyone knowing whether it is being purposefully and accountably spent, or whether it actually achieves any useful goal. In many sectors of life, clarifying aims, objectives and outcomes has been a useful and sobering accounting exercise which has helped people to sort out what they exist to do and how they can best do it. A return to unlimited, unaccountable expenditure of resources would be irresponsible. Aims and objectives type thinking has, then, a useful part to play in structuring society and organizations. Prima facie, one might suppose that this kind of thinking would be equally useful in structuring pastoral care and making it more effective. The kinds of aims and objectives which have been specified for this activity in the past have tended to be hopelessly vague and general. Clebsch and Jaekle (1975), for example, argue that the aims of pastoral care are healing, sustaining, guiding and reconciling, mixed together in different measures and at different times in history. Clinebell (1984) added nurturing to this list as a twentieth-century appendix, making a concession to the notion of growth. Alastair Campbell (1985) suggests that the aim of pastoral care is ‘to know love, both as something to be received and as something to give’, while I have proposed that pastoral care should aim to eliminate and relieve sin and sorrow and to present all people mature in Christ to God (Pattison 1993). None of these contributions really helps pastoral carers to decide what they should do in practical terms. They may provide metaaims or visions, but they do not provide realizable or concrete objectives. Surely

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there is something to be said for an approach that encourages people to be concrete and specific so that their valuable pastoral labour is not in vain and they can have some certainty and satisfaction about its value? What, then, is wrong with having specific and measurable aims and objectives?

What is wrong with aims and objectives? At one level there is nothing whatever wrong with aims and objectives – no one wants to waste their lives and resources engaged in futile diffuse activity that has no useful effect and does not meet the needs of any relevant groups and individuals. The use of aims and objectives can help to avoid this. My own objection is not so much to the aims and objectives themselves (though sometimes these may be questionable) as to the way of thinking and organizing and the worldview that they implicitly embody. This is in some ways pernicious and limited, both humanly and theologically. This assertion may become more intelligible and plausible if aims and objectives thinking is contextualized more firmly within the structure of modern organizations.

Understanding the ideal type of the modern organization Aims and objectives as a way of thinking about activity do not exist in a vacuum; they are best understood within their organizational ecology. They are sign, sacrament and symptom of a whole way of looking at the world that finds its full embodiment in the ideal type of the modern, rationally managed organization. Anybody who has anything to do with any kind of organization (voluntary, Church, State, private industry) will probably recognize at least some aspects of the caricature sketch that follows. The modern managed organization in any sector of society is generally characterized by the following features: 1.

The purpose of the organization is sprung from a vision of what the organization is there to do – in a changing world, this is essentially a vision of where the organization is aiming to go, not a statement of where it is, or what it likes doing best.

2.

The organization’s vision is inscribed in its Mission Statement, or general statement of purpose, ideally a single sentence or short paragraph which encapsulates the organization’s philosophy and direction.

3.

The short ‘Mission Statement’ is explicated and concretized through a number of constitutive aims.

4.

These aims are in turn broken down into objectives.

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5.

People working in this kind of managed organization map onto the vision–mission–aims–objectives schema because in their various parts of the organization they have some aspect of the organizations’ aims and objectives to address. Occupational roles and job descriptions, together with the skills and competencies needed to execute them, are, or should be, directly related to tasks sprung from organizational aims and goals which in turn spring from the ‘Mission Statement’ or its equivalent.

6.

To perform the tasks necessary to achieve objectives, organization members need job-related training (not education) to acquire observable and demonstrable skills and competences which fit them more or less precisely for their organizational role.

A few features of this pleasingly symmetrical and well-ordered organizational arrangement should be noted. First, in principle, everybody in the organization should be trying to achieve the same aim and moving in the same direction, thus eliminating friction and waste. Secondly, such organizational arrangements are usually hierarchical in nature with a clear line of command from the top. Thirdly, as one moves down the organization, the vision/mission becomes incarnated in ever-more specific and concrete tasks and skills. Fourthly, there is a quality of infinite regression in this; my boss might have one aim divided into eight specific objectives; one of these objectives may then become my main aim and I then break this down into a number of objectives, which may then become the aims of my subordinates if I am lucky enough to have any. It is within this kind of organizational arrangement and mindset that the philosophy of clear aims, objectives and outcomes has its genesis and apotheosis. I want to argue now that pastoral carers and others with goodwill and a commitment to human flourishing should have some cause for concern about the limitations that the assumptions and practices emerging from this kind of organizational structure and mindset. I also want to suggest that pastoral care should spring from, or at least have something to do with, a religious and theological view of the world. Part of the properly religious role and witness of pastoral care may be to help deliver people from the narrow tyranny of aims, objectives and outcomes. This problematizes the acceptance of this kind of thinking and organizing within ministry itself. I believe that the worldview and practices signified by the aims and objectives driven organization are too narrow and exclusive. They may, indeed, be deceptive and, ultimately, dehumanizing, as I shall endeavour to show now.

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A critique of the aims and objectives driven organization It is not difficult to think of humanistic, social and political critical comments to make in relation to the ideal type of the modern organization that I have sketched. Many of the factors I briefly outline here focus not so much on what the aims and objectives approach and its organizational context include and do well, but more on what is excluded and ignored, which may be crucial. The critical points that follow are not systematic: they may not apply to all organizations in all times and places to the same extent. To gain clarity of organizational purpose and focus diversity of interest and aim is excluded. This is acceptable, unless it is important for a diversity of aims and interests to be included, as might be deemed important in public service (Gunn 1989) or in a universal religion attempting to speak to all people and nurture a variety of types of human flourishing. This raises the question, who should decide and influence the vision and mission of an organization? In practice, it is usually the people who own or manage the organization who determine its official vision and mission. Again, this is acceptable, so long as it is believed that the people at the ‘top’ and ‘inside’ have a monopoly on the truth. The hierarchical, top-down approach to organizational purpose and direction is reflected in communication systems. Employees and customers may be consulted and informed from time to time about the direction which is to be followed, but the system is not constructed so that they have a determinative voice in what goes on (Locke 1996). The concentration and centralization of power symbolized in essentially one-way communication is problematic if participation in important decisions and diffusion of responsibility is held to be an important human value. The cumulative effect of the foregoing points is that the aims and objectives pursued by the organization are usually narrow and monolithic. They are often motivated by profit and/or survival in the shadow of the ‘bottom line’ and may have nothing to do with the interests and needs of employees, users, or the wider community (Ralston Saul 1998). Although elaborate claims will be made that the organization only exists to meet the needs of its customers, that it is there to serve and to help bring about a better world (even the McDonald’s Corporation presents itself in this way), the reality is that persons outside as well as inside the organization are basically used as a means to the end of survival or profit. Organizations may be more or less other-oriented, but they are usually self-interested and self-centred (Alvesson and Willmott 1996). The predominantly inward-looking and self-determined nature of organizations forms a good backdrop for pointing up the market orientation of organizations and the implications of this. Even organizations that aim to serve a

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wide population these days see themselves as competing in a Hobbesian cut-throat market where it is essentially dog eat dog (Solomon 1993). Fellow providers are now competitors and a market niche must be identified, defended and preferably expanded, perhaps at the expense of a competitor. Users are rendered as customers (though often deprived of the money that would give them real power and influence) and colleagues and friends are rendered as either allies or enemies. This is perhaps a good place to point up the aggressive, militaristic nature and origin of much organizational discourse (Solomon 1993). The language of aims and objectives, strategy, morale and so on, betrays a strong military influence. This kind of language and worldview is consonant with the competitive nature of the capitalist market. The question is, is it desirable to see oneself involved in warlike or army-like relations with other individuals and groups, in a hostile environment where resistance of all kinds to one’s own purposes needs to be removed? Are we really in a kind of permanent war with our fellows, or is there more to human relationships and society than this? It is perhaps the undergirding image of war or the cut-throat marketplace that justifies the top-down approach to identifying purposes, goals and objectives. The commanders must know what they are doing and be able to command swiftly and efficiently. Perhaps this also explains the need for organizational goodness (high morale) that most organizations display. The organization sees itself and its purposes as wonderful and salvific while the rest of the world is dark and needs the organization’s products (Alvesson and Willmott 1996). Not only is this dualistic, so that those outside are rendered evil, it prevents most organizations from acknowledging the harmful aspects of their activities (Pattison 1997). The need to preserve organizational ‘goodness’ and attain the ordained aims and objectives economically and swiftly contributes to a requirement for basically uncritical obedience and loyalty from the workforce (Jackall 1988). People are encouraged by the acquisition of precisely defined observable skills and competences to be round pegs in round holes, to fit in. The modern organization is panoptic in nature, seeking to make all activities and operations transparent by constant checks and surveillance (Foucault 1979; Rose 1989). It is the apotheosis of the shame-producing society, ensuring that all employees internalize the critical organizational voice that says, if they do not conform and do what they are told, they are under surveillance (Hochschild 1983). They will be called to account for failing to meet their objectives. There is little room here for ‘professionals’ to use their individual knowledge and judgment or to pursue activities as they define and see fit. The emphasis on the possession of observable skills and competences to perform a particular role acquired by training, rather than upon wider understanding, wisdom, judgment and so on, values the person only as performer. I can be seen to

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perform, therefore I am of (economic) value – what I think or feel is irrelevant. The identification of relevant and demonstrable standards of skills and competence is clearly value-laden and ideological. It requires some individuals to conform to the implicit values of a hierarchically-constituted standards authority which will mould individuals according to its own immediately perceived needs and values. Ironically, National Vocational Qualifications and other competence standards which are couched in the ‘rhetoric’ of preparing people for the future and for change are highly conservative. They are based on the experiences, interests and views of those who are at the top of organizations; they are likely to discourage just that kind of imagination and flexibility that will be needed to respond effectively to an uncertain future (Ralston Saul 1998). Conformity to well-defined and established standards is of infinite value to an organization – as long as nothing is going to change radically (Barnett 1994). The notion of outcomes, either of individual or of organizational performance, is equally problematic (Barnett 1994). To be useful, outcomes must be specific, observable and measurable. The temptation is to concentrate on things which are easy to measure, things that are seen rather than unseen. Charles Handy (1996) notes that he was brought up in industry on the principle, ‘If you can’t count it, it doesn’t count’. There is an inevitable pull here towards quantity rather than quality. However, many of the things that we most value in life are not easily susceptible to outcome measures. What we least expected, and certainly would not have wanted if asked, can be most fruitful. We do not always know what we will find valuable in advance of receiving it. Our inner experience of events and people may be more significant than the external, measurable outcomes of an experience. So, for example, an unpromising book read may unexpectedly change the whole way I live my life, a chance word from a lecturer or carer may be more useful than the course as a whole or the treatment the carer came to deliver. The experience of eating a gourmet meal on a French hillside is qualitatively different from eating a sandwich in the works canteen, but the measurable outcome is the same – I take on enough calories to be able to continue living. Understanding, wisdom of body or mind, and experience may be intangible and unmeasurable, but they are infinitely valuable. A certain openness to the depth and breadth of life is in itself valuable. The ultimate aim of the modern organization is to plan and control its own destiny by setting desired and attainable goals. At the heart of this is the goal-setting process whereby the desired future state is envisaged, aims and objectives are identified, then plans are put in place to ensure that the goals are realized. Unfortunately, as utilitarians know to their cost, the future resists control and colonization. Anyone who has ever tried to plan their life in very specific terms knows that often goals are not reached. If they are reached, they are often not attained by the route and means specified. Frequently, it becomes clear en route

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that the goal has changed or another goal seems more attractive. Sometimes, if a goal is reached, it may be apparent that it was not worth reaching. Life is more interesting, frustrating, complex, irrational and surprising than the organizational managers dream of. According to the critique I have constructed, the modern, managed, aims and objectives focused organization can often be myopic, hierarchical, centralized, inegalitarian, self-centred and self-determined, aggressive, competitive, suspicious, dualistic, Pelagian, conformist, slightly paranoid and, despite the rhetoric of enterprise, creativity and innovation, surprisingly conservative. Its narrow, instrumental view of people and of reality excludes much that is of value in human experience while it is wildly over-optimistic in its view of controlling the future. It might be asked, if this is true, why don’t people point it out? The final tragedy of the modern organization is that it is self-deceived and uninterested in any kind of truth other than the economic bottom line. The result of this delusion is that even as organizations talk about being self-critical, welcoming change and nurturing innovation they silence their internal critics (Hunt 1995). Like the inmates in Goffman’s psychiatric hospitals (Goffman 1969) and the managers of state factories in Communist Russia, people outwardly conform to processes and ideologies in which they really do not believe. Meanwhile, they preserve an inner personal freedom ‘between the lines’ of official expectations (Goffman 1969). A kind of objective cynicism prevails. In a panoptic organization, people will always seek and find places to hide. Doubtless there are organizations in the contemporary world that gainsay the rather negative critical points that I have listed. It is, of course, important not to see all managed organizations as de facto unhappy, exploitative, harmful, hierarchical and unresponsive places. Organization and management of some kind are indispensible to social order and creativity. As human constructions and activities, it is highly likely that they will be to a greater or lesser extent imperfect and frustrating. Notwithstanding this important general point, however, it needs to be acknowledged that often modern-managed organizations are not happy places to be, nor are they necessarily beneficent in their effects on the wider world. Walter Wink (1984) suggests that all human groups, arrangements and institutions have a kind of objective ‘withinness’ or ‘character’ which might be described as their distinctive ‘spirit’. This spirit reflects, shapes and is shaped by material and organizational arrangements. If this notion of spirit is accepted, it must be acknowledged that many modern organizations are suffering from a profound spiritual depletion and malaise (Pattison 2000) [8]. Rationalization can often be and feel very oppressive, crushing individual and corporate life and hope (Ritzer 1996). I want to argue that this kind of oppression must be rejected and opposed by religious practices such as pastoral care.

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Aims and objectives – again! Aims and objectives are a fundamental part of the grammar of modern organizations, the sacrament, mechanism and earnest of instrumental rationality that governs organizational activity. It has been important to contextualize the apparently simple and ‘neutral’ device of setting clear aims and objectives within its organizational context and to criticize it precisely because it appears simple and neutral, commonsensical even. Although it may be possible to use aims and objectives thinking in a variety of different contexts and to very different ends, I would argue that the very concept of ‘aims and objectives’ is a mechanism which embodies particular rationalistic values and worldviews which are closely related to those embodied by contemporary organizations. If structures and practices fundamentally shape reality, communities and persons, rendering visible and invisible different possibilities, it is important that pastoral carers and others should have regard to their implications before adopting them uncritically. Clearly, the adoption of aims and objectives thinking does not necessarily commit any group or individual to full-blown managerialism. However, the popularity of this kind of thinking has certainly been a part of that development. In practice, it may be difficult to avoid moving towards the kinds of structures criticized above when aims and objectives become a key mechanism for shaping thinking and action. While I may have overdrawn the negative aspects of modern organizations, their narrowing and diminishing effects on human possibility are palpable. It is very important that pastoral activity is not sucked unwittingly into the same kinds of mistakes.

The nature of pastoral care The general critique of the managed organization should have sown some seeds of doubt about the aims and objectives approach and the stable whence it has come. I will now extend this critique in a more positive direction, arguing that pastoral care is, or should be, a religious activity which needs to reflect a strong relationship to some kind of theological base. I will outline some liberating symbolic insights of theological resistance which stand in stark contrast to the narrow, utilitarian, pragmatic, exclusive and teleological assumptions underlying much contemporary organizational life that are exemplified in the over-simplified nature of the aims and objectives approach. These may form the basis for having confidence in a kind of worthwhile pastoral activity which is decidedly not focused on aims and objectives. This sort of activity creates much needed critical space and opportunities for growth which are essential if human beings are to attain to the glory of the children of God.

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A theologically based vision for pastoral care Here, then, are some theological perceptions that bring into question the foreclosing, narrowing nature of the aims and objectives approach that inheres in rationally managed organizations. Creation is a whole, and a very large whole. Christian doctrine has it that God is the creator of the whole earth and all that is in it. While life may be experienced fragmentarily and people may have to divide it into bits for the purpose of manipulating aspects of reality, the whole of creation is one. This stands in stark contrast to the ‘instrumental componentiality’ characteristic of an organizational instrumental rationality that breaks things down into little controllable bits (tasks, goals, skills) (Berger, Berger and Kellner 1974). The creation does not belong to any one person or group of people. This may imply a need for sharing, appreciating and respecting reality, rather than just trying to shape it for one’s own personal or corporate benefit alone. Life is a mystery. We know not whence we come, or whither we go. We do not know what tomorrow will bring. Life is contingent and we do not understand everything about it. Perhaps we should be somewhat more reticent and respectful before we make the very dubious assumption that we can bend the future to our own ends. Life is complex, and can be amazingly bounteous and gracious. Any attempt to over-simplify reality, or to present life as being all about work in a wholly hostile environment, needs to be questioned in the face of prevenient grace and diversity made available to all creatures. Before we start to think about outcomes to organizational activity, there is so much already there! Humans are not in control of creation. Christian anthropology very properly holds that, while humans have some God-like qualities and therefore some responsibility for creation, they are not in control. We should be wary of behaving as though we can be in control, particularly given the doctrine of sin which reflects the fact that humans often make grave mistakes and errors in trying to exercise power and control. The attainment of aims and objectives may often result in very negative effects (Beck 1992). Surprise is possible. Because humans do not control and organize creation new, unexpected things can happen. Sometimes these are destructive, sometimes lifegiving. One way and another, the Christian tradition bears witness to this as the creative/salvific work of God working in and through the Spirit to renew the face of the earth. Human responses to this kind of unexpected inbreaking may be fruitful – or disastrous. Like the inbreaking of the Spirit, these responses cannot always be reliably predicted. The spirit of life is everywhere. It cannot be managed, though often it is routinized and people attempt to control it. Sometimes they succeed for a while. But the

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symbol of resurrection demonstrates that you cannot keep a good God down, nor predict when life will break through, blowing away the best-thought-through plans and intentions. Life, truth and salvation in their most authentic forms do not come from above, but from below. The life and death of Jesus, together with the witness of the earliest Christian community, demonstrate one of the key features of the Christian religion. There is a great inversion, whereby power is turned upside down and comes from the bottom, from the insignificant and lowly, not from above. This is a key strand of the symbol of incarnation that calls into question top-down objective setting. Successful outcomes are not the sole, or even the most important, measure of human endeavour. As Jesus hung forsaken on the Cross, the outcomes of his situation must have seemed very uncertain indeed. What was sown in grief may indeed have been reaped in glory, but this was by no means predictable or carefully planned. Self-immolation is seldom an attractive strategy for the modern organization. People are called to be children of God and brothers and sisters of one another. Contrary to contemporary attempts to reduce all relationships to those of vendor and seller, client and professional, there are other, more important and fuller ways of relating to people which do not necessarily involve contracts and ensuring payment and customer satisfaction. We are not all each others’ customers, as the total quality management theorists would have it (Morgan and Murgatroyd 1994). We are all in it together. Because God fills all people with life and calls people into community without regard to their qualifications, social status, skills and so on, we have a lot in common. We are not on our own as individuals on the face of the earth, we are people in society with the need to give to, and receive from, others. The tendency to fragment social and individual existence so that individuals feel a sense of lonely responsibility isolated from others must therefore be resisted. We are on a journey to a future which is necessarily mostly unknown. The Czech theologian, Milic Lochmann, talking before the fall of the Communist bloc, used the phrase ‘unforbiddable tomorrows’ to denote the sense of hope that he and other Christians had that the repressive regime in which they lived would not last for ever. For Christians, the future is a lure that is full of promise and hope. Present realities do not have to be as they are, there is a hope of justice and joy. The grey world of economic constraint and necessity is not actually the bottom line; the Kingdom of God has come and is coming for those who have the courage and imagination not to see present structures as inevitable and all there is to life. The fact that we get things wrong and make mistakes is not the end of the world. The Christian doctrine of forgiveness allows us to admit that we do not have all the answers and that we are not unequivocally good. This does not ultimately matter. We do not need to lie or pretend that we are perfect. This contrasts with the

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organizational imperative always to get it right, and to get it right first time (Morgan and Murgatroyd 1994). Perhaps we cannot even know what ‘right’ would be. We are not on short-term contracts or performance-related pay as far as life is concerned. The doctrinal symbols of creation, incarnation, redemption, grace and eschatology indicate an ongoing and unconditional commitment to living beings on the part of the Creator who ‘makes the sun to shine on both good and bad alike’. Finding ourselves in a graced universe, our existence is not conditional upon performance or conformity to standards. There are myriad possibilities for human existence and creativity and these must not be narrowed unduly by organizational imperatives. God is not a manager – therefore there is hope! If modern theology is right in its perception that God did not plan the world in detail with aims and outcomes but has given it relative autonomy and infinite possibility, we can perceive that there is far more to living than organizing people and events into predictable and profitable patterns which preclude unexpected eventualities. The point I am trying to make in enunciating these religious symbolic and doctrinal insights is that we are in danger of making our vision of the world too small by obsession with economics, organization and management. In accepting this as the true nature of reality and conforming pastoral care along the lines of observable skills and measurable objectives there is a real danger of colluding with a rather narrow, instrumental view of the world. This may cramp people, so that they do not realize their full potential. Pastoral care must bear witness to the kinds of religious insights outlined above not only by word and works, but also in the methods and assumptions by which it structures itself. In many ways, workers in, and users of, modern organizations need to be delivered from the rational instrumentalism that reifies itself in the aims and objectives approach. Pastoral care is one of the few activities in the contemporary world that need not confine itself within aims and objectives. For the sake of religious integrity, it is to be hoped that it will embrace the freedom that allows it not to do so.

Pastoral care as symbolization I now want to suggest that pastoral care in the contemporary world must be a symbolic and symbolizing activity that bears witness to, and opens up, possibilities that go beyond present taken-for-granted reality. This is not to say that pastoral carers should not be intensely practical and active in a variety of different ways and situations. It is, however, to recognize that pastoral care is one activity in the contemporary world that need not be driven by narrow, rationalistic, utilitarian, pragmatic imperatives. What religion distinctively has to offer people is ways of situating themselves and others within wider symbolic systems of meaning

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that help to give purpose and meaning to life. It can help people to discover and explore symbols that give space, hope and purpose. I must be a bit more specific about what I think this means for pastoral care. People look to religion for many things (practical help in time of need, comfort, money, etc.). There is nothing wrong with pastoral activity being practical activity in these kinds of areas. However, it is important to remember that what religions distinctively have to offer are creative ways of understanding, thinking about and orienting oneself in the world. At the heart of Christianity is a set of stories and symbols that are obscure, polyvalent, life-giving and inspiring. People cannot expect to have all their needs met by the Church or pastoral carers. Nonetheless, it is tragic if they cannot find some help in exploring meaning from an organization founded upon, and dynamized by, a very powerful set of myths and symbols (Dillistone 1986; May 1991). The search for meaning in powerful myths, symbols and stories is a vital and important one. The need for meaning and exploring life-giving symbols is not a leisure-time luxury in the modern world. Businesses and secular organizations spend a good deal of time and money trying to evolve symbols, rituals and stories that will give a sense of purpose and identity to their members (consider the sales conference and the ever-changing organizational logo). Symbols and stories motivate and orientate people’s efforts so that they can make sense of what is happening to them (Gabriel 1991). It is tragic that the churches have become so poor at exploring and developing symbols and images within the Christian tradition which help people to appropriate the liberating truths of the Christian myths and stories. We need to think again about what a living ministry of word and sacrament might mean today in a world saturated with powerful language and images which, while attractive, actually diminish human potential and aspiration. The power of living images, myths, symbols and metaphors to challenge and change reality should not be underestimated. The right symbol or image in the right place at the right time can do much to change the world and people’s perception of it. Consider the power of burning a national flag, or writing the wrong words on the walls of power. Symbolism, symbolization and the creation of powerful, hopeful images are not just confined to the use of words. The Old Testament is full of bold prophetic ‘acted words’ whereby a prophet performs some gesture or act that reveals the deep truth about reality and is widely perceived to do so (Brueggemann 1991). Jeremiah could not on his own sort out the political life of his country but, by acting and talking as he did, he was able powerfully to influence events and the nation’s long-term perception of itself. Pastoral acts should perhaps have more of this active symbolizing function. One of the most important aspects of life-giving symbols, images and myths, as implied above, is that they are not logical, linear and propositional. They have depth and complexity; they speak to many parts of the person and affect feelings

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and attitudes as well as the intellect. In this way, symbols present a complex, non-linear view of the world which is suggestive, stimulates imagination, and allows people to situate themselves in a whole rather than a fragmented world. This is significant, because often people are simply invited to think about life as a linear process of problem solving in which objectives are identified and barriers to attaining them are overcome by rational means. People are not wholly rational, nor is life wholly susceptible to ‘solutions’. Myths and symbols bear witness to this richness and complexity and enable people to survive and create within the circumstance that reality throws up. One of the delightful aspects of significant symbols and images is that they cannot be controlled, managed, or delivered by one person or organization to another. Good myths and symbols are polysemic. They generate a huge variety of responses, reactions and interpretations that cannot be wholly determined in advance. They cannot be made to mean anything in particular to everyone in general (Brueggemann 1993). Gabriel (1991), discussing the place of organizational myths and stories, warns that narratives and symbols are part of the ‘unmanaged’ (and unmanageable) organization. Because they are multi-faceted, and are susceptible to generating different meanings, symbols mean many different things to different people and can have very different interpretations and effects. This explains how both serving soldiers and pacifists can sit quietly listening to the Beatitudes and each draw important meaning from the text. Symbols and myths can be enormously fecund. They stand beyond, but playfully and profoundly criticize, the narrow approach of linear, rational instrumentalism, itself perhaps something of a distorting myth (Putnam and Mumby 1993). Evolving valid, meaningful symbols and symbolic actions is necessarily a work of exploration and mutuality that requires flexibility, imagination and diversity. Symbols and myths, like jewels in different kinds of light, can take on very different complexions and different emphases may become apparent. So that symbolic words, images and acts stay close and relevant to human experience there is a need for pluralism and contextualism in practice. It might reasonably be objected at this point that symbolic pastoral care is in danger of being no kind of care at all. In this context it should be emphasized that much useful care is really useful precisely because it is really symbolic (Brueggemann 1991). The arm around the shoulder when someone cries, the ubiquitous cup of tea in time of crisis, the person who stands beside you on the picket line as you vainly try to stop some injustice being done, the person who does not know what to do or say, but is kind and stays with you anyway – all these gestures are at one level useless, yet they are powerfully caring. As professional care becomes more and more specialized and goal-focused, with clear aims and objectives, it may, paradoxically, be becoming less caring (Phillips and Brenner 1994). It might be more valuable for the lonely

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housebound person to have the home care assistant not do the household tasks, but to sit down and have a chat and a joke. I don’t ever see there being a competence-based National Vocational Qualification in friendship, informality and relaxation skills. Indeed, I shudder at the thought of it. However, the kind of situation I have described where people do not do just exactly what is required of them is clearly a very important part of real caring. In such non-specified acts are the signs of a Kingdom of God, of a human expansiveness, generosity and mutuality, that go well beyond the utilitarian imperatives of meeting agreed objectives and standards in a competitive, costly market in care.

Conclusion The rationalizing, controlling worldview incarnated in the approach of identifying clear, simple, achievable, measurable aims and objectives is one that fundamentally threatens the vocation and distinctiveness of religious caring. Pastoral care should, therefore, resist adopting the aims and objectives approach to practice. It is unduly narrowing and unhelpfully exclusive. Furthermore, it is likely to be antipathetic to a major part of the task of religiously based care which might be to help deliver people from the narrow rationalism figured by aims and objectives so they can explore a broader view of life figured by symbols. Churches and pastoral carers have a diminishing official role in the work of practical care provision, mainly because religious denominations and commitment are declining in contemporary society. In this situation, pastoral carers might try to ape ‘secular’ caring occupations, sharing their preoccupation with ‘objective’ standards, measurable outcomes, skills, aims and objectives. However, it might be more creative to think about how pastoral care could offer something distinctive to the field of human well-being. One of the things that pastoral care can distinctively offer is care situated within the quest for meaning and generative symbols. As tasks are more narrowly defined, skills and competences more accurately specified, and roles and relationships become more segmented, there is a real place for keeping open a vision of a whole world and of complete human beings fully alive. This breadth and non-specificity is one of the gifts that pastoral care has to offer. For this reason, it should resist the temptation to model itself on the tasks, management structures and training patterns of other professional groups. The time when churches and pastors could provide some kind of effective, comprehensive, local welfare provision is long past. This does not mean that pastoral care should not be practical, concrete, action-based work which is directly helpful and specific within its context. I would certainly not advocate a kind of ‘spiritualized’ pastoral care that had no interest in, or impact upon, the material world. However, action should be relativized within, and consonant

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with, the quest for generative symbolic meanings that help to transform people and their situations. These symbols and meanings might energize a good deal of practical social change and welfare provision in the wider community. The symbolically resonant work of hospices, originally religiously inspired and initiated, has helped to transform attitudes towards, and provision for, terminally ill people throughout society without churches having to maintain control or provide most of the personpower and funding. Happily, despite the impetus to introduce aims and objectives type thinking into pastoral care education and practice, there are many points of resistance to this in the religious tradition and community. The theological tradition points to a central symbol, the Kingdom of God, which is helpfully undefined and ambiguous. It is difficult to reduce this symbol to a programme of works and it continues to challenge and inspire. The historical tradition of pastoral care is one of pluralism and diversity which defies neat dissection and arrangement into a set of measurable aims and objectives (Clebsch and Jaekle 1975). The deprofessionalization of ministry and pastoral care has problematized the nature and function of pastoral care; who provides pastoral care and how it is done is becoming ever more diffuse. Best of all, we are beginning to realize that pastoral care is not a reified commodity delivered as a ‘kite-marked’ standard service by one set of people to another. It is created in relationship and it does not exist except as produced between parties in situational mutuality. For this reason alone it is simply not possible for one group of people to insist on a single, well-defined set of aims and objectives for pastoral care. Pastoral care should be proud of its distinctively religious role in working towards human well-being. As a religious, symbolizing and symbolic activity, it is in many ways messy, unmanageable and diffuse. It can, however, point beyond itself to a something more and a something better which challenges the boundaries of managerial McDonaldization, broadening current thinking and summoning people to be free and to explore their human potential. Pastoral care should bear practical witness to the plurality of purposes, possibilities and meanings that are refracted through religious symbols. To strip religions of their symbolic ambiguities in order to fit them into the world of standards, aims and objectives, is to kill them and deprive them of power and interest. It would be a mistake for this particular Christian activity to try to resolve or decode its central generative symbols into programmes of universal service provision. This would exclude the critical and fertile excess of meaning that can emerge from symbols and which might inspire generations yet to come. If pastoral care can resist the temptations of managerial rationalization, it will continue to be able to provide liberating space for people who are hard-pressed against organizational imperatives that seem to get narrower and more demanding as each year passes. Religion bears sometimes uncomfortable witness to the

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power of the unexpected – the world is not a board room with nailed-down fitted carpets, double glazing and no gaps under the doors. The spirit blows where it wills and upsets and astonishes as it does so. In this context I look for a pastoral care that is thoughtful, purposeful, responsive, responsible and reflective; that is conscious of consequences but not enthralled to outcomes. Which slips somewhere in between atomized skills and competences on the one hand and grand meta-narratives and symbols on the other to provide usable and useful space for the creative spirit to continue to enter and disturb in the world. Having set out a vision of pastoral care as a distinctively religious activity with its own distinctive contribution to make to human well-being, I must conclude by admitting that I think it is highly unlikely that pastoral care will be able to resist the temptation to adopt aims, objectives, standards, skills, competences, and all the other paraphernalia that pertain to managed organizations. That being the case, my final words are cautionary in relation to the setting of aims and objectives. In the first place, it will be very important to be conscious of who defines and assesses any aims and objectives that are identified. Doubtless, the managerial hierarchies of the churches will want to reserve what appears to be a managerial function to themselves. However, if pastoral care and religious service are mutual activities that emulate the example of a servant messiah embodied in a community it will be of the utmost importance that aims and objectives are mutually and communally identified and agreed. Failure in this regard will lead to increased narrowness of perception and action within the religious community. Secondly, if aims and objectives are to be selected, they should be set in relation to a distinctively religious view of the world. I suggest the following passage as a highly concrete basic vision and mission statement within which standards might be specified and aims and objectives might be set: Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, to bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh [i.e. relatives]? (Isaiah 58.6–7, RSV)

A performance appraisal based on aims and objectives derived from this kind of statement of purpose would be very interesting indeed: How many people have you liberated this year? How many homeless poor people have you had in your house? Perhaps in the context of this kind of vision, pastoral care shaped by aims and objectives might not be such a bad idea after all!

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Bibliography Alvesson, M. and Willmott, H. (1996) Making Sense of Management. London: Sage. Barnett, R. (1994) The Limits of Competence. Buckingham: Open University Press. Beck, U. (1992) Risk Society. London: Sage. Berger, P., Berger, B. and Kellner, H. (1974) The Homeless Mind. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Brueggemann, W. (1991) Hopeful Imagination. London: SCM Press. Brueggemann, W. (1993) The Bible and the Postmodern Imagination. London: SCM Press. Campbell, A. (1985) Paid to Care? London: SPCK. Clebsch, W. and Jaekle, C. (1975) Pastoral Care in Historical Perspective. New York: Aronson. Clinebell, H. (1984) Basic Types of Pastoral Care and Counselling. London: SCM Press. Dillistone, F. (1986) The Power of Symbols. London: SCM Press. Drucker, P. (1974) Management: Tasks, Responsibilities, Practices. Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann. Foucault, M. (1979) Discipline and Punish. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Gabriel, Y. (1991) ‘On organizational stories and myths: why it is easier to slay a dragon than to kill a myth.’ International Sociology 6, 427–42. Goffman, E. (1969) Asylums. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Gunn, L. (1989) ‘A public management approach to the NHS.’ Health Services Management Research 2, 10–19. Handy, C. (1996) Beyond Certainty. London: Arrow Books. Hochschild, A. (1983) The Managed Heart. London: University of California Press. Huczynski, A. (1996) Management Gurus. London: International Thompson Business Press. Hunt, G. (ed.) (1995) Whistleblowing in the Health Service. London: Edward Arnold. Jackall, R. (1988) Moral Mazes. New York: Oxford University Press. Locke, R. (1996) The Collapse of the American Management Mystique. Oxford: Oxford University Press. May, R. (1991) The Cry for Myth. New York: W.W. Norton. Morgan, C. and Murgatroyd, S. (1994) Total Quality Management in the Public Sector. Buckingham: Open University Press. Pattison, S. (1993) A Critique of Pastoral Care. Rev. edn. London: SCM Press. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers. London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (2000) ‘Organisational spirituality: an exploration.’ Modern Believing 41, 2, 12–20. Peters, T. (1993) Liberation Management. London: Pan Books. Pollitt, C. (1993) Managerialism in the Public Sector. Second edn. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Philipps, S. and Brenner, P. (eds) (1994) The Crisis of Care. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Putnam, L. and Mumby, D. (1997) ‘Organizations, Emotion, and the Myth of Rationality.’ In S. Fineman (ed.) Emotion in Organizations. London: Sage. Ralston Saul, J. (1998) The Unconscious Civilization. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Ritzer, G. (1996) The McDonaldization of Society. Rev. edn. Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge Press. Rose, N. (1989) Governing the Soul. London: Routledge. Solomon, R. (1993) Ethics and Excellence. New York: Oxford University Press. Wink, W. (1984) Naming the Powers. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.

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Organisational Spirituality: An Exploration

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In this essay I want to suggest that organisations have a spiritual aspect to them. This spiritual aspect is the inner aspect of outward material reality; it can be likened to the personality or character of an individual. It needs to be discerned, understood, nurtured and cared for if the institution is to maximise its potential for promoting human wellbeing for those who work in and use it. What is at stake here is the practical wellbeing of both individuals and corporate entities. To concretise the discussion of organisational spirituality, I shall exemplify my points mainly in relation to the UK National Health Service (NHS), an organisation with which I am particularly familiar. The same approach could be applied to other organisations.

Learning from early Christians The average early Christian living in New Testament (NT) times would probably be puzzled by the way in which modern Western people talk about spirits and spirituality. We mostly refer to the spiritual as a good, laudable thing. In the ancient world, spirits were as likely to be bad, dangerous and destructive as good. We often talk about spirituality as if it is primarily an individual, private, inward matter that has nothing to do with institutions or the public domain. This contrasts with the ancient world where spirits were to be found in all parts of everyday existence. While we tend to use the word ‘spiritual’ to denote the immaterial and unworldly, for early Christians the spirits, or ‘powers’ as they are often called in the NT, had both material and immaterial aspects. Social institutions such as the Roman empire, the local city, or particular Christian churches had an external, material aspect (buildings, social customs, official roles etc), but they

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also had a spirit, an angel, a daemon, a genius, a god, who was just as much an aspect of reality as the material. Walter Wink claims that spiritual powers in the NT should not be seen as ‘separate or ethereal entities but as the inner aspect of material or tangible manifesta2 tions of power’. The powers or spirits are encountered primarily ‘in reference to the material or “earthly” reality of which they are the innermost essence’ (Wink 1984, p.105; emphasis original). Indeed, spirits or powers can have no existence without a material manifestation and counterpart. ‘Spiritual’ therefore denotes ‘the inner dimension of the material, the “within” of things, the subjectivity of objective entities in the world’ (Wink 1984, p.107). A particular spirit comes into being with the rise of a material power reality, e.g. an empire, a community. It is created with and by human action, but it then comes to have a relatively autonomous suprahuman existence that itself shapes human beliefs and actions with a web of practices, myths, rituals, assumptions, metaphors and ideologies. ‘[T]he material and spiritual poles of reality are inseparable. They come into existence together and cease to exist together’ (Wink 1984, p.124). In many ways, the spiritual or ‘within’ aspect of any power nexus, group or society acts as its character or personality by analogy with the individual person: We experience the self as distinct from or outside the body in precisely the same way that we experience the Powers generally. The biblical language describes their spirituality as outside or transcendent to their earthly manifestation – as heavenly, to be exact. But that is only the same convention of language we use to describe ourselves. … The Powers can no more exist without concretion in an institution or system or officeholder than the self can exist without a body. (Wink 1984, p.145)

It is not easy to understand and analyse the inner and actual essences of visible, material structures. They are so close and integral to those structures that it is hard to separate them from them and really to anatomise them. (The same problem arises when one tries to analyse or fully understand the interiority of one’s self.) Wink suggests that modern people must try and understand the myths, symbols and images of ‘withinness’ that exist today, making them conscious so that the social and psychic reality to which they refer can be grasped. The spiritual, inner dimension to institutions exists, whether or not it is believed in: As the inner aspect of material reality, the spiritual Powers are everywhere around us. Their presence is real and it is inescapable. The issue is not whether we ‘believe’ in them but whether we can learn to identify our actual, everyday encounters with them – what Paul called ‘discerning the spirits’. (Wink 1984, pp.105–6)

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The challenge to identify and care for institutional spiritualities and spiritual life can be interpreted in this light. An approach that takes seriously the ‘withinness’, the totality, the character, the subjectivity and the needs of organisational life by using the language and concepts of spirituality may be usefully complementary to other ways of thinking about organisations. It may, indeed, be essential if it turns out that there are aspects of organisational life that cannot satisfactorily be captured in other kinds of analytic discourse. I shall now proceed to take some soundings into the spirit of the National Health Service, paying attention to the myths, images, symbols, rituals, stories etc. that Wink sees as the royal road to the organisational subjectivity, character or spirituality.

Discerning the spirits: some aspects of the spirituality of the NHS It is not easy to gain direct knowledge and understanding of the ‘withinness’ of 3 an organisation. Perhaps it may best be gained by indirect means. Here, all I can do is to make some suggestive and indicative probes into a few aspects of the spirit of the NHS. I will try to examine how some aspects of the ‘withinness’ of the organisation have real effects upon the material and social reality of organisational life.

Visualising the organisation One way of attempting to gain a sense of the spirit or character of an organisation is to try and find a visual image for it. You might like to pause for a moment and think about what image comes to mind if you think of an organisation you know. Perhaps you might like to draw what comes into your head. If it were to be drawn or visualised as a person what would your organisation’s character look like? When I tried to think about the personality of a teaching hospital that I used to know well, I came up with a picture of a wizened old man in a white coat sitting on his own in a room high in a tower and counting money with an avaricious expression on his worried face! My picture is only one person’s view of this institution’s character. A group might come up with a different picture. If all the members of a particular hospital or trust were to create a corporate image that might look different again. The point of this kind of simple exercise, employed to great effect by political cartoonists, is to try and become aware of organisational character of ‘withinness’ at a more conscious level than is normal. We carry images of our organisations around with us all the time; we help to embody these in our everyday work, acting out the spirituality and character of our organisations. If we are aware of this,

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we may be able to address or challenge the character of the organisation. We might even be able to change it. (It sounds like my isolated, wizened man needs to have more resources and to establish more trust with the rest of the human race!) Knowing, and being at least partly conscious of, the character of an organisation can help us to know exactly where we are and how we might work within or against this position or character.

Reality shaping myths Perhaps the main guiding myth that determines the lives of most organisations is that of the ‘bottom line’. The ‘bottom line’ is a financial term that denotes whether an organisation is solvent or not. This judgement is made by a qualified accountant when an organisation’s accounts are audited. When accountants make it, they are expressing an opinion at a moment in time. Depending upon the way in which the accounting has been carried out, e.g. ‘creatively’, the judgement of solvency or non-solvency may be right or wrong. There is no objective standard against which the ‘bottom line’ can be measured. This does not prevent the ‘bottom line’ attaining an omnipotent realism as a guiding myth within ‘business-like’ organisations. All sorts of practices are predicated on the need to meet a ‘bottom line’ that few people within the organisation understand or have seen. Sacrifices, cuts and changes can all be demanded in the name of meeting the ‘bottom line’ which, whatever its financial reality, serves in the organisation as a mythical image of absolute reality to which people orient themselves. Whether myths such as these are beneficial or harmful in their effects is of less importance than recognising that mythology is seldom entirely evidence-based and is invariably realityshaping. An organisation expresses and sustains its character and spirituality through its guiding myths (cf. Gabriel 1991). Those who question foundational organisational myths are likely to be regarded as mad or bad. The ‘bottom line’ is part of the mythology that surrounds and sustains the spirit of business and capi5 talism within the NHS.

Ritual activities Organisational spirituality is manifested in, and maintained by, ritual. Ritual activity is symbolic action that sustains social meanings and values but does not of itself affect reality. A good example of ritual activity within contemporary 6 organisations is that of strategic planning. Many organisations spend much time concocting detailed plans about where the organisation is going, what it is going to attempt to do, and how it is going to do this. However, strategic plans have a habit of being dated and useless almost as soon as they have been constructed. The future is elusive and unpredictable and the best laid plans gang aft agley. This

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does not prevent planners from writing new strategic plans, thus demonstrating the ritual nature of this activity. Planning can be seen as a ritual of organisational control, an attempt to predict and manipulate spirits within and outside the organisation. The attempt to control spirits and chaos, has, of course, always been a fundamental aspect of human religious activity (see, for example, Berger 1973). The attempt to plan the future is a way of trying to ward off and control anxiety in the face of that which cannot be controlled. It is prominent in the contemporary NHS today in the face of rapid and unpredictable change both without and within. Rituals such as planning are not to be mocked or dismissed. They are part of the way in which organisations and individuals orient themselves to what they take to be reality.

Spiritual discipline The NHS also contains a kind of ad hoc spiritual discipline for the individuals working within it. Like planning, the spirituality of many organisation members is based upon coping with uncertainty and fantasised infinite demand. It is comparable to the inner worldly asceticism characteristic of the early Calvinists. Weber characterises the psychological state of the Calvinists who gave birth to the ‘spirit of capitalism’ as one of ‘unprecedented inner loneliness of the single 7 individual’ (Weber 1976, p.104). Calvinists lived in a world of intense anxiety, worrying about whether they were included amongst the elect who were to be saved by God. Their response was to engage in intense inner worldly ascetic activity in the form of good works: The religious believer can make himself sure of his state of grace either in that he feels himself to be the vessel of the Holy Spirit or the tool of the divine will. In the former case his religious life tends to mysticism and emotionalism, in the latter to ascetic action. … [S]ince Calvin viewed all pure feelings and emotions…with suspicion, faith had to be proved by its objective results in order to provide a firm foundation for the certitudo salutis. (Weber 1976, p.114)

Good works were essential as a ‘technical means, not of purchasing salvation but of getting rid of the fear of damnation’ (Weber 1976, p.115). The praxis accompanying the pursuit of good works was that of ‘systematic self-control’ (Weber 1976, p.115). Any professional working in a modern public organisation will recognise the factors identified by Weber. There is an imperative to attain objective results and to prosecute good works to the maximum of one’s capacity without there being any end to the process or any guarantee of salvation in the form of job security or a slowing down in the pace of change. Modern professions must strive and keep

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on striving to the maximum of their ability, not to ‘purchase salvation’ (a permanent contract, performance related pay?), but simply to ‘avoid damnation’ (unemployment, falling from favour?). The individual spirituality of many, particularly managers, is thus tinged with anxiety and fear and characterised by unrelenting activism in the service of a demanding ‘spirit’ which does not make its intentions or means of salvation clear.

Foundational narratives I want, finally, to look at the stories that give foundation and meaning to the organisation and its members. People do not just come to work for money, but for a variety of motives, one of which is to perform a meaningful, valuable role in the world. In this connection, the stories that organisations tell about themselves and their activities, the foundational myths that guide the organisation, are enormously important for providing orientation and direction. For many years, the NHS was guided by the myths and narratives of the postwar welfare state. Broadly speaking, these situated health and social care work within a vision of society in which there was at least in theory universal state provision for basic 8 social and health care needs. The story (or at least one version of it) ran something like this: When Britain had won the war, the spirit of concern and co-operation that had characterised the war effort and brought people from all classes in society together in a sense of mutual concern and responsibility persisted. Instead of fighting the Germans, the British people declared war on the evils of poverty, homelessness, disease, ignorance and unemployment and so the Welfare State was founded. Those institutions and individuals that comprised the welfare state were in the front line of the fight against evil. Their work was therefore worthy of respect and support from all in society. Like many foundational myths and narratives, this one was pitched at a high level of generality and was in many ways untrue. So, for example, it was never the case that all the people had all their needs met free and at the point of need: health care professionals in the NHS informally rationed resources and evaluated the needs of those in their care and some of the most needy got less health care resources than those whose needs were less. However, this narrative myth served an important communal purpose in helping health workers and people in society generally to value and support the NHS. Working in a public service undergirded by this myth was for many years therefore perceived to be more than a job, even if not everyone would want to call their work a vocation (Whipp 1997). Now the mythic narrative of the foundation of the NHS is looking faded and tired. It no longer provides a rationale for health care work in the way that it did. There is a space where the welfare state myth held sway for many years and there is a lack of coherent narrative about what the NHS is for and where it is going (Pattison et al.

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1998). Somehow, the myth of being in a care business or a health care ‘industry’ does not provide the kind of symbolic richness that motivates and inspires workers. There is thus a kind of corporate spiritual crisis and anxiety caused by a lack of a coherent, undergirding mythic narrative that unerringly reflects contemporary social and economic uncertainty. It remains to be seen whether a compelling 9 new mythic narrative will arise in this postmodern era of fragmentation. One could go on analysing the spiritual nature of the NHS, examining in detail, for example, the faith presuppositions that underlie health care management, the everyday and deep values of the organisation, or the guiding metaphors 10 that institutions adopt to understand their existence and work. I hope that I have said enough to demonstrate that it is possible usefully to enquire into the spirit of the NHS by way of its symbolic structures embodied in images, myths, rituals, disciplines and narratives.

Conclusion: Who cares? There is considerable scope for concern about, as well as spiritual care of, institutions today. The spirit and character of the NHS have undergone radical changes over the last two decades and the institution is now rather emaciated and anxious. It is unsustained now by a base in the consensual myths and narratives of the welfare state. However, the spirit of business and industry has failed to provide a positive motivating, undergirding rationale or a set of meanings and symbols that are nurturing. The contemporary NHS, like other public organisations, is characterised by a troubled, uncertain spirit. This is a cause for real concern. When organisational spirits are so low, anxious, and unfed, those who work in and use organisations may not find their contacts with them positive or fulfilling. The outworking of a spirituality of uncertainty may contribute to low morale, lack of motivation, and even to organisational collapse. Perhaps this diagnosis is overly pessimistic. There is, however, a need to provide appropriate spiritual care for organisations as well as for individuals. While organisations can be seen as having many of the characteristics traditionally only associated with individual persons, including a kind of character or spirit, we have few tools and methods at our disposal for identifying organisational spiri11 tual needs or for responding positively to them. Nor is it clear whose responsibility it should be to minister to the spirits of organisations. Perhaps we need to identify organisational spiritual guides like 12 Charles Handy on a local basis. Maybe the chief executives of organisations should see it as part of their role spiritually to nurture them. Or perhaps we should all have a more conscious role in shaping and caring for the ‘withinness’ of the organisations to which we belong. If we accept that all institutions have a spiritual

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aspect, then it behoves us all to take some responsibility for that spirit, in our own interests as well as of those who enter and use our organisations. If Wink is right in his belief that all configurations of power have an inward, spiritual, as well as an outward, material aspect, one thing is certain: the spiritual may be ignored but it will not go away. We should continue the work of trying to understand more of the nature of organisational spirituality so that we can become better carers for those organisations so that they in turn can care better for their members and users. We need to think much more about what it means to offer spiritual care to a corporate whole and what would be required to enhance its spiritual health (would we need to mint new myths and symbols, to tell new stories, to invent new rituals?). There is work to be done here by those who acknowledge that spirituality is not just a private matter that relates to individuals and that it may have more to do with earthly, social, political and organisational reality than with the ethereal and other-worldly.

Notes 1. The nature and meaning of the ‘spiritual’ is contested. See, for example, King (1989), Lartey (1997), Speck (1988). A management text on organisational spirituality reveals lack of consensus and confusion about the term in that arena also. See Conger et al. (1994). 2. Wink (1984, p.104) (emphasis original). See also Wink (1986, 1992). 3. For suggestive complementary approaches for ‘spiritual discernment’ from other disciplines of organisational analysis see for example Board (1990), Fineman (1993), Handy (1995), Hirschorn (1988), Lyth (1988), Obholzer and Roberts (1994). 4. Morgan’s (1986, 1993) work on discovering the operant images and metaphors prevalent in organisations relates here. 5. For recent theological critique of the mythos and religion surrounding capitalism and its effects see Selby (1997). 6. See further for example Cleverly (1971). 7. Thanks to Elaine Graham for drawing my attention to this. 8. For different versions of the history of the NHS see for example Klein (1994), Timmins (1996). 9. For discussion of the importance of narratives for individual and corporate wellbeing see McLeod (1997). 10. See further, for example, Pattison (1997). 11. For the way in which organisations have taken on the characteristics associated with individuals see for example Fenn (1991). 12. For Handy as a spiritual guide see Pattison (1997, ch. 9).

References Berger, P. (1973) The Social Reality of Religion. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Board, R. de (1990) The Psychoanalysis of Organizations. London: Routledge. Cleverly, G. (1971) Managers and Magic. London: Longman.

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Conger, J. A. and associates (1994) Spirit at Work. San Francisco: Jossey Bass. Fenn, R. (1991) The Secularizations of Sin. Richmond, VA: Westminster/John Knox. Fineman, S. (ed.) (1993) Emotion in Organizations. London: Sage. Gabriel, Y. (1991) ‘On organizational stories and myths: why it is easier to slay a dragon than to kill a myth.’ International Sociology 6, 427–42. Handy, C. (1995) Gods of Management. London: Arrow. Hirschorn, L. (1988) The Workplace Within. Cambridge, MA: MIT. King, U. (1989) Women and Spirituality. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Klein, R. (1994) The New Politics of the NHS. London: Longman. Lartey, E. (1997) In Living Colour. London: Cassell. Lyth, I. Menzies (1988) Containing Anxiety in Institutions. London: Free Association Books. McLeod, J. (1997) Narrative and Psychotherapy. London: Sage. Morgan, G. (1986) Images of Organisation. London: Sage. Morgan, G. (1993) Imaginization. London: Sage. Obholzer, A. and Roberts, V. Zagier (eds) (1994) The Unconscious at Work. London: Routledge. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers. London: Cassell. Pattison, S., Malby, B. and Manning, S. (1998) ‘What are we here for?’ Health Service Journal 108, 5595, 26–8. Selby, P. (1997) Grace and Mortgage. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Speck, P. (1988) Being There. London: SPCK. Timmins, N. (1996) The Five Giants. London: Fontana. Weber, M. (1976) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Second edn. London: George Allen and Unwin. Whipp, M. (1997) ‘A healthy sense of vocation?’ Contact 122, 3–10. Wink, W. (1984) Naming the Powers. Minneapolis: Fortress. Wink, W. (1986) Unmasking the Powers. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Wink, W. (1992) Engaging the Powers. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.

PART 3

On Christian Practice and Opportunities: A Critique

Introduction Christianity is a universal religion. It claims to have a complete view of the world and everything that is in it within the providence of a single, loving creator God. This God cares for creation to the extent that divinity becomes imaged as a living, embodied human being, Jesus, who preaches a gospel of love, forgiveness and welcome for all. At its best, Christianity has produced thinkers and actors with intellectual and practical concerns that reach out to embrace the whole of life and existence like Thomas Aquinas and Francis of Assisi. At its worst, it has been anti-intellectual, exclusive, bellicose, intolerant, wilfully ignorant, inwardly preoccupied, prejudiced and narrow minded. Hence the judgement of the Jewish philosopher–mystic Simone Weil: Christianity is catholic by right but not in fact. So many things are outside it, so many things that I love and do not want to give up, so many things that God loves, otherwise they would not be in existence. (Weil 1959, p.41)

For Weil, a perpetual outsider to the church that she loved so much, and for me, it is frustrating that this noble, generous religious tradition is so often so much narrower in its vision, thought and practice than it might be. To paraphrase the title of an old book, our God is too small (Phillips 1974). Most of the essays in this part of the book reflect this frustration to a greater or lesser extent. They provide an implicit or explicit critique of some of the parts of Christian thought and practice that seem to me to be problems. ‘Healing: A flight from definition’ was written to help a working group think about what healing might mean in the face of death soon after I had finished Alive and Kicking: Towards a Practical Theology of Illness and Healing (Pattison 1989). Healing is one of those words that is easily used but little examined or understood, whether within or outside religion. For Christians, healing has always been an integral part of the gospel. But what does healing mean in the contemporary world where we have very complex and pluriform understandings of what disease and illness are? Some Christians are still basically committed to the notion that healing means mysterious but direct miraculous divine intervention.

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But for those who are not easily able to subscribe to such a clear but narrow view, there are lots of complex factors to be taken into account if one wants to talk meaningfully about healing in the context of modern Western society. This at a time when the human race has never been more biologically secure and allopathic medicine has never been more widely available and effective. This essay invites Christians and others to think more widely and deeply about what the meanings of healing might be today. It does not provide any clear answers. But that is not its intention. Rather, it seeks to prevent us from seeking premature closure on the meanings and practices associated with healing. If ‘Healing: A Flight from Definition’ questions narrow thinking about healing, ‘Dumbing down the Spirit’ is critical of Christian assumptions from almost the opposite direction. In the former, I question the unwillingness of some Christians to extend their thinking about healing by taking into account non-religious insights and ideas. In the latter, I am critical of the tendency amongst Christians to forget that they are heirs and exponents to a valuable and distinctive religious heritage. It has become fashionable in health care, and other public services, to try to value all kinds of quest for meaning and depth by dignifying them with inclusion in the broad and amorphous category of ‘spirituality’. Spirituality and spiritual care are notions that are supposed to include all and offend none. In the public sector, it is deemed good that all should have their spiritual needs met, whether they come from traditional religions, follow new age spiritual quests, or simply need help to explore their own meanings and values. Christian chaplains, employed by the state in institutions like the military and hospitals, have generally been required to reframe their work and purpose in terms of this larger goal of providing spiritual care, and chaplaincies have been renamed departments of spiritual care. In this context, representatives of Christian denominations often act as brokers or managers of spiritual care provision. In ‘Dumbing down the Spirit’ I question the value of generic spiritual care and challenge chaplains and others to think again about the value of their specific religious, as opposed to spiritual, tradition and heritage. I argue that the disciplines and insights of historic communally based religions have more to offer than anaemic and amorphous notions of unlocated and individualised spirituality. While it may be organisationally and professionally inconvenient, resisting homogenisation of religion into spirituality is vital if Christians are to have anything really worthwhile and distinctive to contribute to human quests for meaning and value. In this respect, Christians should resist the financial and other temptations towards marrying the spirit of the age and attempt to retain and explore religious distinctiveness.

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Having argued for a recovery of religious distinctiveness amongst Christians in public organisations, in the next paper, ‘To the Churches with Love from the Lighthouse’, I am once again very critical of actual Christian attitudes and practices. This essay was written in 1989 for a symposium on Christian responses on HIV/AIDS at the London Lighthouse, a care service for those living with HIV/AIDS, very near the beginning of the ‘AIDS crisis’. The essay is sharply critical of the attitudes of Christian believers and theologians to those living closely with AIDS. At this distance, it might be forgotten that quite a lot of prominent religious leaders publicly stated around this time that AIDS was a direct punishment for homosexual behaviour (Pattison 1987). There was a general denial of the humanity, gifts, and insights that people living with HIV/AIDS might offer to Christianity. This exclusion angered me then, as does the continuing nameless fear that dogs discussion about sexuality and homosexuality in churches [12]. I would like to have excluded this essay on the grounds that it is too anachronistic and out of date for inclusion. However, the trends, habits of mind and issues that surround it are still present in Christian communities today. If nothing else, the presence of this essay here serves as a marker to the fearfulness and exclusivity of Christian communities, especially with regard to anything to do with sexuality. I have no doubt that if a new disease associated with sexual activity arose tomorrow, the churches would respond in very similar ways. ‘Frustrated with Sex: Some Observations on Christian Approaches to the Ethics of Sex and Sexuality’ picks up on some of the issues raised in a preliminary way in the last essay. I remain genuinely perplexed as to why sex and sexuality are such important areas of controversy within Christian communities and Christian ethics. For many outside the churches, it must seem that sex is the only thing that interests Christians in morality. There are, however, far more important things to worry about: for example, the environment, continuing world poverty, violence at all levels of society from the home to the international stage. In this paper, I explore my perplexities and some of the key issues and assumptions of contemporary Christian approaches to sex and sexuality in the hope that this might be of interest and use to others. Although the paper was written in 1998, things have, if anything, deteriorated in terms of gaining understanding and clarity about these issues. The Anglican church worldwide seems destined to split in two over the issue of homosexuality. Whatever does this all have to do with the central inclusive message of the Kingdom of God in which all need forgiveness and all have a place? My chief concern here is that people who fall foul of some kind of notion of sexual purity find it hard to find a place in the Christian community. So muddled and rhetorical thinking has very negative effects on actual real humans who need love, care and understanding, the very things for which Christianity might be thought to stand.

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While Western Christianity has been unduly preoccupied with matters to do with sexual behaviour, it has failed, on the whole, until very recently, to recognise or take any kind of responsibility for sexual and other kinds of abuse that children have experienced both within and outside the church. ‘Suffer Little Children: The Challenge of Child Abuse and Neglect to Theology’ is the most personal and, in my opinion, the most important essay in this book. Reflecting upon personal experience, here I interrogate some of the effects that the Christian tradition has upon individuals who might find themselves in situations of abuse. More than this, I suggest that Christian theology may have some important lessons to learn if it is to be more responsive and responsible to the abused. It is not enough to have a ‘theology of abuse’. Theology and Christian thinking may need to modify their content, assumptions and methods if they are to be part of the solution rather than the problem in abusive situations. I am fairly sure that we have much more to learn about the nature of abuse within religious communities and the part that theology plays in this. This essay challenges theologians like me and my colleagues to become more engaged, and at more fundamental levels than has hitherto been customary. I explore some of the ideas developed here at greater length and depth in my book, Shame: Theory, Therapy, Theology (Pattison 2000). The reality of abuse of children, along with the existence of sexuality, disease and illness, forcibly reminds us of the embodied nature of being human. Apart from being embodied, humans are, for better or worse, creatures of passion. It is emotion and passion that fuel the love, hatred and questing after meaning that surround many of the topics discussed in this part of the book. I have already admitted that much of my own motivation to write comes from strong feelings of anger and outrage at unnecessary or careless exclusion in theory and practice. So it is perhaps appropriate that the last essay in this part of the book is about Christian attitudes to the emotions. For much of Christian history, the embodied emotions have been regarded as a diversion, a distraction, things that lead people away from godliness. In ‘Mend the gap: Christianity and the Emotions’ I attempt to explore the apparent rift between emotions and religion, arguing that feelings must find a place within contemporary Christian theology and practice. I would suggest that this kind of integration of emotions, along with the recognition and honest exploration of issues like religious insight in the context of spirituality, the nature of disease, the practice and ethics of sex and sexuality, and the relationship of religion to abuse is a vital part of the kind of the healing work to which practical theology is called. Roberta Bondi memorably writes: ‘Theology…is about saving lives, and the work of theology…is saving work’ (Bondi 1995, 41). It is perhaps worth remembering that in order to heal wounds it is important first to expose, cauterise and in some ways make them more painful. Gentle words

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and uncritical attitudes may soothe but ultimately fail to heal (cf. Jeremiah 8.10b–11). If, as Carl Rogers, the counselling theorist maintains, the facts, however unpalatable, are ‘friendly’ – certainly more friendly than comforting delusions – then it is part of the work of theologians to ensure that Christian thought and practice is as honest and wide in its understanding of the world and its inhabitants as possible. It is in this light that I see my work of critique as essential to creating a more inclusive Christian theology and practice which finds a place of greater honour for more of the people whom God loves. It is hard, but ultimately, healing work. But then again, what exactly is healing anyway?

References Bondi, R. (1995) Memories of God: Theological Reflections on a Life. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Pattison, S. (1987) ‘The judgment of AIDS.’ Contact 94, 26–32. Pattison, S. (1989) Alive and Kicking: Towards a Practical Theology of Illness and Healing. London: SCM Press. Pattison, S. (2000) Shame: Theory, Therapy, Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Phillips, J.B. (1974) Your God is Too Small. New York: Macmillan. Weil, S. (1959) Waiting on God. London: Fontana Books.

9

Healing: A Flight from Definition

An irate correspondent recently berated me for the immature and unfortunate habit of trying to formulate narrow definitions of important topics. I have to own 1 up to the validity of this criticism in relation to some of my earlier work. However, I would like to assure my correspondent that I am converted to his opinion these days. The topic which wrought my conversion was healing. The occasion for it was being asked to provide a one-page definition of healing for a study group. Instead of being able to perform this apparently simple and reasonable task, I found myself shying away from it, refusing to be confined to a single side of paper and opting for questions rather than definitions. I was (and am) in flight from defining healing. I offer this essay as a catalyst to other people’s thoughts on this topic. There are several difficulties in, and objections to, outlining a brief definition of healing: 1.

If definitions are simple, pithy and tidy, they often exclude important aspects of the object which they attempt to define.

2.

If, on the other hand, definitions are broad and diffuse, they can be too loose to denote anything accurately. This is the portmanteau effect whereby large concepts chase after meaning.

3.

Definitions can be used to avoid serious consideration of a topic. Once they exist, they can take on a life and authority of their own which precludes actual consideration of reality. The whole subject is seen primarily through the lens of an initial definition. Thus definitions can ‘fix’ reality unhelpfully.

4.

The most serious objection to definition in relation to healing in particular is a methodological one. Many of the traditional ways of 125

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understanding healing from a Christian perspective do not easily square with the experience of those working in and using healing services and facilities of all kinds. I suggest that it is necessary to proceed inductively from the complex contemporary reality of the phenomenon of healing in all its diversity, rather than deductively from principles or definitions derived from the Christian tradition or other sources. The ‘foot’ of actual experience of healing should not be prematurely forced into the glass slipper of a definition. One of the chief failings of the Christian tradition and contemporary theology is a reluctance to deal with things as they are, the living ‘texts’ of the present, rather than the dead texts of the past (cf. Capps 1984). This accounts for much contemporary dissatisfaction with Christian theology and practice; it does not scratch where people itch! Understandings from the past have a validity and usefulness. It is important to enter into critical dialogue between the texts and understanding of past and present, but the hard job of analysing and interpreting hard won experience of healing should not be sacrificed to pre-packed definitions. In trying to move towards a valid contemporary ecology of definitions of healing it may be helpful to start with some of the questions and considerations which follow, amongst others. Readers are invited to ponder the points below on the basis that, although they follow no very definite logical order, and by no means add up to a definition, thinking about them individually and collectively might usefully illuminate some aspects of healing. My methodological assumption here is that looking at an object from many different directions in different ways can allow a shape to begin to emerge, as it were, in the centre. It is a bit like trying to work out what an object is when blindfolded by using touch only. It is one of the ways in which theology has sought to speak meaningfully about God. If readers find individual points obscure or meaningless, I urge them to pass on and to dwell on those which seem most relevant to themselves and their own experience. 1. There is no such thing as healing, there are only healings in the plural. Consider the variety of types of healing in, e.g., the New Testament or, indeed, in the contemporary world. Can these be usefully lumped together as simply examples of one particular phenomenon, or does their real diversity have to be taken more seriously? 2. Healing is in the eye of the beholder. One person’s or group’s definition may be a denial of someone else’s experience. Hence where one party sees healing, another sees decay and death.

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3. In the light of (1) and (2), who is to say that healing has occurred? 4. Whether or not healing is held to have taken place depends on the witnesses’ own perspectives, pre-suppositions and experiences. There is a sense in which we ‘construct’ healing from our own 2 understandings. 5. There are internal and external perceptions of healing. The question of who identifies it as having taken place, where, when, why, and to whom is very important. Explanations and witness are deeply contextual and may be very subjective. This does not invalidate them, but it may raise problems. 6. There appear to be many different types of disorder, often neatly labelled mental, physical and spiritual. These broader categories break down into specific disorders. Are such disorders all really manifestations of one thing, e.g. ‘disease’, or should they be understood as discrete phenomena? 7. If there is a plurality of disorders requiring different remedies, should one not expect healings to be pluralistic also so they can be specific? The experience of the blind person is completely different from that of the child suffering from leukaemia, and the elderly person suffering senile dementia or the accident victim in middle life. Does not healing have to reflect this diversity? What, then, of the almost monolithic understandings of Christianity which appears to prescribe the same understandings, healing methods and assumptions for all disorders? 8. What is to be made of the enormous variety of healing methods, e.g. religious, physical, psychological, which in many ways seem to have so little in common in terms of their understandings, practices, practitioners, purposes and ends? Do all healing methods in fact tend towards the same goal? Can they? If so, what is that goal? 9. In connection with (8), is there a temptation to indulge in easy synthesis between methods and understandings in the interests of pragmatic utility or intellectual hygiene? Are ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ healers really aiming at the same thing, or do they simply refuse to acknowledge and explore their real differences? 10.

Is the source of healing inside people (e.g., in their minds), outside them (e.g., God, medicine), between people (e.g., therapeutic relationship) or in a mixture of some, or all, of these places?

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11.

Where does God fit in to healing? Does all healing come directly from the deity, or only some, e.g. ‘spiritual’ healing?

12.

In many instances healing seems to be more of a process than an event (the healings of the NT stick out like a sore thumb in this context). Thus healing seems to be linked with life, change and potential. If this is the case, what sort of potential do terminally ill people, for example, have, if any?

13.

In the Christian tradition, the life and death of Jesus heals, enlivens and potentiates others. Could it be that healing is primarily a gift given to others even while it is denied to the sufferer him or herself ? (‘By his wounds, you have been healed.’)

14.

Is healing given, received, appropriated or created? There are important questions about activity versus passivity/receptivity here.

15.

Is healing a reactive activity which consists in mending people when they are injured, or does it have a preventive aspect also? If so, it must, in our society, be a politically involved activity which is situated within the horizon of a search for social justice, not solely caring for individuals when they are sick. In what sense is a lung cancer sufferer healed individually if his teenage daughter has just begun to smoke at the behest of the cigarette manufacturers? Christian understandings of healing have been scandalously a-political, individualistic and casualty-centred.

16.

An important finding in social anthropology is that healing comes from the margins. Shamans and other healers enter the chaos of suffering and illness themselves and from this contact they derive 3 their power to heal. Do sick and dying people have any power to heal because they unleash energy from the margins of social order? Are hospices and hospitals, with their proper emphasis on pain control, order and the relief of suffering, good channels of the healing power which may be available where chaos shatters order and life?

17.

The experience of shamans and religious healers shows that healing power may be channelled and organised to some extent, but it cannot ultimately be mastered or owned (cf. Lewis 1971). What, then, is the status and potential of organised healing in health care systems and churches? Healing systems can lose their efficacy and power.

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18.

Dealing with and managing chaos can be massively destructive. Is the ambiguous, destructive nature of healing taken seriously enough in contemporary healing systems?

19.

There is nothing romantic or wonderful about being wounded or experiencing chaos. The healing power and authority which may flow from margins of existence is bought at enormous cost. Wounds are painful. They leave scars which may be dead, tender, hard, beautiful, fascinating, terrifying, pathetic.

20.

Beware the ‘protestant work ethic of suffering’ mentality which insists that suffering is really healing. Who has the right to say of another that, although they died a terrible death, they were healed really? There are circumstances in which no healing takes place. To proclaim healing at such times is to lie. Who is to say healing has taken place – whose healing – and at whose expense?

21.

A place must be found for disintegration within the ideology of healing. Sometimes this may be creative and constructive 4 disintegration. Sometimes not. The ideology of ‘wholeness’ may disguise the fact that holiness is about never being healed and well.

22.

Is there an imperative, biological, social or religious, to seek healing? How should those who appear to choose to remain ill be regarded? Is it in any sense valuable not to be healed?

23.

Healing is utterly ambiguous. It can be for good or for ill. Just because people can heal, it does not mean that they are promoting the Kingdom of God. Those who minister to sick individuals without regard to the political process collude with the deaths of many thousands who need never have become ill in the first place. A healing ministry should begin with the elimination of cigarette smoking in this society.

24.

Sometimes being healed can be inconvenient and frightening. Consider, for example, the phobic who is deprived of excuses and control, the people who are cured at Lourdes, incidents in the NT. It is not necessarily a positive experience and may leave people without identity, purpose or role.

25.

It should be noted that healing is at least as much about mending meanings as it is about physical repair or action. Illness shatters people’s world-view and the assumptions which they and their society need to function normally. To maintain a sense of control and self-esteem, people need explanations which work. Cuts in the

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canopy of meaning must be speedily repaired. Arguably, people can live with severe disorders and be nearly dead physically, but they cannot live without meaning (see further Speck 1988; Rowe 1989). 26.

Finally, I suggest that readers should reflect on their own experience of healing. Who has healed you? When, where, why, how? I hope that, even if the questions raised above seem abstruse or meaningless, at least these questions will seem accessible, real and worthwhile.

If readers have found this ramble round some of the considerations which need to be taken into account in moving towards a definition or ecology of definitions of healing tedious and irrelevant, I apologise. In my own defence, all that I can say is that it seems very important that discussions of healing should be conducted within very broad horizons. Christian understandings of healing have been far too narrow for far too long. Thus they have failed to deal adequately with realities of human experience and the complexities and ambiguities of the Christian theological tradition. Clearly, the journey towards a definition of healing and the questions and situations considered en route are much more important than arriving at a neat, well-turned conclusion. For what it is worth, however, I offer the following infinitely wide, vague and functional definition based on pluralism of experience, observation and ordinary linguistic usage: ‘Healing is what people most need; often, but not always, it is what they most want.’ Old habits die hard!

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4.

In Pattison (1988) ch. 1 I argue the case of definitions. See further, e.g., Pattison (1989) ch. 2. Many of the points raised in this article emerge from research for this book. See further, e.g., Douglas (1970), Lewis (1971). In the synoptic gospels, Jesus’ own ministry of healing begins after an encounter with the forces of chaos in the desert. ‘Creative disintegration’ is a concept drawn from Boulding (1985).

References Boulding, M. (1985) Gateway to Hope. Glasgow: Fount. Capps, D. (1984) Pastoral Care and Hermeneutics. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Douglas, M. (1970) Purity and Danger. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Lewis, I.M. (1971) Ecstatic Religion. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Pattison, S. (1988) A Critique of Pastoral Care. London: SCM Press.

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Pattison, S. (1989) Alive and Kicking: Towards a Practical Theology of Illness and Healing. London: SCM Press. Rowe, D. (1989) The Construction of Life and Death. London: Fontana. Speck, P. (1988) Being There. London: SPCK.

10

Dumbing down the Spirit

The only essential qualification that Christian chaplains must possess for working in health care is their ordination, with, by, and through the power of the Holy Spirit (Woodward 1999). However, in a world in which religions in general and Christianity in particular have become something of an embarrassing anachronistic irrelevance, it is often held that, while there is a spiritual aspect to life and everyone has spiritual needs, only some people express these needs in terms of religion (Speck 1988). So what are chaplains, products, representatives, even icons, of a specific tradition, supposed to do with their religious roots and perceptions? Are they to leave their origins, rituals, teachings and traditions behind? Should they regard them as an optional resource for those who can make use of ‘that kind of thing’ while trying to act as spiritual guides and mentors for all, religious or not? Or do they need to find a new, lively accommodation with the religious traditions that have shaped them and which have provided pathways to God? The underlying question here is: Should specifically theistic religion, with all that that implies in terms of belief, knowledge and practice, have a central place within health care provision today? Or is it time that particular religious groups and their representatives, including chaplains, were removed from their publicly funded positions to the margins of private life and personal choice so that a more universally acceptable kind of meaning system encompassed by a general term such as ‘spirituality’ can take its place? Correlatively, is it appropriate that representatives of particular religious traditions become much more closely identified with their own specific religious roots? This might enable them to enrich the tapestry of religious and spiritual discourse with their own insights and wisdom rather than having to present a sanitised, homogenised, generalised spiritual concern. If ‘spirituality’ in general terms is more desirable than religion, it is unclear what part representatives of religious communities should play in delivering ‘spiritual care’. Indeed, precisely because of their specifically religious origins 132

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and training, chaplains as representatives of particular religious views and communities may be the last people who might be suitable for facilitating or providing ‘spiritual care’ in the generic, secularised sense that seems now to be prevalent across a variety of professions (Cobb and Robshaw 1998; McSherry and Draper 1997; Ross 1995). It could be argued that if the promotion of generic, religiously neutral spiritual care is the ideal in health care then nurses, existential counsellors, or philosophers might be better suited to providing care and assistance than chaplains. While it may be in the interests of short-term pragmatic expediency for chaplains to sit light to their religious origins in the name of attending to matters of spirituality and spiritual care more broadly, this may not be in their own or others’ long-term interests. For generalised ‘spirituality’, while it may be more acceptable than religion, has many aspects which are inimical to, and very different from, those that characterise historic religious traditions by which generations of believers have lived and died. Furthermore, the gradual subordination of religious commitment and practice to a more generalised spiritual quest is liable to weaken the capacity of religious traditions usefully to contribute to such a quest in the long term. I find it difficult to see much future or lasting value for floating spiritualities divorced from communities of practice and discourse where they have been tested and refined over centuries. The casualty of substituting ‘spiritual care’ for religious care may be that much wisdom and insight, welcome or unwelcome, is lost in the interests of providing bespoke metaphysical marshmallow that is non-specific, unlocated, thin, uncritical, dull and unnutritious. Pastoral care which transmutes into generic spiritual care may become a case of the bland leading the bland. I want to argue here that religion, specifically Christian religion, is a substantive tradition that must be addressed and lived with rather than subordinated within chaplaincy. Furthermore, I believe that the Christian tradition of Spirit and spirituality, like that of many other historic religions, has little to do with contemporary notions of ‘spirituality’. This tradition, rooted in theism, is distinctive, specific, embarrassing and challenging when compared to vague nostrums of spirituality and spiritual care which may owe more to philosophy than to religion. This means that it has all the advantages and disadvantages of an ambivalent, inhabited and living historic tradition, both radical and conservative, that make spirituality worth attending to in the first place. I suggest that chaplains need to re-evaluate their relationship with and responsibility for their own particular spiritual tradition rather than uncritically attempting to become generic facilitators or brokers of spirituality in all its manifestations from Wicca to Buddhism. One way of developing the points made above is to bring out the distinction made briefly above that spirituality in the generic sense that is often used around

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health care has little to do with Christian spirituality. To establish this, I will now look more carefully at the tradition of Christian spirituality. I will then examine some of the main characteristics of generic spirituality and spiritual need.

Spirit and spirituality in the Christian tradition The Christian spiritual tradition has been pluriform and multivocal. However, it should be uncontroversial to suggest that it has its roots and much of its ongoing sustenance in biblical insights into the nature of Spirit and spirituality. After centuries of established churches and conventional religion, often closely allied to dominant social institutions and ideologies, it can easily be forgotten that the roots of this religion are in charismatic theism (Weber 1963). So what can be learned about the nature of Spirit and spirituality from Christian biblical pneumatology? In the first place, the Spirit is divine and transcendent. While it touches human life and can be identified with it (e.g., in terms like ‘human spirit’) as its creator and quickener, it is independent and goes beyond human knowledge and experience (cf. Gen. 1.2, Ps. 18.15). To encounter the Spirit is to encounter the divine and holy – with all the fear and awe that that suggests. Second, the Spirit is active – it takes initiatives and it is not just to be found passively waiting to be discovered by mystics or philosophers somewhere inside the human psyche. To be inspired or inspirited is to encounter divine otherness that comes from outside the human realm: ‘Spirit’ is the word used from the earliest traditions behind the OT to denote the mysterious invisible power of God, manifested in the wind… , in the breath of life…and in the ecstatic power of charismatic leader and prophet. (Dunn 1983, p.357; cf. Lindblom 1962; Witherington 2000)

Furthermore, this experience is likely to be a demand for action and change, a summons to obedience to God’s will, not an affirmation of the status quo. It should be remembered here that Jesus’ first experience of the Spirit described in Mark 1.12 was the disturbing, alienating one of being thrown out into the desert, not a warm inner glow of happiness and self-realisation. The work of the Spirit draws people into the passion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. This is daunting and dangerous. Third, the effects of the Spirit’s work are not wholly or even mainly confined to individuals. In Pauline theology, the work of the Spirit is to build up the whole people of God (cf. 1 Cor. 12.4–30). Furthermore, the Spirit is concerned with corporate and political reality as much as it is with individuals, a fact to which the ministry of the prophets bears clear witness (Lindblom 1962).

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Fourth, the Spirit’s work is bound up with the whole of material reality and it can effect changes such as healings within it (Gen. 1.2; cf. Wink 1984). The Holy Spirit is not a ghost in the sense of being a disembodied wraith. There is a spiritual aspect to every part of creation, including the human creation. It is not for nothing that the Spirit’s work is associated with basic elements such as wind and fire (Acts 2.1–4). Fifth, the Spirit is associated with real power to change, bend and burn that which is contrary to the will and purposes of God. It literally inspires people and transforms them in unpredictable ways. While the ‘voice’ of the Spirit may sometimes be low and still, the primary characteristic of Spirit is that of divine power that cannot be resisted. Finally, the Spirit is not biddable or amenable to human manipulation. The Spirit blows where it wills, accomplishing the will and purposes of God (cf. John 3.8). It is not a spiritual ‘resource’ like electricity that can be channelled and turned on and off according to human whim. The Spirit is unpredictable, as many who have wanted to control it have found. It refuses to inspire or heal on command and works in places where it has no business to be. It is in the light of these characteristics that it is possible to understand that ‘To think deeply about the Holy Spirit is a bewildering, tearing exercise, for whatever he [sic] touches he turns it inside out’ (Taylor 1972, 177). The view of Spirit as divine, independent, active, demanding, social, materially related, powerful and unbiddable in the interests of revealing God’s will and perfecting creation is central to a biblically informed Christian spirituality. This charismatic theistic tradition is not an easy one to assimilate into the modern world. Aspects of it are ambivalent, even embarrassing and dangerous. So, for example, the notion of signs, healings and wonders accomplished by forces that are unbiddable and outwith human control is deeply suspect within the context of contemporary health care with its emphasis upon scientific rationality and managed predictability (Pattison 2000a)[8]. It is not surprising, then, that Christian chaplains are not particularly keen to promote knowledge of their tradition. They may be tempted to opt in to a more generalised and less specific language about spirituality that is more sanitised and acceptable in the modern world. This dumbing down of the heart of Christian discipleship and spirituality may have much to be said for it in terms of attaining acceptance and inclusion. However, there are losses as well as gains here. This becomes apparent when one looks at the rather emaciated, limited and vague notions of ‘spirituality’ that presently obtain in the health care arena generally.

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‘Spirituality’ in health care Spirituality has become a very important category for understanding the condition of individual patients or users within health care today. The impetus to identify and attend seriously to this dimension of existence received a powerful boost from the Patient’s Charter (Department of Health 1991). This was taken to suggest that users were entitled to have their spiritual as well as their other needs met within health services. The Charter did not provide a definition of ‘spiritual needs’, but their inclusion has helped to fuel a quest to define and meet such needs subsequently. Many professional groups, especially nurses and chaplains, have become engaged in the quest to identify and meet spiritual needs effectively as can be seen from contributions to volumes like Cobb and Robshaw’s The Spiritual Challenge of Health Care (1998). This book reveals that notions of ‘spirituality’ that are presently in play are diffuse, vague and contradictory. ‘Spirituality’ seems to function like intellectual Polyfilla, changing shape and content conveniently to fill the space its users devise for it. Having mostly departed from the theories and practices of religion, theorists and practitioners of spirituality are muddled about what actually constitutes their subject matter. Some contributors to the book see spirituality as having a lot to do with formal faith and religion, hence, presumably, the appropriateness of involving clergy in it. Many want to preserve some kind of non-specified notion of transcendence while carefully excluding the divine as a necessary part of that transcendent dimension. Others see spirituality as having to do with the realm of ethics and morals embodied in notions like respect. A number of writers conceive of spirituality as a kind of humanistic limit concept whereby that which cannot easily be expressed but which is felt to be a kind of unthought known in human existence is rendered non-specifically visible and significant. At the other end of the scale, there are those who want quickly to reduce the ‘spiritual’ to some features of empirically observable behaviour and existence that can clearly be specified and thus directly addressed, e.g., by the provision of specific spiritual care. Over against these writers are those who want to use spirituality as a kind of protest against reductionism and exclusion of important aspects of human existence that cannot easily be described and discussed in other terms. There are, however, are a number of assumptions that unite most of the book’s contributors. First, spirituality is an unequivocally ‘good thing’. It is universally valid and valued. Everyone does and should have ‘it’ and, because they do, they should have their spiritual needs, however defined, met. There appears to be no such thing as a dubious spirituality, a harmful spirituality, or one that should not be indulged. (Compare Wakefield’s pertinent observation that Hitler had a powerful spirituality but it was not a beneficial one (Wakefield 1983, p.362).)

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Second, there seems to be some consensus on the idea that spirituality and spiritual needs can be identified, measured and met. Thus the realm of the spiritual is commodified and reduced to predictable service rather than a category of the unknown and unknowable. Third, it seems largely to be agreed that spirituality is an individual matter that has mostly to do with the well-being of persons not groups or communities. Individualism in focus here mirrors the individualism of health and social care generally. Fourth, there is no kind of well-founded and -tried community, practice or discipline that surrounds and sustains the seeker after spiritual reassurance or wisdom. It is up to the individual to find her own way to transcendence and connection, preferably quickly, so existential angst can be avoided in the context of illness. Fifth, the assumption seems to be that since health care is basically the province of professionals there must be some professionals around who can make a career out of expertly diagnosing and meeting spiritual needs. Thus it is a matter of identifying professional appropriateness and expertise for dealing with spirituality, not a matter of acknowledging that spirituality might be beyond the competence and range of particular professional groups. Finally, although this is not explicitly acknowledged, spirituality seems to extend no further than some kind of Stoic accommodation with the individual’s life, reality and beliefs. No metaphysics are required here. Spirituality is just how you get on with accepting the inevitable, adjusting to it, and wresting meaning from it (cf. Karp 1996). This combination of features suggests, contra Markham (1998), that that contemporary thinking about spirituality is much closer to the thought and practice of certain kinds of philosophy, particularly the atheistic therapeutic philosophies such as Stoicism and Epicureanism, than it is to religion as it has mostly been understood (Nussbaum 1994). It has, as far as I can see, almost no relationship to theistic religion at all. Furthermore, it cannot have such a relationship if it is to be acceptable in the secularised public market place of health care amongst people of all faiths and none. In the next part of this essay I want to go on to point up some of the real advantages of maintaining a religiously distinctive and critical standpoint in health care chaplaincy and spirituality rather than seeking to become all things to all people in the name of a vague kind of spiritual relevance that may ultimately prove to be ephemeral and illusory. Maintaining religious identity and discipline might be one of the gifts that chaplains can offer to health care, even if this is not so immediately acceptable and gratifying as unlocated spirituality.

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The value of Christian religion in the spiritual context There is a considerable difference between Christian spirituality and religion, based on historic and communally founded theistic belief in an active God who acts and evokes response in and through the Holy Spirit, and the contemporary quest for generic spirituality in health care. It is entirely understandable, even evangelically responsive and responsible, for Christian chaplains to wish to be universally helpful in the area of spirituality and spiritual care in health care. However, I want to argue that they might more usefully situate themselves as religious functionaries within a rich and distinctive religious tradition. It is my belief that the effective abandonment of a particular charismatic theistic spirituality in favour of generic consumer ‘spirituality’ may lead to the long-term impoverishment of all concerned. Resisting the fall into spiritual Esperanto. Surveying the many fundamentally different discourses about ethics in the postmodern world, Stout (1988) observes that there is a temptation to try and develop a lowest common denominator moral language that all participants can ‘speak’ and agree upon – a kind of moral Esperanto. However, the problem with Esperanto is that it belongs to all communities and to none. Speakers of Spanish or English may have difficulty in understanding each other and have to make considerable efforts to communicate. However, the languages that they speak are grounded in particular communities and have important utterances written and spoken in them. Nobody, on the other hand, has yet written anything of importance in Esperanto. Few people bother to learn this ‘ideal’ language that promises to solve all the world’s communication problems. Thus it remains essentially trivial and unimportant. There is perhaps a similar difficulty with the pursuit of generic spirituality that embraces all people. While none are excluded, such a sterile, non-located area of concern may have little of value and substance to offer, least of all those who face problems of life and death. According to Stout, the answer to pluralism and inclusiveness in morality is not to eliminate distinctive communities and languages and to sink all differences. Rather, people should take the trouble to learn each other’s languages and cultures. This is a more interesting and profitable exercise than trying to identify lowest common denominators or to globalise common ways of thinking, speaking and acting. Boundaries are not best dealt with by eliminating or ignoring them. Rather, taking them seriously can be a source of insight and growth for all concerned. If this kind of thinking is applied in the arena of spiritual care, what may be most needed is not a concern for generic lowest common denominator eclectic spirituality with no insiders or outsiders (and, by implication, no distinctive communities of belief and practice who provide both insights and challenges). Rather, confident inhabitants of particular faith traditions who are prepared to

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dialogue honestly with others are required. In this context, the duty of Christian chaplains might be to be competent witnesses and exponents of their own faith traditions and communities, not facilitators for the spiritualities of the world. The need for identity and integrity – an end to spiritual brokerage. Given the muddled usage of the term spirituality, and the fact that in the West this has often been associated directly with the Christian tradition, it is not surprising that Christian chaplains have allowed themselves to become brokers of ‘spirituality’ generally and not just representatives of their own tradition (Orchard 2000). There is much to be commended in this open-minded, concerned attitude for people of all faiths and none. It is a great advance on tribalism, exclusivism and xenophobia. However, there is much that may be glossed over and lost here. In particular, chaplains may be tempted to downplay the importance of their own tradition and identity within that tradition in the interests of being universally accepting and acceptable. In the long term, this can only weaken their value as speakers of a particular language and representatives of a particular religious community and tradition. The advantages of such a tradition are that it brings to situations of life and death real wisdom and integrity of character and belief. While this may appal some, and be unhelpful to others, particular religious traditions and practices that have emerged from human experience over millennia should not be discarded unthinkingly, particularly by those who appear to be their most prominent representatives in health care settings. A faithful spiritual journey within any religious tradition is likely to be demanding, involving personal and communal conflict and difficulty. However, the outworking of that journey is likely to be of value to those both inside and outside that tradition. If chaplains and other religious representative persons abandon the value of their own religious traditions, what do they really have to offer those who are spiritually needy and lost? And if Christian chaplains insist on seeing themselves as brokers for all religious traditions and none in the provision of spiritual care, what chance is there that health care institutions and users of different faiths and none can really gain something of lasting value from the Christian or any other tradition? At stake here is the issue of religious identity and integrity. As long as Christian chaplains see themselves as generic brokers of spiritual care of all kinds, they are in danger of forsaking what they most distinctively and usefully have to offer: their lived experience of dwelling within a historic religious tradition by which people over centuries have lived and died. Furthermore, as ‘universal’ spiritual brokers, they may risk distorting and misrepresenting the faith traditions of others who should be allowed to speak and minister for themselves. The implication of this argument is that representatives of Christianity should be seen as such, not as managers or brokers of generic spiritual care. And working alongside such representatives there should be those of other faiths and none who should be allowed to communicate their own insights and practices in

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their own way. It is only when we stop being universal figures, as ‘men’ were thought to be in sexist language, that both Christian and other faith inhabitants will be able to find and fully express their own religious identities. I suspect that underlying the apparent liberal universalism of ‘spiritual’ as opposed to pastoral care lies a good deal of uncritical assumption that Christian (especially, perhaps, Anglican) ministers can really be all things to all people. Furthermore, all religions and spiritualities are valid and lead to the same place, so everyone can be accommodated within the supermarket of spiritual need. This kind of thinking is criticised in many types of inter-religious dialogue. It often leads to an unwitting imperialism and ‘baptism’ of others’ beliefs and practices. This is deeply unacceptable to those others (D’Costa 1986). To be deeply respectful to others as a Christian chaplain may most appropriately involve being deeply Christian in one’s own ideas and practices, not accommodating others within some kind of web of ‘spiritual care’ which they have not consented to inhabiting. The need for theological critique and ‘prophecy’. Generic spiritual care provision within health care is muddled and contested. Spirituality is taken to be a universal personal need that must be met within health care. A broad, vaguely philosophical, personal quest for meaning, value, worth etc. may be perfectly valid in its own terms. However, it has little or nothing to do with Western religious traditions generally, or the Christian religious tradition in particular. Indeed, the Christian spiritual tradition can be taken to be in many ways highly critical of many of the assumptions upon which contemporary generic ‘spirituality’ rests. If chaplains can access and retain aspects of their theological and spiritual tradition there is much insight of a usefully critical nature which they might offer to enrich the rather vacuous discussion about spiritual care. While some of this might be controversial, problematic or even offensive, judiciously offered religious and theological ‘fragments’ (Forrester 1997) may provide some kind of time-tried grit for a discourse that otherwise risks trivialisation. Thus it may be possible to transcend the worthy dullness of spiritual Esperanto and the sickly dangers of metaphysical marshmallow. As the lives of the holy ones in religious traditions show, such grit can in fact produce pearls. Where generic spirituality is not theistic, Christian spirituality is. While generic spirituality is seen as a quest for meaning for its own sake, Christian spirituality is essentially a response to the action of a transcendent God incarnate in Jesus Christ. The Spirit is given to accomplish God’s will on earth, a universal commission. It is not a controllable, comprehensible commodity that can be distributed according to human priorities and needs. The Spirit to which Christians respond is gracious and beneficent but not biddable. Furthermore, it is not predictable or controllable – it is literally inspiring (as opposed to much generic spirituality which might be characterised as ex-spiring). The Spirit can be

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destructive and challenging rather than comforting. While it may certainly comfort the afflicted, it also afflicts the comfortable, demanding obedience and change. The scope of the Spirit’s concern, and the limit of Christian spirituality, is the whole of bodily life and creation, not the mind or soul of the person. While the individual may be important within Christian charismatic spirituality, the whole thrust of Christian spirituality is towards creating and building up communities of faith. Christian spirituality encompasses all material, social and political realities (Pattison 2000b)[8]. So an important part of its pursuit includes the quest for social and political justice and change (Sheldrake 1987). The place where people learn about and co-operate with the Spirit, i.e. engage in spirituality, is the community of the faithful commissioned by God to engage in the work of salvation. So this spirituality is outward looking, altruistic and socially concerned. It makes substantial moral demands upon adherents who are supposed to manifest the gifts of the Spirit, not just to feel that life has meaning and value. The implication of this is that the place where the Spirit is discerned is within the worshipping community, its scriptures, rituals and practices of prayer, not in individual introspection. Communal belonging and identity is challenging. However, the Spirit makes it possible for those open to its promptings to transcend themselves and discover love and belonging. Thus the disciplines of prayer, worship and work provide a clear way of working with and for God that is lacking in the generic quest to meet spiritual needs which tends to be individualistic, introspective, personal and quietistic. It is this fiery, transcendent and, in some ways, difficult charismatic spiritual tradition to which Christian chaplains are heirs. However, it has been effectively dumbed down by contemporary Christians, keen to be all things to all people. If discriminatingly used and understood, it might provide considerable fruitful material for thinking with and against, both within and outside the Christian community. For example, becoming more clear about the theologies underlying Christian spirituality might help make other stakeholders within the world of spiritual care a bit clearer about their own teleologies and anthropologies, whether or not they find the Christian ones acceptable (Pattison 1997). Distinctively Christian religious spirituality should not be casually downplayed or discarded. It may figure a larger, more interesting and better developed, if more problematic, understanding of spirituality and how it might be pursued than many of the anaemic ‘available on prescription’ generic spiritualities that are presently washing around the NHS. Above all, perhaps, it provides lived performances of spirituality which can be examined, understood, criticised and imitated rather than vague promises or Stoic nostrums. While the latter may not be worthless, they have not yet decisively demonstrated their capacity to nourish and inspire body, mind and spirit in this secular age. For Christians, finding personal meaning and individual acceptance is not enough.

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The Christian life is about praise, worship and work in community with an active loving God, not just about passive endurance in an empty universe (Hardy and Ford 1984). Perhaps it is time that chaplains were more willing to remind themselves and others of this as their distinctive contribution to the Babel surrounding ‘spirituality’ in health care and elsewhere.

Conclusion None of what I have written here should be construed as a manifesto for retreat on the part of Christian chaplains or others into exclusivism, religiosity, nostalgia or triumphalist evangelisation within the sphere of health care. My purpose here has been to suggest that chaplains who come from a distinctive and valuable religious tradition should think more carefully about what it is that they can bring into the fragmented world of generic spirituality. Given the dominance of institutional Christianity in Britain in the past, it is perhaps appropriate that Christian representatives should not push their own tradition aggressively. However, it is getting to a point where people have only the haziest idea of what that tradition is and what it might have to offer by way of wisdom and life-enhancing disciplines. The churches in general, and chaplains in particular, perhaps need to think harder about the use that they can appropriately, creatively and non-oppressively make of their own native theologies and practices within the health care arena. It is my belief that they will not serve users, health care institutions or the future of chaplaincy best by dumbing down the Spirit and forgetting their own tradition in the interests of promoting generic ‘spiritual care’. Indeed, if they do not engage more directly with that tradition, there is a real danger that it will be diminished and die so that a major source of insight and challenge will be denied to generations yet to come.

References Cobb, M. and Robshaw, V. (eds) (1998) The Spiritual Challenge of Health Care. Edinburgh: Churchill Livingstone. D’Costa, G. (1986) Theology and Religious Pluralism. Oxford: Blackwell. Department of Health (1991) The Patient’s Charter. London: HMSO. Dunn, J. (1983) ‘Holy Spirit.’ In G. Wakefield (ed.) A Dictionary of Christian Spirituality. London: SCM Press. Forrester, D. (1997) Christian Justice and Social Policy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hardy, D. and Ford, D. (1984) Jubilate: Theology in Praise. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Karp, D. (1996) Speaking of Sadness. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lindblom, J. (1962) Prophecy in Ancient Israel. Oxford: Blackwell. Markham, I. (1998) ‘Spirituality and the World Faiths.’ In M. Cobb and V. Robshaw (eds) The Spiritual Challenge of Health Care. Edinburgh: Churchill Livingstone.

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McSherry, W. and Draper, P. (1997) ‘The spiritual dimension: why the absence within nursing curricula?’ Nurse Education Today 17, 413–17. Nussbaum, M. (1994) The Therapy of Desire. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Orchard, H. (2000) Hospital Chaplaincy: Modern, Dependable? Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers. London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (2000a) ‘Some Objections to Aims and Objectives.’ In G. Evans and M. Percy (eds) Managing the Church? Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Pattison, S. (2000b) ‘Organisational spirituality: an exploration.’ Modern Believing 41, 2, 12–20. Ross, L. (1995) ‘The spiritual dimension: its importance to patients’ health, well-being and quality of life and its implications for nursing practice.’ International Journal of Nursing Studies 32, 5, 457–68. Sheldrake, P. (1987) Images of Holiness. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Speck, P. (1988) Being There: Pastoral Care in Time of Illness. London: SPCK. Stout, J. (1988) Ethics after Babel. Cambridge: James Clarke. Taylor, J. (1972) The Go-Between God. London: SCM Press. Wakefield, G. (ed.) (1983) A Dictionary of Christian Spirituality. London: SCM Press. Weber, M. (1963) The Sociology of Religion. Boston: Beacon Press. Wink, W. (1984) Naming the Powers. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Witherington, B. (2000) Jesus the Seer: The Progress of Prophecy. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers. Woodward, J. (1999) A Study of the Acute Health Care Chaplain in England. Unpublished PhD dissertation, The Open University.

11

To the Churches with Love from the Lighthouse

This essay is a personal theological reflection on a meeting which took place in London in July 1989 between contributors to a book (Woodward 1990), people living closely with AIDS or HIV, and those concerned to provide care for them. I have written elsewhere on the nature of theological reflection. Suffice it to say that I see this activity as basically the process of critical conversation and interrogation between contemporary situations or experience, aspects of the Christian theological tradition, and insights from sources of contemporary knowledge, for 1 example, the social sciences. I want to make it quite clear at the outset that I am conscious of the limitations of my own perceptions. The words which follow are based on my own insights gained from the meeting. They have not been agreed or examined by other participants who might have said very different things. On a different day, with different people in a different setting, my reflection might have gone in a completely different direction; I do not want to give the impression of spurious universality, objectivity, consensus or distance. I regard this as a disposable document recording first reactions, not as the foundation for future system. It can be treated as throw-away theology (lasting and authoritative insights take a long time to evolve), though I hope there is enough integrity and faithfulness to situation and tradition in it to make it worth reading. One of the most important developments of the last century or so has been the realization that theology, or theologies, are human constructs which reflect 2 the context, interests and biases of those who formulate and use them. This means that I must tell you something of my background and known biases so that you can evaluate what I say later more accurately. It is still uncommon for theologians to make overt their personal origins, situations and beliefs in their public discourse. In the present context I believe it is a methodological prerequisite.

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I am a 35-year-old white male of middle class origin and education. Having been brought up in Quakerism, I became a member of the Church of England, attracted by its sacramentalism, did a degree in Biblical Studies and completed training for the Anglican ministry in Scotland where I became fascinated by the relationship between belief and action in the subject area known as Practical Theology. After a brief curacy, I researched the relationship between liberation theology and pastoral care in mental illness hospitals. I was then a pastoral studies teacher in a theological college and subsequently a university lecturer in pastoral studies for five years. My present work as secretary of a community health council springs from a long-lasting concern for social justice and from trying to ensure that belief is fleshed out in action. I married relatively young and am now divorced with no children. I have not married again. I believe myself to be predominantly heterosexual in sexual orientation. Like most of the population, I have lesbian and gay friends and relations. A number of my relatives have suffered severe mental illness. On their behalf as well as that of gay and divorced people, I have a fair sense of outrage against the indifference and rejection of the churches at an institutional level. Naively perhaps, I believe the Church should do good to people, learn from them and build them up, not make people who are already having a bad time feel worse. I had already written to some extent in these terms, though less personally, in a previous publication on the judgement of AIDS (Pattison 1989b). However, before July 1989 when the meeting described and discussed below took place, I had never knowingly met anyone living closely with HIV or AIDS. So to the Lighthouse. The Lighthouse, near Notting Hill in London, is a brand new imposing building which could contain smart offices. It houses some hospice beds for people living with AIDS, a home care hospice service, and endless training teams, facilities and meeting rooms, as well as a very pleasant restaurant which is open to the public. In fact, the fifteen or so people who met in July 1989 did not meet in the Lighthouse but in a basement opposite, altogether less intimidating, but hot, sticky and dark on an overcast but very warm and humid day. The London Underground was recovering from industrial action. It was the worst kind of day to be meeting in the city, and even Birmingham, where I live, seemed an attractive alternative. For about six hours, a changing population talked in a free-ranging way about issues relating to AIDS or HIV. We were male and female, gay and straight, married and unmarried, divorced, Christian, non-Christian, post-Christian. Some were writers, some academics, some care providers, some people living with HIV or AIDS. Most were over thirty and under seventy. All were white. Some had been or were ordained Christian ministers, most were not. After the inevitable but enjoyable introductions and discussion of expectations we settled into relaxed, honest and interesting conversation punctuated only by new arrivals and

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early departures. The frustrations of the London Underground soon seemed far away. We talked about this book. What was it intended to do? Would it make the institutional churches take action? Could it change the world or just encourage the struggling and help provide community for them amidst hostility? People talked about the importance of being listened to, about the need for good and truthful meanings, about being victims, about living creatively with HIV – and being destroyed by it. Personal stories began to emerge about what HIV had done to and for people, about responses from carers and professionals, about rejection by churches, their ministers and leaders, about hurtful decisions made in other places. The experiences of one person led to others expounding theirs. Emotional themes emerged: terror, isolation, togetherness, guilt, shame, acceptance, the importance of being honest with oneself and being understood. Spontaneously, naturally and unportentously, amidst all this, great existential themes also appeared: life, death, destruction, creation, fear, evil, chaos, spirituality, solitude and love. It is important to say that there seemed to be no experts, only explorers. Our conversation was an unfinished beginning and came to no conclusions or answers. So, where to begin a theological reflection on this all too brief, but rich, experience? I think I must start with the experience itself. For all of us, being together was important. Within a very short time there was a profound sense that we were glad to be there with each other. We felt sustained, challenged, supported and accepted in a group of strangers sharing no past and no future. For me at any rate, the experience was fundamental not ephemeral. As individuals we were recognized and accepted. We went away with more than we brought because of the generosity of others’ willing sharing and communication. It would have been possible for me to worship with this group and, in more unanimously ‘Christian’ circles, I would describe the meeting as a spiritual experience in the broadest and most worthwhile sense. A meeting around the topic of living and dying with HIV with a very mixed group of strangers produced an experience of solidarity, encounter, challenge and togetherness which I would want to call Church. It is this experience of Church which I now want to examine more closely and interro3 gate in relation to the institutional churches. Perhaps it is no accident that I should begin to think of our meeting as embodying an experience of authentic Church. Some of the people in our group living directly with HIV themselves described their experience in terms directly analogous to being converted. First comes the experience of realizing that you are HIV positive. The familiar world is turned upside down. Suddenly life becomes both very precious and very precarious. It is important to live every second; everything from fear to hope is very vivid. It is not an exaggeration to say that some people felt they had really come to life for the first time at this fateful moment, a

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moment both unfair and wonderful. A complete reordering of priorities and horizons takes place in the wake of what might truly be called a baptism of fire. Moving beyond initial ‘conversion’ to fulness of present life there are moments of doubt and terror. Isolation and uncertainty loom, there are periods of feeling well and feeling very ill. Fortunately, there is the possibility of community around the aweful reality of AIDS. There are fellow experiencers, and places like the Lighthouse and CARA (Care and Resources for People Affected by HIV/AIDS) witness to the importance of fellowship, support and self-help in the company of others who know the reality of the experience. Group meetings and friendships become important and deep. There is an almost monastic spirituality and discipline surrounding the experience of HIV/AIDS for some people. Confession of feelings to groups is important, as are strict diets (to maintain physical fitness) and meditation/visual4 ization exercises. The aim is to survive and live as creatively as possible with the disease, to maintain some sense of control and self-esteem in the face of chaos and immense uncertainty. The fact that we were meeting at all bears witness to an eagerness to evangelize. People were keen to speak of their experience, if not to convert others, at least to make them fully aware of how they felt and how their experiences had affected them. There was no sense that these things should be spoken of only in private and hidden from public view. People living closely with HIV rightly assert that the whole of society is living with AIDS (just as some Christians assert that we are all living with the present reality of salvation whether we like it or not). They are keen that society should realize its situation, take responsibility and learn from their experience. The idea that a ‘sacred text’ in the shape of this book might appear to convey experience to a wider audience was welcomed and applauded. The people living closely with HIV/AIDS who met at the London Lighthouse (itself perhaps a sort of cathedral in this context!) were deeply alive and aware people converted to life by the threat of death, longing to share what they had with others in the context of compassionate fellowship, members of a new kind of spiritual movement or church. Yet nearly all of them, as well as other participants in the conversation, felt deeply alienated from the institutional churches which they saw as unresponsive and rejecting. Stories were told of people being rejected by colleagues and superiors when HIV was diagnosed. Those who had no close relationship with the institutional churches in adult life seemed to feel they had nothing to offer except reinforcement of guilt, shame and rejection, emotions which denied and diminished at a time when positive self-image and acceptance are vital. It seemed that many felt they had discovered that the reconciliation, love, acceptance and forgiveness they had sought all their lives had been obtained only through the ‘secular’

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spiritualities, groups and relationships which have sprung up around AIDS. For some, there was anger against the institutional churches for not living up to their high ideals and showing appropriate care. Others had never expected churches to provide that care or attention anyway. Personally, I do not find a need to lament the fact that people find love, care and reconciliation outside the churches. But it worries and perplexes me greatly that organizations which are founded round a life and a death seem unable to cope with life and death when they present themselves in people living closely with HIV/AIDS. These people offer their own vision of fulness of life and community in the face of the terror and isolation of death. If the churches cannot perceive and receive this, something has gone wrong. The experience of people living closely with AIDS is one of life, love, reconciliation and community alongside isolation, fear and destruction. It summons the institutional church to come forth from its sepulchre and to discover the content rather than the form of resurrection in relation to life and death. If it cannot do so, the loss will be its own. Will the churches accept and recognize the gift of life or will they cling to death, even ‘if someone should rise from the dead’ (cf. Luke 16.31)? In her book Purity and Danger, the social anthropologist Mary Douglas writes: Granted that disorder spoils pattern; it also provides the materials of pattern. Order implies restriction; from all possible materials, a limited selection has been made and from all possible relations a limited set has been used. So disorder by implication is unlimited, no pattern has been realised in it, but its potential for patterning is indefinite. This is why, though we seek to create order, we do not simply condemn disorder. We recognise that it is destructive to existing patterns; also that it has potentiality. It symbolises both danger and power. (1966, p.94, my emphasis)

One of the main functions of any religion is to cope with chaos and disorder: to tame it and make ordered existence possible. Ironically, however, the continuing life of any religion depends on its ability to be able to tap the energy or power emerging from chaos. Thus, within the Judaeo-Christian tradition, religion has been energized by being disrupted by new inbreakings of chaos or Spirit in, for example, the ministries of prophets or Jesus. Spirit is profoundly ambiguous; it appears to have organizing and controlling features (cf. Gen. 1 where Spirit orders latent matter), but also disruptive and disordering aspects (cf. Mark 1.12, in which the Spirit literally throws the newly baptized Jesus out into the desert). Christianity depends for its very existence on keeping in touch with the energy and resource of chaos at the margins. Ultimately, this chaos is most powerfully represented in the annihilation promised by death. The world is more disordered and disintegrated than we can possibly imagine or cope with. In the

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end it destroys our bodies, lives and meanings. Hence the power of a religion which places resurrection at its centre. Christianity offers the possibility of some kind of overcoming of chaos and creation of meaning, relationship, purpose and community. But it can do this only if it remains in contact with the turbulent forces of life and death which it seeks to control. Inevitably, over time, religions tend to fossilize and routinize themselves, to pretend that there is in fact no chaos at all, only order and tranquillity. At this point, they become anaesthetized and start to die. In their death throes they resist the forces of life and death ever more vigorously. In doing so they minimize the fear of death but lose the possibility of life. Individuals and communities who are full of life or genuinely face death are a threat to chaos, and death-avoiding institutions. They are rejected. Ironically, they also offer such institutions the only hope they have for continuing life. Life comes from the margins where life and death mingle and break 6 into the world of meaning and pattern. Small wonder, then, that institutional Churches have little place for those who have undergone the terrible baptism into living with HIV. Recognizing this perennial tendency, Karl Barth once described religion as humanity’s last protest against God, and directed the attention of religious people again and again to the living and disturbing chaotic word of the gospel which must be refracted through the life of the community which calls 7 itself Church. Contemporary churches at a structural, institutional level fear the forces of life and death and endeavour to flee from them. They are in good company, for the original disciples of Jesus reacted in much the same way when they witnessed the inbreaking mighty works of God in his ministry. New life can be as disruptive and unwelcome as sudden death. At the tomb on Easter morning the disciples were afraid to find it empty, not delighted (Mark 16.8). Fear and awe are authentic aspects of religious experience. By definition, they never become less fearful or awesome, though the memory of them may be domesticated, routinized and institutionalized. Later I will discuss the importance of re-siting the fear and chaos excited by living with AIDS within the Christian belief in resurrection. First, however, I want to discuss the structural and attitudinal aspects of institutionalized church life which complement and buttress the rejection of life and death intruding at the margins of domesticated religion. Criticism of the institutional structures of the Church, implied or overt, must be as nearly as old as the Church itself. Some contemporary critiques, however, raise new questions in very sharp ways. Don Cupitt (1989) argues that the Church is a power structure which is based to some extent on coercion. The politics of subjection based on a hierarchical dualism which is ultimately based 8 on sexism holds sway. Patriarchal rationalism, complemented by pyramidal

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rank-orders and authority, are important features of churches which are becoming increasingly narrow and defensive in a post-modern world. As the churches find themselves more and more marginalized from contemporary life they reject the inbreaking of critical thought and become ‘philistine and morally vicious’ (Cupitt 1989, p.9). Orthodoxy and monolithic concepts of truth and reality are commended together with public rationality, objective truth and univocal meaning to provide ‘tools of domination’. Implicitly, these are monarchical ideas: ‘one God, one Truth, one chain of command’ (Cupitt 1989, p.14). Modes of operation are non-rational, authoritarian and populist. Right from the beginning, the Church has been ‘a punitive power structure with an orthodoxy’ (Cupitt 1989, p.17). Church members internalize the norms of the system and oppress and repress themselves and others. Pluralism and variety are feared above all things. Cupitt sets out the conflict between the institutional power religion which Christianity was to become over against the more charismatic and open faith available to Paul in a series of contrasting pairs: Institution– Charisma; The Church–The Spirit; Doctrine–Mysticism; Order–Freedom; Law–Gospel; Obedience–Expression; Hierarchy–Equality; An objective, public authority-system–The authority principle internalized (Cupitt 1988, p.71). Cupitt’s critique is amplified by that of Graham Shaw (1983) who points up 9 the reluctance of the Church to acknowledge a shadow side to its existence. Although the Church is founded round a fundamental message of freedom and forgiveness, this has frequently been suppressed to buttress social power and control. Christianity has been authoritarian, oppressive and divisive to secure its own position and significance. It has sought the illusion of permanence, been intolerant of criticism, rejected disturbing experiences from without and suffered from the delusion that it is good and perfect at the expense of having to create groups of ‘enemies’ outside to embody that which is feared and hated. Shaw speaks with feeling of the ‘cost of authority’. One does not have to assent to all these points individually to acknowledge their cumulative force. Together, they present a picture of a Church which in many ways is bound to reject strangers and those from ‘outside’. This Church is ‘totalized’ in that it resists and resents any perspective other than its own. Such a Church values the past rather than the present, rules rather than relationships, orthodoxy rather than pluralism, structures rather than people, male rather than female, mind rather than body, stability rather than change, barriers rather than communication, distance rather than intimacy, exclusivity rather than inclusiveness, dualism rather than holism, power rather than vulnerability, command rather than mutuality, passivity rather than activity, reaction rather than initiative, hierarchical leadership rather than equality, the strong voices at the centre rather than the weaker ones at the edges. It maintains a sense of its own goodness and power by designating ‘out-groups’ who embody badness and are made to feel

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impotent. It evangelizes by endlessly talking and pronouncing rather than by acting and listening. Its acceptance is utterly conditional; if people will turn themselves into passive victims and convert themselves to receive the ministrations of the Church gratefully, they can be saved, especially if they seem suitably ashamed of their former lives. It has no capacity to learn or receive graciously from those who live and die on its margins or outside it. In fact, the existence of those who dwell in the shadow of the chaos of death yet are manifestly alive, refusing to behave as passive victims to be treated as objects of compassion, is simply infuriating to the institutionalized Church. It challenges its sense of meaning, goodness, power and control. The ‘dying’ should passively ebb away into a tranquil eternity, not dance on the lids of their tombs, reject the cheap compassion of the Church, and start giving it lessons about life, love and community in the present. The vision of a person fully alive, especially if regarded as immoral and sinful by virtue of sexual orientation or behaviour, walking around, accepting themselves and others, being angry and assertive, is a deeply threatening and inconvenient one. It is such a vision which some people living closely with AIDS present. In practical terms, the problem presented to the Churches by people living closely with HIV/AIDS is one of prejudice. Sociologists have clearly set out the processes whereby some groups and individuals come to be recognized as stigmatized and unacceptable due to their occupancy of negatively sanctioned social roles. This is all part of defining norms for social order. Ill people of all kinds can feel themselves to be stigmatized and rejected. Gay people living with AIDS suffer from a double dose of stigmatization, for they not only deviate from norms of 10 health and are seen as a health ‘threat’, but also threaten sexual norms. The latter falls almost in the realm of unforgivable sin for the institutional Churches, at least on a public level; for sexuality, too, represents the reality of anarchy, potential disorder and chaos. Christianity has never really decided whether it likes bodily sexuality or not. In the absence of a positive theology of incarnational sex, it has decided to control it largely by condemnation. Divorced and remarried people 11 can bear witness to this as eloquently as gays. The mirror image of the stigmatization and rejection experienced by people living closely with AIDS (and let it be recalled that not all of them are gay, though if they are not they enjoy the guilt by association or ‘courtesy stigma’ which contrives to make the whole area appear to the general public as a Stygian swamp of immorality and disease) is the prejudice latent within the institutional Churches (see Goffman 1968). Prejudice is ‘a predisposition towards people which is not derived from adequate information’ (Shields 1986, p.2). Some of its most salient features in the present context are as follows. First, it is based on dualistic thinking and a ranking of pairs so that one part is good, the other bad; thus, heterosexual

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and homosexual are distinguished (dualism) and the former is held to be ‘good’ while the latter is regarded as ‘bad’ (hierarchical distinction). Prejudices reflect a desire to control the uncertainties of life and they enhance the sense of control and self-esteem of those who are prejudiced. Buttressed by adaptable stereotypes (‘all gays are evil and immoral’), they attain stability through irrational psychodynamics and both reflect and reinforce current distributions of social power (cf. Shields 1986, pp.x–xi, for these points). A Church which is losing social significance and influence in wider society while having to cope with great uncertainty will find it attractive and easy to cope with this loss and to retain self-esteem and control by stereotyping socially stigmatized and less significant groups like gays or mentally ill people. The cost of relinquishing such prejudice appears to be disintegration, loss of control, chaos. The price of acceptance and understanding is then very high. An important theological motif to pick up in relation to prejudice in the Church is that of crucifixion. Rather than seeking to bolster his self-esteem and control over chaos and people, attitudes which lie at the centre of prejudice, Jesus surrendered those things in dying on a cross outside a city wall, rejected by his own people. The institutional churches will always have enormous difficulty in following the example of giving up self-esteem, righteousness, and life for the sake of others. Happily, it is not a challenge they can ever avoid entirely, for it lies at the heart of their tradition. However, the motif of resurrection seems important too, particularly in the perspective of our conversations at the Lighthouse. The problem is that the institutional churches have preserved a tradition but lost a memory. Christianity began with a person who lived life fully, even in the face of death. The doctrine of the resurrection, whose form is so lovingly cherished by some Christians even as it is stretched out like barbed wire to exclude fellow human beings from the Church, embodies the possibility of life, fellowship and love in the face of death and chaos. Christianity is as it is because it preserves within it liberating memories about life in the face of death. Rather than being used to distance people, fend them off and exclude them, it could be rediscovered as a rallying point for fellowship and community in the face of the annihilating chaos which surrounds us all. There is no answer to the reality of death. The life and community of people living with AIDS suggests, however, that there is the possibility of enlivening relationship in the face of it. We cannot accompany one another beyond the moment of death. But the subversive memory of life in death suggests that we can learn and live together up to that point, refusing to relinquish hold of one another and so wresting some kind of new life from the living void from which we sprang and to which we all return. ‘Lazarus, come forth’ (John 11.43). These words have been ringing in my head as I have written. It is, of course, very dubious to quote nuggets of congenial Scripture completely out of context to amplify and give authority to one’s point

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of view. Nonetheless, these words, which come from the story of the raising of Lazarus in John’s Gospel, embody the reflections from the Lighthouse which I now share with the Church. People living with HIV and AIDS are a positive part of our body corporate. They have much to teach the Churches about life in the face of death. The fact that this is not an original conclusion does not diminish its significance. We need to be able to hear and receive them. If we do not, the loss will be ours. We must find ways of sharing, celebrating and protesting against the realities of life and death which belong to us all in the name of Jesus the risen and living one. If this means radical restructuring of treasured beliefs, attitudes and structures, so be it. The real fellowship and compassion experienced at an individual level amongst some Christians and people living closely with HIV must no longer be contradicted by the heavy-handed death-dealing prejudices of the 12 institutionalized Church.

Notes 1. 2.

For theological reflection see Pattison (1989a); Taylor (1983). The theologians of liberation make this more clear than anyone. See further, e.g., Segundo (1977). 3. I am reminded of Ruether’s words here: ‘The Church is where the good news of liberation from sexism is preached, where the Spirit is present to empower us to renounce patriarchy, where a community committed to the new life of mutuality is gathered together and nurtured, and where the community is spreading this vision and struggle to others’ (1983, p.213). 4. Some sense of this almost religious routine can be gained from Saunders (1989). 5. ‘Death is the axis around which every religious system revolves, the axis around which it is completely organised’ (Pohier 1985, p.99). See also Rowe (1989). 6. Cf. Dussel (1978). Dussel eloquently argues that liberating change can only come from the margins of society where people have no vested interest in the established ‘totalized’ order and so are open to the possibility of new things occurring. 7. I have not been able to trace this quotation, but trust that I have made the right attribution here. Whether or not Barth made this assertion, I believe it remains a valid one in its own right in the present context. 8. The notion of ‘hierarchical dualism’ comes from Shields (1986). 9. See Sanford (1981) and Ulanov (1988) for more on the way in which Christianity ignores the ‘evil and bad’ side of reality to concentrate one-sidedly on the ‘positive and virtuous’ aspects of existence. 10. For more on stigmatization see Pattison (1989b) ch. 5. Spong writes, ‘Behind prejudice there is also fear. We reject that which we cannot manage. We condemn what we do not understand. We set up a means of control to render powerless those dynamic realities we know to be powerful. No aspect of our humanity is invested with more anxieties, yearnings, emotions and needs than is our sexual nature. So sex is a major arena in which the prejudice of human beings finds expression’ (1988, p.23). 11. Unfortunately, stigmatized people internalize their own stigma and treat themselves and each other as ‘problems’. This accounts for the fact that many people who perceive

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themselves to be ‘bad’ leave the Churches. This ensures that the Churches have no problem people around. They become invisible or go away – a very subtle mechanism for maintaining a sense of institutional goodness but one which ensures distance, double standards and deceit in pastoral care. 12. Pastoral care badly needs to be delivered from the double standards which decree that people in general can be condemned from the pulpit while as individuals in private they are treated with understanding and compassion. The lack of integrity here undermines the credibility and accessibility of the Church. It is no way to cope with the gaps between ethics and pastoral care, love and justice, ideal and reality, and is deeply insidious. It produces the kind of thinking which finds expression in ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ attitudes prevalent in the churches. Actually, people do not want to be loved despite what they are, but because of what they are. Anything else is not love! See further Nelson (1979) and Pattison (1988).

References Cupitt, D. (1988) The New Christian Ethics. London: SCM Press. Cupitt, D. (1989) Radicals and the Future of the Church. London: SCM Press. Douglas, M. (1966) Purity and Danger. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Dussel, E. (1978) Ethics and the Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Goffman, E. (1968) Stigma. London: Penguin. Nelson, J. (1979) Embodiment. London: SPCK. Pattison, S. (1988) A Critique of Pastoral Care. London: SCM Press. Pattison, S. (1989a) ‘Some straw for the bricks: a basic introduction to theological reflection.’ Contact 99, 2–9. Pattison, S. (1989b) Alive and Kicking: Towards a Practical Theology of Illness and Healing. London: SCM Press. Pohier, J. (1985) God in Fragments. London: SCM Press. Rowe, D. (1989) The Construction of Life and Death. London: Fontana. Ruether, R.R. (1983) Sexism and God Talk: Towards a Feminist Theology. London: SCM Press. Sanford, J. (1981) Evil: The Shadow Side of Reality. New York: Crossroad. Saunders, C. (1989) ‘Living positively.’ New Statesman and Society 27 January, 13–16 Segundo, J.L. (1977) The Liberation of Theology. Dublin: Gill & Macmillan. Shaw, G. (1983) The Cost of Authority. London: SCM Press. Shields, D. (1986) Growing Beyond Prejudices. Mystic, CT: Twenty-Third Publications. Spong, J. S. (1988) Living in Sin? San Francisco: Harper & Row. Taylor, M.H. (1983) Learning to Care. London: SPCK. Ulanov, A. Belford (1988) The Wisdom of the Psyche. Cambridge, MA: Cowley. Woodward, J. (ed.) (1990) Embracing the Chaos. London: SPCK.

12

Frustrated with Sex: Some Observations on Christian Approaches to the Ethics of Sex and Sexuality

‘Messy, sticky and smelly.’ It was thus that a woman described sexual relations and child-rearing to the author Philip Sheldrake (1994, p.26). It is a description that might aptly be applied to contemporary Christian approaches to sex and sexual ethics. In this article, I will outline some of my own frustrations with Christian attitudes to sex and sexuality as a student, teacher and researcher in the field of Christian ethics for the last twenty years. My perspective is selective and personal; perhaps it may stimulate others who view ethics from a broadly liberal perspective to turn their own minds towards more fruitful approaches in this area.

The persistence and centrality of sex and sexuality within Christian ethics and practice My first frustration with attitudes towards sex and sexuality comes from its sheer persistent centrality within the field of Christian ethics and practice. Indeed, the public perception of the churches, as reflected in the tabloid press, is that this is what they most care about. Christians appear to have a niche market in sexual ethics in modern society, while their interest in other subjects is often unnoticed even when it actually exists. While sex and sexuality are clearly central to human existence, there are other areas of appropriate moral concern. Sexual lust is not the only sin, nor is it necessarily the most socially damaging one. However, clergy are far more likely to find themselves on trial in ecclesiastical tribunals or excluded from ministry for their sexual misdemeanours than they are for their greed, pride

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or anger. Christians with good investment portfolios are unlikely to face the opprobrium that accompanies evidence of sexual offence such as active physical homosexual activity.

The static nature of debate about sex and sexuality Despite the enormous amount of attention and discussion devoted to sex by Christians of all persuasions, the agenda and issues discussed remain stubbornly static – nothing ever seems to get finally resolved, or to move on. Any movement is painfully slow. My academic engagement with ethics started in the early 1970s. At this time, the sexually permissive society was in full spate. I expected that the issues around sex and sexual ethics that presented themselves as problems at this time, such as genitally expressed homosexuality and second marriage, would be quickly resolved. I thought that liberal perspectives would probably triumph and that the Christian community would move towards greater tolerance in the light of burgeoning social and scientific knowledge. Ethicists would then move on to look at more interesting and pressing universal matters – issues such as poverty, the environment and biomedical ethics. I could not have been more wrong. Thirty years after the ‘swinging sixties’ and the advent of mass contraception, much of the religious community is still enthusiastically engaged in an unending, unresolved debate about sex and sexuality. So, for example, twenty years of activity by the Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement together with scientific research into sexuality has failed to convince the majority of British Christians that genitally-expressed same-sex relationships might be acceptable, or at least not unnatural. Gay friends tell me that the debate about same-sex relationships is now ‘within’ the Church community. They expect to see a more accepting official attitude towards gays in ministry who are not celibate emerge within the next twenty-five years. This, however, is hardly rapid movement. In the Church of England, divorce and second marriage are still considered to be controversial issues. It is deeply frustrating and somewhat perplexing that the agenda about sex and sexuality has remained constant for so long.

Inexorable liberalization When there is a move in attitudes to sex and sexuality in mainstream denominations, it is almost invariably in the direction of liberalization. The churches usually follow the mores of society at large in their ethical thinking rather than arriving at a distinctive position based firmly upon the Christian tradition and theological reflection. Thus, as divorce and second marriage have steadily become more common amongst the populace generally, including amongst church members, the churches have gradually become more ‘understanding’ and tolerant of this practice. Recently, an English Anglican bishop married a divorcee

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without resigning his see. It can be confidently expected that, after much huffing, puffing and initial conservative moral posturing which will be dignified as a process of corporate discernment in the light of the guidance of the Holy Spirit, within the next twenty-five years Christians will come to find second marriages, cohabitation and, perhaps, even physical relationships between gay people unexceptional, wholesome, acceptable ways to live. My frustration is that, despite an inexorable move towards conforming to the values of wider society which will probably culminate in repentance for past stigmatization and intolerance, much energy will be spent in futile, unproductive debate in the meanwhile, much of it justified by some kind of appeal to traditional Christian values.

Negativity and problem-centredness Changing tack a little, my next frustration with Christian attitudes towards sex and sexuality is that they remain fundamentally negative and problem-centred. There is a rhetoric of the goodness of embodiment and the validity of bodily pleasures for enfleshed beings. However, it is impossible to avoid the impression even now that for Christians sex and sexuality occasion intense suspicion and 1 anxiety that make them deeply problematic. Sex presents as a problem that needs to be policed and controlled rather than as a pleasure that is basically to be enjoyed. Rubem Alves’ observation that ‘the Protestant ethic is one of repression of the body’ is relevant here (Alves 1985, p.204). It is not just Protestants who see sex and sexuality as negative and problematic. According to the gospels, Jesus had no sexual relationships. Paul thought marriage might be all right for those who could not remain celibate, and the Fathers of the Church amplified and codified a general suspicion of the flesh and 2 the desires that witnessed to its sinful, fallen nature. At best, sex has been regarded as necessary for procreation within the institution of marriage. The overwhelming witness of the majority Christian tradition has been fundamentally negative towards sex and sexuality, particularly as embodied experiences, sources of pleasure, and ends in themselves. It will be a long time before this inheritance is overcome. Only recently has it come to seem too limited; one does not have to look far to find Christians who glory in punitive attitudes towards 3 those who fail to control their desires in the required manner. It is presumably because of its foundations within the institution of legal marriage with all its connotations of ownership that Christian thinking about sex and sexuality has tended to be couched in terms redolent of the ethics of property and warfare. Much of Christian discourse about sex focusses upon issues of rights, ownership, laws and permission, much as if the body were a piece of property that can only be used for certain purposes that are approved by the ‘owner’ who might be God, oneself, or one’s spouse. The narrowness and arbitrariness of this kind of

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approach is thrown into relief if the language and ethics of the courtroom or battlefield are abandoned in favour of seeing sex and sexuality as being sited within 4 the discourse of food and eating. Eating is a pleasurable and essential activity which involves important issues of sharing and human relationships. Eating too much, or the wrong kind of thing, can be bad for the self or for others. Although issues of justice, equality and ownership are significantly associated with eating, they are not the dominant lens through which the experience of eating is seen. This approach therefore allows a broader, more holistic and more pleasureoriented attitude to sex and sexuality than is presently evident. The paradigms of war and property constrict a broader, more creative and positive approach to sex and sexuality.

The narrow range of Christian thought and concern Christian thinking about sex and sexuality tends to focus intensely on a narrow range of physical acts and potentially observable behaviours. Ultimately, it is physical acts, particularly the act of genital penetration, which still engage the attention of Christian ethicists and juridical authorities. Attitudes, motivations, the quality of relationships, and moral virtues such as love, faithfulness, respect and kindness tend to be of subordinate interest to ecclesiastical authorities attempting to define the nature and limits of good sexual relationships. Alves notes: [This] Protestant morality in general, as exemplified in [the] particular case of sexual morality, gives priority to legality over love, to form over substance in life. It is an abstract morality, which refuses to consider the concrete specifics of a given situation. Set aside are love, fidelity, and responsibility as existential determinations of the moral situation. (1985, p.121)

Here again, a long tradition of the Church as guarantor of social rights and arrangements focused upon the legitimacy of children and therefore rights to property in a patriarchal society that organizes itself around primogeniture is probably relevant. Where women and children are regarded as the property of men, it is very important to ensure that they are not abused by other men whose property they are not. It is the actual physical penetration of bodies that constitutes the trespass upon property that is of interest within a juridically-oriented approach to sexual behaviour. This becomes the centre of attention for debates about whether marriage has taken place (physical consummation being essential), the nature and purpose of marriage, and the procreation of children. Hence the centrality of concentrating upon whether genital acts have taken place between people as the basis for either tolerance or condemnation of hetero- and

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homosexual orientation and relationships; it is all right to look, but not to touch. It seems to be taking a long time for Christian thinking to accommodate new social patterns and ways of relating, including the individualistic, pleasure-seeking self-reflexiveness that characterizes advanced capitalist societies and which focusses more widely upon meanings and quality of relationships than upon particular genital acts (Giddens 1992). It could be argued, in response to the previous point, that at least in concentrating upon genital penetration as the focus of sexual ethics, Christianity as a religion of incarnation is taking the body seriously. However, the range of physical actions that are considered by Christian ethicists and others is remarkably small. The Kinsey Institute New Report on Sex includes material on oral–genital sex, anal sex, homosexuality and bisexuality, transvestism and paraphilias, all of which are regarded as fairly common and sex-enhancing practices for some people (Reinisch with Beasley 1991). Forty-three percent of North American women have, for example, experienced anal sex, mostly within heterosexual relationships (Reinisch with Beasley 1991, p.136). In a recent collection of philosophical writings upon sex and love, there are inter alia serious essays considering the value of sexual perversion, homosexuality, sado-masochism, promiscuity and the morality of adultery (Steward 1995). I do not suggest that any of these practices should be commended to or by Christians. However, it is deeply frustrating that vast areas of common human sexual experience are not even considered. They are consigned instead to the realm of silence and foreclosure denoted by the notion of ‘abomination’. An abominable practice is so upsetting and disturbing of a moral and social order that it is not even to be contemplated as a real part of human 5 experience. Thus child murderers are thought to be sub-human and animal, while Queen Victoria legendarily refused to countenance legislation against lesbian sexual relationships because she could not imagine that such an enormity could ever take place. The abomination reaction towards many sexual behaviours means that attitudes to sex and sexuality are limited to consideration of a very narrow band of human sexual experience.

Impersonality and principles Christian discourse about sex and sexuality is almost invariably impersonal and principle-based. It is as if sex and other embodied experiences are things that happen to other people, in general terms, and somewhere else. Christian ethicists and moral pundits rarely write directly out of their own experience or acknowledge the nature of their own sexuality and sexual experiences. So, for example, while Philip Sheldrake (1994) calls for valuing the passions and bodily experiences, he does not actually explicitly discuss the place of sex and sexuality in his own life. This gives Christian discourse a curiously abstract quality that maintains

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both the mystique and idealization of sex. The implicit message that is conveyed to those within and outside the Christian community is that Christians do not have much in the way of sexual experiences. If they do, they are of a strictly conventional kind. Christians who do not have ‘missionary position’ heterosexual experience within marriage are not encouraged to share their experiences with co-religionists and are disallowed from contributing directly to discourse about sexuality. All of which might conspire to make it look as if, sexually, Christians live on another planet from other members of society.

The limits of liberal theological reflection Liberal Christian theological reflection about sex and sexuality leaves much to be desired. Many liberal ethicists, illumined by the spirit of the age, question or reject the traditional Christian ethos of ‘sex only in marriage, celibacy in singleness’ in order to embrace contemporary mores. In doing this, they are often remarkably otiose and intolerant of those who adhere to more conservative views. More than this, in feeling that they have to relate and justify their views in the light of the Christian tradition, they expend extraordinary efforts devising methodologies that will in some sense redeem or rehabilitate a fundamentally negative tradition. Some try to argue that underlying the specific negative and prohibitive attitudes to sex in the text of the New Testament lie greater, eternal, more general and positive principles such as love and tolerance that can be separated from the letter of the text like a kernel of wheat from chaff (see Countryman 1988; Spong 1988). Others seem to suggest that because there are instances of tolerance and positive thinking about, for example, homosexuality, hidden in the recesses of Christian tradition it is not all bad and can provide ‘liberating memories’ (see, for example, Boswell 1994). Finally, interpretative devices like the ‘Wesleyan Quadrilateral’ that engages elements of tradition and scripture in dialogue with contemporary reason and experience are used to try and make the tradition relevant and less offensive (see Nelson 1994). This can easily result in the kind of eisegesis in which scripture and tradition are sanitized and co-opted into supporting contemporary views and practices. As an approach, it lacks rigour and has been aptly dubbed ‘the Dodo’s incorporative principle’ because everybody gets what they want and find most congenial from it (Carroll 1991, p.62). While all these endeavours keep academics gainfully employed, they provide what looks suspiciously like a discourse of special pleading. It would be more honest, perhaps, and certainly less labour-intensive, if it were to be acknowledged that the authorities and sources of the Christian tradition are fundamentally problematic and probably have little of a positive nature to offer to contemporary thinking about sex and sexuality. If Christians want to adopt a

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liberal and positive view of sex and sexuality the tradition has not got much to offer by way of illumination. The efforts of those who are determinedly liberal might therefore be better employed than in improbable intellectual archaeology of an apologetic kind.

Practical implications The frustrations about Christian attitudes to sex and sexuality that I have outlined are not just of academic interest. They have practical implications. First, Christians often appear narrow, ignorant, unrealistic, and even smug when it comes to talking of sex and evaluating sexuality in society and in personal relationships. The Church, too, may appear quaint and even ridiculous in its utterances about sex and the practices that it advocates and enforces. There seems to be a mixture of shocked amazement and delight when church leaders oblige popular expectation by retailing, apparently seriously, draconian and antediluvian teachings about sex and sexuality. Less innocently, Christians can be vindictive, unmerciful and intolerant in their attitudes towards those who appear to threaten their values. When AIDS made its first appearance, many church leaders even appeared pleased that those who had been sexually promiscuous had been punished by a life-threatening disease, seeing this as a vindication of traditional Christian moral teaching. Probably most HIV sufferers are not much interested in the views of the Church on their sexual practices. However, there are those within the Christian community who take its teachings and opinions seriously; they may suffer a sense of guilt and rejection because they believe that they are offending against the will of God and the rules of the Church. Finally, when the Church changes its mind about issues of sex and sexuality, as it invariably if grudgingly does in a more liberal and tolerant direction, it seems ridiculous and hypocritical to non-Christians while it devalues its previous position and the moral performance of those who adhered to the standards that were formerly maintained. There must be many married couples who have endured unhappy but lifelong marriage partly because they have believed that this is in accordance with Christian norms and values. If the Church changes its mind about the sanctity of lifelong union and recognizes divorce and second marriage, the dedication of these couples is made to seem worthless. Indeed, the whole value of enunciating and maintaining a consistent moral stance is problematic.

Conclusion Is there any way in which the frustrations that I have outlined can be overcome and resolved? I do not see any prospect of moving beyond frustration to resolution until there is a much better understanding of why sex and sexuality are of

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such central importance to Christians. To arrive at such an understanding, it is necessary to ask what function focussing upon sex performs within the entire ecology of Christian faith and practice. Perhaps sex and sexuality function as emblems or ciphers for other matters. They act as a kind of ventriloquist’s dummy for concerns that are other, or additional, to sexuality itself. It may be that Christian discourse about sex and sexuality is actually a discourse about membership, inclusion and exclusion. Defining positions on issues of sexuality is a matter of establishing boundaries between the Christian commu6 nity and the ‘outside’ world. It is partly because these boundaries are actively contested (with some emphasizing greater inclusion, while others want to establish grounds for exclusion) that there is such intense, unresolved debate. If attitudes to sex and sexuality centrally help to define what it is to be a member of the Church, and, indeed, the nature of the Church itself, they are matters of fundamental confessional concern, not merely marginal ‘ethical issues’. Thus it may be that it is only when Christians have a better understanding of the nature of the relationship between sexuality and fundamental ecclesial identity in their inheritance that it will be possible to advance beyond some of the frustrations I have identified. To this end, ethicists must needs become ecclesiologists.

Notes 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

For positive attitudes, see for example Nelson (1979), Nelson and Longfellow (1994), Spong (1988). See Brown (1989) for a history of early Christian attitudes to sex and the body. See Davenport-Hines (1990) for many examples of church-led and supported sexually repressive attitudes including resisting contraception for the prevention of sexually transmitted diseases in the forces and suggesting that AIDS might be a punishment for the genital expression of sexuality. I owe this insight to Jim Cotter. For more on ‘abomination’ see Stout (1990, ch. 7). For the history and contemporary practice of exclusion and tribalism in Christianity see Malina (1996) and Selby (1991). For sexual attitudes and practices as markers of boundaries between Church and world see Brown (1989) and compare Douglas (1966). For practical discussion of debates about ideas and doctrines as reflections and refractions of ecclesiastical structure see Kane (1986).

References Alves, R. (1985) Protestantism and Repression. London: SCM Press. Boswell, J. (1994) ‘Homosexuality and Religious Life.’ In J. Nelson and S. Longfellow (eds) Sexuality and the Sacred. London: Mowbray. Brown, P. (1989) The Body and Society. London: Faber and Faber. Carroll, R. (1991) Wolf in the Sheepfold. London: SPCK. Countryman, W. (1988) Dirt, Greed and Sex. London: SCM Press.

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Davenport-Hines, R. (1990) Sex, Death and Punishment. London: Collins. Douglas, M. (1966) Purity and Danger. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Giddens, A. (1992) The Transformation of Intimacy. Cambridge: Polity Press. Kane, M. (1986) What Kind of God? London: SCM Press. Malina, B. (1996) The Social World of Jesus and the Gospels. London: Routledge. Nelson, J. (1979) Embodiment. London: SPCK. Nelson, J. (1994) ‘Sources for Body Theology.’ In J. Nelson and S. Longfellow (eds) Sexuality and the Sacred. London: Mowbray. Nelson, J. and Longfellow, S. (eds) (1994) Sexuality and the Sacred. London: Mowbray. Reinisch, J.M. with Beasley, R. (1991) The Kinsey Institute New Report on Sex. London: Penguin Books. Selby, P. (1991) BeLonging. London: SPCK. Sheldrake, P. (1994) Befriending Our Desires. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Spong, J. (1988) Living in Sin? San Francisco: Harper and Row. Steward, R.M. (ed.) (1995) Philosophical Perspectives on Sex and Love. New York: Oxford University Press. Stout, J. (1990) Ethics After Babel. Cambridge: James Clarke.

13

‘Suffer Little Children’: The Challenge of Child Abuse and Neglect to Theology

One of the ways in which child abuse and neglect are maintained as distant, alien phenomena is by authors writing about the experience of others who are invari1 ably referred to by a first name and/or a pseudonym. This protects the confidentiality of abuse victims. However, it colludes with a sense that such people do not really exist. The use of first names only curiously mirrors the personal diminishment experienced by those who have been abused. In the reader’s eye, they become half people, less than full adults living in the same world as everyone else with surnames, addresses, bank accounts and so on. It is, therefore, an important hermeneutical and personal first step for victims to step forward and name themselves and their experience. Like many survivors of child neglect and abuse, it was not until I was well into adult life that I actually realized that I had experienced it. For about 41 of my 44 years, I believed that I had had a fairly normal upper middle class WASP childhood that was privileged and comfortable. Materially, I had wanted for nothing and my parents were very generous in their financial support for my brother and me. I had noticed that I had a rather depressive personality, that I found intimate relationships difficult, and that I found touch, for example in the Peace in liturgy, difficult. I also had a passionate interest in the experience of victims and felt tremendous anger on their behalf. However, it never really occurred to me that this might have something to do with having my own personal experience of victimization.

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Like many other neglected and abused children, it has been difficult for me to disabuse myself of the notion that my home was good and my childhood happy so that it was I who had the problem. It is very common for abused people to adhere ferociously to the ideal of a happy childhood and good parents despite 2 having undergone the most horrific experiences. This seems to be connected with the need to repress the memory of the reality of very unpleasant experiences which one was unable to do anything about and which would imperil such sense 3 of security and wellbeing with the parent that the child had anyway. Thus, parents and family history are idealized while miserable children grow into unhappy adults who are puzzled by their own sense of depression and badness, and who may even feel ungrateful that they have not done more to repay the deceptive but necessary memory of parental love and kindness. The abuse that I experienced was, as far as I can see, of a rather minor and common, though persistent and real enough, kind. It consisted in traumatic abandonment as a small child when my mother went into hospital for a long time on the birth of my brother and I was exposed to the experience of multiple carers, some of whom were not kind; starvation (my mother followed the dictates of Dr Truby King who argued that babies should be fed strictly measured amounts only 4 at set times); emotional neglect (my parents were emotionally distant throughout my childhood); physical beatings at home and at school on a fairly regular basis; and a bit of sexual abuse when I was occasionally beaten naked over my mother’s knee. Many of the estimated one million children who are abused in the UK each 5 year suffer a much worse cocktail of ill-treatment and neglect. I do not want to dwell upon the details of my own experience of abuse here, nor do I want to get into detailed debate about the nature, definition, types and extent of abuse and its apparent invisibility within society and church until 6 recently. Similarly, I am not particularly concerned here with the prevention of abuse in general or the treatment of abused people, vital though these matters are. I want mainly to enquire into the place of theological beliefs and practices in child abuse. This arises from the nature of my adult role as a theologian as well as from my experience of religion as a child. Hitherto, theologians such as Capps, Poling and Loades have recognized the practical challenge of child abuse, but have tended to ignore the place of specifically theological ideas and symbols together with the role of theologians in relation to this. They assume, perhaps, that religion and theology have an essentially ‘good’ essence that simply needs to 7 be liberated from distortion to exercise a beneficent effect. My hypothesis is that failure to recognize and address child abuse in practice is buttressed and undergirded by theological ideas and religious practices. In the face of mass child neglect and abuse inside and outside the Christian community, the least that theologians can do to be of help is to attempt to be critical of these,

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bringing them to conscious awareness so they can be understood and, if necessary, discarded or changed. Prima facie there appears to be a tragic elective affinity between theological ideas and practices and the experience of abuse which per8 petuates victimization. This may need to be shattered if Christianity is seriously to share liberation with the oppressed. The Christian tradition is profoundly ambivalent on this point, providing resources for both liberation and oppression. It is part of the task of the responsible theologian to ensure that the life-enhancing aspects of the tradition are brought to the fore and those that contribute to harmful religion, conspiring against human wellbeing, are consigned to outer 9 darkness. This enterprise in critique is not a marginal epiphenomenon for theology, a matter of tidying up theology at the edges or knocking it into the kind of shape that will make it somehow relevant to contemporary social reality. Nor is it a case of trying to construct a new dimension to theological ethics. The challenge of abuse is such a fundamental and central issue that it will require theology to re-think itself from the ground upwards. The long-overdue ‘discovery’ of child abuse must be to Western theologians what the challenge of the poor has been to colleagues in South America – an imperative to a fundamental re-visioning of theology and all its component parts so that it ceases its complicity with the forces of oppression and abuse. Doctrines, ideas and practices that may hitherto have been central to orthodox Christianity, for example, concepts of atonement, forgiveness and so on, may have to be displaced, dismembered, re-membered or re-cast if they are to have a role in anti-abusive religion. Here I can only indicate the size of the agenda and the urgency and importance of this enormous task. I must now say something about the place of religion in my life as a child.

A personal experience of the relationship between abuse and religion At the same time as I was experiencing the neglect and violence that constituted abuse, I was intimately involved in religion. I had a religious upbringing which involved regular attendance at Sunday School. Although my maternal grandfather was a vicar, I was brought up within Quakerism, my father’s adoptive denomination. I remember always having a sense of God and, equally, always having a sense of badness before God. At the age of 10 I recall repenting of my selfishness in tears in Lichfield Cathedral and I remember feeling that it was quite wrong that I had any possessions when others had less or none. It was on this occasion that I decided to become a clergyman in order to render back the life 10 and possession that God had heaped upon me. I was determined to ally myself with the poor and oppressed, the victims of society, and to give something back

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as a recompense for all that I had had. At my ordination, I privately vowed I would spend my life in the service of the poor and oppressed. It never occurred to me that this would eventually involve recognizing that this upper middle class, 11 privileged, outwardly successful white male was a victim, too. As a priest, I set out to rescue the world’s victims. Unfortunately, I could not grasp that in hoping to help others I was really trying to minister to my own oppressed self. At the age of about 11, I saw myself as a bad, guilty criminal who was incapable of delighting or pleasing others and who thoroughly deserved contempt and 12 punishment. No adult ever questioned or problematized what was done to me. I 13 think it was regarded as quite normal. Parents and teachers had a right and duty to bring up and discipline children as they saw fit and nobody had any responsibility to try and understand the child’s point of view. Actually, I do not think I could have articulated a point of view at the time anyway. Looking back on a childhood characterized by underlying joylessness, ‘clenched irritation’, fear and depression, punctuated by abuse and humiliation, I can now understand why I spent so much time living a kind of fantasy world of daydreams of a better world 14 in which I would be more significant. At the time, daydreaming was one of my major offences against the adult world. I think it was Harry Williams who said, ‘Religion in the young is to be distrusted’. I feel now that my own religious behaviour owed more to my chronically unsatisfied human needs and unhappinesses than it did to particular revelations from the divine. To me as a powerless, victimized child, Christianity spoke directly. I felt bad. Christianity told me that I should feel bad because I was guilty of sin. I felt unwanted and misunderstood. The Bible informed me that I would be bound to feel like that because followers of Jesus were always outcast and despised. I felt that my self was totally unacceptable and perverse. Christianity suggested that all selves are basically unacceptable and perverse, but praying to Jesus would enable me to become like him, that is, to become holy, good, and, above all, I suspect, significant and powerful. My parents told me my behaviour was bad and unacceptable. Christianity confirmed this with its view of a God who demands obedience and punishes wickedness as the price for being loved. And how I wanted to be loved by someone! The God made manifest in Jesus promised he would love me and find useful work for me to do. He would give me new powers of self-control, a new personality, new clothes. As long as I did what he wanted I could look forward to a better future in which my sordid self would no longer be a problem. Christianity promised me that I would have power and reward so long as I became a nobody and disposed of my loathsome self with its emotions and bodily desires and behaviours. Deep and regular exposure to Christianity in my childhood seemed to provide meaning for my unhappiness, a way out of it through self-denial (not a problem if you have an unwanted self ), and a sense that someone might love, want

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and rescue me after all. It fuelled my daydreams with hopes of a better future in which I would be a good, strong person, a clergyman indeed, working for an Almighty father and, if I strove very hard and was very obedient and self-effacing, inheriting along with the other dispossessed of the land, a little bit of the Kingdom of Heaven. Exposure to Christianity did nothing to help me inhabit or value my self, my body or my emotions, all of which seemed utterly problematic and worthless. My religion did nothing to cause me to question my unhappiness or the oppressive order at home and school in which I lived. Indeed, it was school and home that organized my encounters with religion. God, the great parent who must be obeyed, appeared to be the guarantor of the regime, ordaining the powers and institutions that be. In retrospect, perhaps the worst aspect of the whole situation was that the gospel as I heard it gave positive value and meaning to what I now see as meaningless suffering. Whenever one felt personally miserable, that was selfish and what one was supposed to do was to think of the immeasurably greater suffering of Christ on the cross – that was real suffering and one should see one’s own unhappiness as a privileged but pale shadow of the suffering of the saviour who died for the sins of people like me. Whenever I was tempted to have a little compassion or sympathy for myself, or to be self-indulgent, key texts sprang into my mind: ‘If any man would follow me, let him deny himself, take up his cross and come follow after me’ (Mark 8.34b); ‘You have been weighed in the balances and found wanting’ (Dan. 5.27). My favourite verse of my favourite hymn, ‘Come down, O love divine’, sums up my religious position: Let holy charity Mine outward vesture be, And lowliness become mine inner clothing: True lowliness of heart, Which takes the humbler part, And o’er its own shortcomings weeps with loathing.

The last line had particular resonance for me. I do not think anyone was trying consciously to frighten, humiliate or de-personalize me by exposing me to religion in childhood. Indeed, the general idea was that one was supposed to encounter a figure called ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild’ who, like many of the Sunday School teachers I had, was genuinely fond of children and valued their childlikeness. I myself treasured my religious experience and relationship with God which compensated me for so many things that I did not realize that I did not have, made me feel loved and valued, and formed a solid base and direction for my early adult life.

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Interlude: discovering resurrection As a child I donned a kind of false self, a religious persona, that I vainly hoped would hide my inadequate self from the world and make me more acceptable to 15 my parents and my God. I became a plaster saint. My favourite theologian at college was that master of control and self- and body-denigration, that passionate 16 hater of the passions, Augustine of Hippo! I persisted with this strategy for several decades. At last, in my early thirties, I came into the hands of a psychotherapist who has helped me to hear and accept the inner voice of my self so I now know a bit better who I am. At the same time, the discovery of a child abuse has begun to provide a legitimation and vocabulary for the experience of people like me that was previously hidden beneath nameless depression and other symptoms. There are now words and stories within which to understand my experience: I am not unique or alone, as I felt myself to be for so 17 many years. Almost inadvertently, I have discovered the power of resurrection, life triumphing over death. Actually, it is a most odd experience. It might be expected that the death of the false self and the discovery of a more authentic, emotional self with will and desires located in the self would be a very positive experience. On the contrary, it has been hard. The trouble is that a person who possesses a false self possesses that self alone and believes it to be his or her real and only self. Surrendering this self and the religion that supports it feels like losing identity, like desolation and death. Remember that this former self was essential to survival and maintaining relationship with the sustaining parents, however difficult that 18 experience may have been. The false self dies hard. This feels quite simply like personal death. All is lost and nothing is gained. There is much mourning and 19 depression involved in the loss of images of self, God, etc. Coming to life, feeling one’s real feelings, is a dangerous, difficult and unpredictable process which I often wish I had not begun. I begin to understand the fear and horror experienced by those who witnessed the resurrection. Encountering life, even in oneself, is truly frightening. There is a sense in which one is brought to life over one’s own dead body!

Abusive theology I want now to suggest and explore some ways in which religious ideas and practices may support, and make plausible and bearable, the structures of oppression and victimization for those who suffer abuse. Although Christian theology and practice does have liberative and positive strands that can problematize oppression, nurture self-esteem and foster resistance, these are often not uppermost in a theological schema that focuses on salvation through victimhood (Gudorf 1992). Often, this acts as legitimation and consolation for oppression and victimization,

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whether individually or socially. Consciously recognizing the elements that collude with abuse in Christian theology and practice is no more comfortable than confronting abuse itself. This is particularly the case when it turns out that some of the most important, central and apparently benevolent ideas in Christianity actually have an inherent shadow, or harmful, side (Pfister 1948; Pattison 1995)[13]. I will now provide an unsystematic, suggestive account of some of the ways in which theological ideas might be implicated in sustaining or concealing abuse and the continuing suffering of the victims of abuse. I shall then pause to exemplify more clearly the need for fundamental theological critique and dialogue, first by looking at some implications of the work of Alice Miller on guilt and blame, and secondly, by examining the theological implications of what has been called the triangle of abuse. Finally, I shall make some suggestions about how to proceed in the work of trying to help theologians and theological ideas to be less potentially abusive.

Theological ideas and the experience of abuse It is tempting to describe much of Christian theology as a theorized, articulated 20 ideology of child abuse. Some of the ways in which theological ideas mirror and buttress the phenomenon of abuse are fairly direct and obvious. Others operate more tangentially. Almost all theological ideas, like the metaphors they basically are, have a capacity to be interpreted and received in different ways, for good and ill (cf. Hunsinger 1995, ch. 4). Here I shall outline some of the connections that have occurred to me that might exist between theological ideas and the practice and experience of abuse. Many of the ideas and connections listed here are part of the common stock of the literatures of feminist and liberation theologies in which I have immersed myself over the years. To start at the ‘top’ with the doctrine of God. Modern theologians have tried to modify the doctrine of God as an omnipotent male despot made in the image of a first century oriental patriarch. However, overwhelmingly, the Christian tradition continues to bear witness to precisely this kind of figure, for example, in liturgy. God’s great power underwrites, and is underwritten by, the patriarchal social and familial order where men have been allowed to do exactly what they 21 want with the bodies of women and children. The location of all activity and initiative within the Godhead reinforces the passivity and powerlessness that 22 many abused people feel. The putative ‘objectivity’ of God discourages people from taking their own subjectivity seriously, hindering the development of a sense of self. The obedience that God demands fosters guilt; it precludes the weak and powerless from protesting against the lot that is prescribed for them and requires them to conform to the dictates of the powers that be. The wrath of

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God guarantees that there shall be no avoiding punishment for violating the established order. God’s disembodiment relegates the actual human body to theological invisibility and allows it to be freely violated and mistreated: We thought to find God where the body ends: and we made it suffer and transformed it into beast of burden, fulfiller of commands, machine for labor, enemy to be silenced, and we persecuted it in this way to the point of eulogizing death as the pathway to God… For if God is found beyond the body, anything can be done to the body. (Alves 1986, p.9)

God’s rationality and impassivity (i.e. lack of emotions) suggest that human beings should not give space to their own feelings. God as demanding superfather requires that people should don a persona, that of the obedient servant-child, that they should acquire an idealized false self that is acceptable to ‘him’. God as perfect one cannot bear weakness and imperfection which is called sin – indeed, he cannot even look upon it except with loathing. This does nothing to encourage abused people to look upon their frailty, and the sense of shame that can accompany being actively abused, with compassion. The fundamental difference between God and humans is that ‘he’ is good 23 and they are bad. This plays in well with abused people’s sense that they are justly abused; they must be, or have done, something terribly bad and so deserve contempt and punishment. It is ruthlessly exploited as an ideology by abusers who assert their own power and righteousness. God’s predictable but arbitrary intervention to inflict unbearable suffering upon humanity, sometimes characterized as a mystery of love, exactly reflects the expectation of unavoidable misery and physical violation that abused people experience. In the face of shaming humiliation from abusers and the divinity, abused people are required to attribute all goodness to their persecutors, and even to be grateful. There is no question that God or the abuser should be castigated or blamed; indeed the abused must ask forgiveness for their offences which ‘caused’ the abuse that has come upon them. God afflicts and punishes those whom he truly loves; the abused, whose boundaries have been invaded and whose self-respect has been destroyed, are expected to rationalize this as being ‘for their own good’ (cf. Miller 1987b). There is a whole branch of theology, theodicy, whose object is to explain and commend the ways of this God to people and to get the abusive deity off the hook. Even the idea that God is omnipresent as loving father may be abusive in that abused people who have had their personal boundaries fundamentally violated may feel there is nowhere to hide from the oppressive, omni-invasive, 24 objectifying gaze of their persecutor.

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Of course, this is a crude caricature of some aspects of the deity. However, the fact that this God is still read about, preached about and talked about means that he is by no means dead. There is still a powerful elective affinity between the abusing creator and ‘his’ creation. One way of trying to escape from the abusing God is to point to his revelation of himself in Jesus and to discuss salvation. Unfortunately, concepts of atonement and salvation also have abusive implications. The God of Abraham and Isaac is actually a child killer for many Christians, requiring the death of his own beloved son in order to right the wrongs of the world he created. In the death of Jesus, passivity and victimhood are dignified and sacralized as paradigmatic responses to the violence and invasion of others. Carlson Brown and Parker powerfully argue that ‘the glorification of anyone’s suffering allows the glorification of all suffering. To argue that salvation can only come through the cross is to make God a divine sadist and a divine child abuser’ 25 (Carlson Brown and Parker 1989, p.23). Even the idea that one man can, by his life and death, save the whole world and everyone who lives after him, colludes with a sense of passive acceptance and downgrades the importance of personal agency. Abused people often hope for rescue from an outside other rather than being able to affirm a sense of personal efficacy and responsibility within themselves. The imitation of Christ may have the unfortunate effect of encouraging abused people to de-personalize themselves – become a Christian and you do not have to worry about being yourself because you will put on a new personality which is not your own. It may also help to transform appalling mental distress and misery into some kind of valued martyrdom. The life and ministry of Jesus, which may have privileged the place of marginalized and abused people like women and children, can encourage us to think that we are actually kind and attentive to the victimized and abused, providing an ideological screen for continuing blindness and neglect. These potentially, and often actually, abusive ideas are fleshed out in the continuing life of the church, the Body of Christ, which, despite the teaching of Jesus, often portrays itself as a family. In this ‘family’ leaders are parents, obedience to authority is encouraged, and ‘selfishness’ is routinely condemned. Often, the leaders defend the institutions and structures of religion, speaking in the voice of the idealized parent, over against the oppressed or wronged individual. Sin is regarded as an ontological, all-encompassing non-specific sense of personal badness, and personal guilt is fostered by a focus on penitence in almost every service that ever takes place. A pervasive sense of personal badness or defilement is not regarded as problematic – the mute unhappiness of passive victims is not difficult to live with, while pained protest, self-assertion, or anger is intolera26 ble. The message to adult victims, as to the children who refuse to allow the life to be crushed in them, is ‘Keep quiet in church’. Whatever real wrongs people have suffered, whatever their wounds, they are encouraged to try and turn the

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other cheek and to forgive those who have abused and persecuted them, soaking up evil as Jesus did on the cross. After all, the thinking runs, we are all sinners and degrees of guilt and responsibility cannot be meaningfully established sub specie aeternitas. So to the ‘last things’, or Christian eschatology. Abused people, unable to cope with the unbearable reality of their own suffering, often create alternative fantasy worlds where things are better and into which they can disappear from the icy winds of reality. Christian eschatology furnishes many visions of such intangible ‘better’ worlds or heavens where the victims feast and find the acceptance and love they have been deprived of upon this earth. In this way, interpretations of eschatological ideas comfort and collude in abusive situations. They also provide fantasies of grandiose significance, punishment and power for the oppressed in the form of apocalyptic judgments where abusers finally get their 27 comeuppance (Greven 1992). Unfortunately, while these fantasies might compensate for present impotence and insignificance, they may do little to change the realities of abuse. Equally, these fantasies often simply exactly reverse the structures of abuse, placing the abused in power over their abusers, instead of offering 28 ways in which abuse might be ended or fundamentally transformed. Another relevant aspect of the apocalyptic tradition is the emphasis on secrecy. Victims of abuse are often sworn to secrecy by their abusers who threaten dire consequences if they make their abuse known. Generations of children have lived in families cloaked in secrecy about the reality of abuse (see Walker 1992, ch. 5). It is strange and perhaps unfortunate that Christianity itself has a penchant for the idea of the secret, that which is only known to certain insiders, that which cannot be revealed except at the last day. Perhaps this partly accounts for a degree of denial and hypocrisy in churches about difficult matters so that false appearance is more greatly prized than uncomfortable honesty in matters of sexuality, home life and so on. These theological ideas are partial descriptions and traits within Christianity, not the whole of the theological tradition. Equally, not everyone interprets and 29 uses such ideas in the same ways. However, if the Christian theological tradition is to achieve its humanizing potential, the misuses and implications of theology must be critically assessed and dealt with.

Two examples of challenges to abusive theology The work of Alice Miller The work of Alice Miller is a major contribution to uncovering the nature of child abuse. Miller started life as a psychoanalyst trying to find solutions to her own personal discomfort. Having discovered a kind of primal therapy that put her more directly in touch with her feelings and past experiences of victimization,

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she came to the conclusion that psychoanalysis would never ever allow the actuality of child abuse to become visible. Subsequently, she has actively campaigned against a therapy which she believes contributes to lack of social and personal 30 awareness of abuse. Much of Miller’s writing contains words and concepts that are deeply resonant within the Christian theological tradition. For example, in Banished Knowledge (1991) a major theme is that of guilt and blame, ideas that also lie at the centre of Christianity. However, while the Christian tradition tends to focus on the need for forgiveness and how the abused can forgive those who have offended against them, Miller takes a very different approach. She believes that the possibility of abuse perpetuates itself from generation to unhappy generation unless the offence against the child is named, the nature of that offence is clarified, and the persons who have performed it are held clearly responsible for their acts, that is blamed. For Miller, the worst thing that can happen is for children to forget what has happened to them, to repress it, and so to appear to forgive those who have offended against them. The repressed anger and aggression in these circumstances is then likely to re-surface when these abused persons themselves have children and repeat the repressed pattern of victimization and abuse. Drawing on her own experience of recovery from abuse, Miller argues that abuse victims need to really feel their rage against their abusers and that there must not be a movement into any kind of forgiving and forgetting here. Only by facing the appalling reality of the past can the future hold a hope of something different, and abusing adults must be firmly held responsible for their actions. This kind of thinking presents enormous challenges to Christian ideas and practices relating to guilt and forgiveness. First, it suggests that guilt and responsibility may have to be looked at far more seriously and defined much more closely than they have been. Secondly, the nature and place of forgiveness may need re-consideration, with much greater place being given to facing the nature of offence before forgiveness is realized; this augurs the end of ‘cheap forgiveness’. Thirdly, the idea that victims should forgive their offenders at all is challenged. A question mark is placed against the assumption that victims, who are likely to feel shamed and bad anyway and so may be all too ready to forgive and take responsibility, should bear the cost of forgiveness when the powerful abuser may not have to do anything. Miller believes victims should rage, not accept, if they are to grow and change; this presents problems to a religious tradition which exalts the humble and meek. Finally, there is a challenge for theology to re-consider the place of memory and the past; what are we supposed to do with the lived memory of offences and victimization? This is an extremely important theological theme because, if Miller is right, prematurely forgetting the past, which is a theological virtue in some circles, but a practical disaster, may help to ensure the perpetuation of misery into the far distant future.

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I am certainly not suggesting that Christian theology needs to be reconstituted in the image of Miller’s thought and practice. However, it would be good to see a serious and thoroughgoing re-reading and re-formulation of the theory and practice of guilt and forgiveness which was far clearer, more specific, and less likely to disguise and tread upon the victims of oppression than we have hitherto assumed our doctrines to be. Maybe discreet guilt, that is negative feeling related to specific and objectively verifiable offences, has a personal and social value that has got lost in theological theory and practice of forgiveness that seems to speak of offence but is impossibly vague and secretive, trading rather unsatisfactorily on a vague and unspecified feeling of personal ontological badness in the victim; a doctrine of forgiveness that ultimately and inadvertently afflicts the oppressed while setting the oppressors free. Perhaps the fact that there is a lack of effective understandings and practices for dealing with guilt and forgiveness is in itself an indicator that the religious body corporate is full of victimized people who would rather blame themselves and absorb the evils that have happened to them than confront them and their perpetrators. This, of course, might often prevent life-giving change occurring.

The triangle of abuse The triangle of abuse is a device that originates in the therapeutic system known as Transactional Analysis (Karpman 1968). It is used by counsellors and others to try and understand the process of helping victims of abuse. The triangle is based on the idea that, in every situation of abuse, there are present the roles of (a) an abuser; (b) a victim; and (c) a longed-for rescuer that the victim hopes can deliver him/her from the situation of abuse. Later, when an abused person seeks help, these roles can come into play in a situation of transference and countertransference: Once this transference/counter-transference gets enacted it is quite likely that the roles that are familiar to the victim will begin to be re-enacted, for example, the counsellor begins to feel to the victim like the abuser, for example with penetrative and abusing questioning. The victim may then slip into the role of becoming the controller, for example, the abuser, to protect themselves, making the counsellor feel like the victim. The roles are interchangeable, and the transference is used to ‘keep the game going’ and avoid the pain of the reality in the here and now. There was no rescuer, that child cannot be rescued! (RELATE n.d.; emphasis original)

In fact, the way out of abuse, some professionals suggest, is for the abused person to become their own rescuer (Parkes 1990). Until the victim stops expecting

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rescue from outside, the triangle of abuse continues to operate, re-creating the shifting and harmful roles of abuser and victim ad infinitum. Clearly, this kind of thinking has enormously important ramifications for Christian pastoral action which often construes itself along the lines of God’s action in Christ as rescuing people. The triangle of abuse may go some way to explaining why, in practice, Christian attempts at rescue go sour, and why the rescuers quickly come to be perceived as part of the problem, as victims or oppressors. It may also go some way to explaining why those who have been rescued, reborn again in Christ, often quickly seem to become abusive tyrants within reli31 gious groups where other members of the ‘saved’ act as passive victims. This construct of the triangle of abuse in which roles shift round is deeply suggestive for theological self-critique. First, a main category of Christian understanding of salvation is external rescue by a third party, God working in Christ (Selby 1995). This may perpetuate and reinforce a sense of victimhood in human beings who need to find a sense of responsibility and efficacy for their own salvation. Secondly, the triangle of abuse casts interesting light on the very nature of the Trinity, the modes of action of its members, their changing roles, and the implications of this for contemporary humanity. God the Father can easily be seen as abuser/oppressor, the one who requires the suffering and death of his victim son in order that creation may be rescued by the operation of the Holy Spirit. At the same time, it is sometimes suggested that God himself is the victim of the world’s wickedness, suffering in Christ on the cross. He also appears as the rescuer of Jesus, bringing him to life again out of the tomb. Now it may be that all this role confusion could provide enormously important theological illumination in dialogue with the theory of abuse. Or it may be that it needs clarification and alteration so that victimization is not perpetuated upon earth. However, there can be little doubt that it is worth looking at the whole area of Trinity, rescue, salvation and abuse, to see how fundamental theological ideas intersect with victimization. Patriarchal society is littered with triangular, hierarchical and abusive relationships of one kind and another. Is it possible that the doctrine of the Trinity and its role in salvation mirrors, and is shaped to some extent, by the experience of abuse and that this may have a role in perpetuating the passivity of victims and the hope of outside rescue that never really comes? If so, creating a theology of hope will require a fundamental revision of this foundational Christian doctrine.

The theological task Theologians, as guardians, critics and exponents of words, concepts and doctrines, cannot take total responsibility for ending abuse in society or even within the religious community. Indeed, for theologians to see themselves as

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single-handedly delivering religion from abuse would be to fall into the pattern of grandiose omnipotent rescuer that might be symptomatic of, and reinforce, the operation of victimization. As users and critics of religious words and ideas, however, we do have a specific part to play in honestly criticizing and reformulating concepts that are abusive. To play the role of honest witness to abuse in theological work is absolutely essential if Christianity is to be delivered from some of its 32 present collusion with abuse. This role may not be welcome or easy. Many colleagues will defend abusive theology. The cost of acknowledging that it is abusive is appalling, presenting an enormous emotional and personal challenge, as well as an intellectual one. Here are some tentative thoughts about ways in which some theologians might like to proceed if we are to make progress in creating non-abusive theologies which might then contribute to less abusive Christian communities and a less abusive society.

Locating theology and theologians An important starting point is with ourselves. We need to become conscious of our own experiences of abuse and victimization, as victims, abusers or bystanders/witnesses. While it cannot be the case that all theologians have direct experience of abuse, it seems highly probable to me that there is more experience of abuse within the theological community than is presently apparent. Christianity speaks the language of power and oppression, victimhood and priesthood, rescue and damnation, love and rejection, good and evil. It would be amazing if this set of concepts and the practices which it accompanies did not act as a kind of magnet to those who have experience of victimhood and abuse. Like ‘the vain, the ambitious and the highly sexed’, such people are ‘the natural play of the incarnate Christ’ (C.H. Sisson quoted in Ecclestone 1993, p.169). Unfortunately, while Christianity inherently highlights the whole issue of victimhood and abuse, it is doubtful that it actually always possesses the means to help people get beyond 33 victimization and a sense of the defiled, shamed self. Many very needy people may continue to live in an unresolved, twilight world, suffering the symptoms of abuse but unable to get beyond this. If we are not conscious of ourselves and our own part (if any) in abuse then we are destined to collude with it, directly or indirectly. As theologians, we may feel the need to assume the role of the authoritative, idealized parent and assert the righteousness of God over the victimhood of human beings, just to take one possible example. If we have been victimized ourselves and then work with other people, although we may not directly physically or sexually abuse them, there is a real danger that we can perpetuate the structures of victimhood in our practice,

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attitudes and thinking. Not all abused people become abusers, but oppressed people of any kind often know a lot about how to oppress other people. We will not produce non-abusive, non-oppressive theologies if we have not come to terms with the experience of abuse in ourselves and the people around us. We may be tempted to continue to teach, for example, the theological virtue of humility to young children, as long as we do not recognize the stifled, powerless child and the idealized, bullying adult within. Some of the most rigid, violent, merciless and inhumane theologies being perpetrated today may, it seems to me, 34 have their roots in the childhood abuse and neglect of their exponents.

Investigating the relationship between abuse and religious symbols and ideas There are some immediate, practical theological tasks at hand. These include investigating the relationship between abuse and particular theological ideas and religious practices more vigorously to expose the abusive implications of theological ideas. This is not an optional extra. If Christian theology, liturgy and communal life are full of ideas that may perpetuate and mirror abuse and its symptoms, then these ideas need to be fundamentally challenged, displaced, re-cast or completely discarded. One obvious area in which this needs to be done is in the whole area of soteriology and atonement where the exaltation of the passive 35 victimization of Christ lends itself so easily to the succour of abuse. It is the job of responsible theologians to name the ideas and texts of terror and torment that help to make abuse unexceptionable and invisible. In this connection, it is important that fundamental criticism of liturgical practices and texts should be undertaken. It seems likely that general penance for unnamed generic sin which screens a sense of shame and unresolved ontological personal badness 36 should be challenged. Feeling bad should be much more firmly distinguished from doing wrong, and having done wrong should not perhaps be given such a 37 high profile in worship anyway. Guilt is a useful emotion, but it should relate directly to offence and not to a general sense that people are wholly bad in themselves. That is shame, and it is a common accompaniment to abuse and victimization. Shamed people need a sense of worthwhile selfhood, not forgiveness. A further theological task is to reflect upon what kind of theological ideas and practices children should be exposed to, and in what ways. Ideas that collude with a sense of passivity, hopelessness, depersonalization, low self-esteem and heterogeneous rescue from ‘outside’ agencies need careful assessment here, for it is children who are the main victims of abuse. Perhaps it is really not appropriate that they should be invited to be unselfish, to be humble, to be loving and to walk the way of the cross in imitation of Christ whose voluntary suffering and achievement is greater than theirs will ever be. After all, they may already be walking the way of the cross, without the possibility of choice, understanding or deliverance.

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Is it possible that theological ideas or symbols might be developed that extend and enhance a child’s sense of exuberant selfhood rather than helping them to feel guilty and inadequate? Children should be taught to feel good and selftrusting in a faith formed round resurrection before they are taught to feel bad and self-hating. Perhaps the most important critical task before theologians in all these endeavours is to face up to and point out the ambivalent nature of Christian theological ideas. Christian theology is not all good and salvific in its effects. It can cast a long and destructive shadow. What appear to be images of love and salvation for some can be symbols of death and destruction for others. In Jill Paton Walsh’s book, Knowledge of Angels (1995), for example, a ‘wolf-child’ is cared for in a nunnery and comes to know and trust the nuns. She does not go into the church until one day, quite late on in the book, she enters it and immediately runs out howling and in great fear. Nobody knows why she was so upset until one of the sisters realizes that what she saw was a crucifix with the figure of Jesus hanging on it. We are so used to this image that, like the sisters, it no longer appals us. Perhaps it should! Perhaps the image of the hanging victim is fundamentally a symbol of despair and abuse rather than of hope and new life. Perhaps, and this is the most plausible way of looking at it, we should just recognize that these sym38 bols are powerful and they can have more than one effect on different people. But this suggests that we need to become a good deal more conscious and adept at recognizing the ambivalence of even our best symbols and most benevolent intentions.

Re-interpreting the Christian theological tradition Beyond exposing the abusive potential of theological ideas, there is the possibility of exploring and re-interpreting the Christian tradition, bringing alternative images and symbols into a new prominence. In this connection, the doctrine of resurrection seems a good candidate to replace the hegemony of the concept of atonement. The founding event of the Christian community seems to have been the response of Jesus’ followers to his perceived resurrection. Ideas of original sin and the atoning death of Christ only really came into prominence with the work of Saint Augustine. Augustine was a brilliant theologian and a sad man whose own childhood was deeply unhappy. He spent most of his life trying to crush his embodied passions and desires in order to ally himself with the idealized parental voice of his God. Since Augustine, most Western theology has tended to marginalize the symbol of life overcoming death in resurrection to dwell upon elaborating theories of human sin and how this is overcome in the crucifixion (see Gorringe 1996). The traditional fixation upon overcoming and blotting out human evil and sin now needs to be corrected by re-discovering the joyful

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community founded round the empty tomb. Some American feminist theologians are exploring exactly this kind of life-affirming idea that does not require the pessimistic denigration of humanity or the self, even as it does not ignore the reality of human suffering: Resurrection means that death is overcome in those precise instances when human beings choose life, refusing the threat of death. Jesus climbed out of the grave in the Garden of Gethsemane when he refused to abandon his commitment to the truth even though his enemies threatened him with death. On Good Friday, the Resurrected One was crucified. 39

(Carlson Brown and Parker 1989, p.28)

Conclusion The Christian tradition does not have a prominent place in recognizing or challenging the abuse and victimization of children, or indeed women. Placing the historical man Jesus as the only victim at the centre of this religion seems, curiously, to have acted as an ideological blindfold to recognizing and responding to the continuing victimization of millions in the contemporary world. Many theological ideas have colluded, mostly unwittingly, to obscure and support abuse and oppression. Children have been encouraged to forsake self, to walk the way of the cross, not to think of their own emotions, to ignore their own needs, to give thanks to God for the ‘blessings’ of their abused lives, and even to forgive their abusers in the name of Christ. Theologians have been as blind as anyone else to the abusive ways in which religious concepts have been used. This continues to contribute to violence and victimization within and outside the Christian community. It is time for us to take more responsibility for the role of theology in abuse and to engage in the kind of critique that will make the liberating potential of Christianity more prominent. That there is such potential, I have no doubt. It was Augustine who talked of faith and doctrine as a cure for the wounded and sick soul; we surely need to re-discover how theology can become balm rather than bane. First, however, the unnecessary suffering of little children through abuse and neglect must be deprived of the oxygen of theological meaning.

Notes 1. Examples of this device of anonymity can be found, e.g., in the following works on abuse: Blumenthal (1993), Capps (1995), Poling (1991), Walker (1992). 2. See, e.g., Miller (1987a,b, 1991). 3. See Miller (1991, ch. 1) for this kind of ‘amnesia’. 4. For a chilling commentary on this kind of systematic cruel breaking of the child’s will and spirit where desires are unrecognized, ignored or unmet, the reader is referred to Miller (1987b), where this ‘poisonous pedagogy’ is exposed for the evil that it is.

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5. National Commission of Inquiry into Child Abuse (1996) reported in The Guardian, 23 October 1996, p.2, cols. 1–7. The Commission defines abuse as ‘anything which individuals, institutions or processes do, or fail to do, which directly or indirectly harms children or damages their prospects of safe and healthy development into adulthood’. This definition, which would include shouting at or hitting children in public places, was rejected by many including the Conservative government and the Archbishop of Canterbury who incline to calling such actions ‘sensible discipline’. For the discussion of different kinds of abuse and neglect (emotional, psychological, physical, sexual etc.) see, e.g., O’Hagan (1993), Shengold (1989). It seems likely that at least 12 per cent of women and 8 per cent of men in Britain experience specifically sexual abuse during childhood. See Parkinson (1997) ch. 2. 6. Although cases of clergy abusing children are beginning to come to light and church authorities are starting to develop anti-abuse policies, there is still a sense that child abuse is somehow remote and exceptional, something that can be dealt with ‘out there’. 7. See Capps (1995), Loades (1996) and Poling (1991). The Jewish thinker, David Blumenthal, can, however, cope with the idea of evil within the religious tradition, even within God, and also with the need not to be controlling and distorting of reality in a premature attempt to be talkative about the unspeakable. See Blumenthal (1993). 8. ‘Elective affinity’ is a concept coined by Goethe and adopted and adapted by Max Weber. 9. Harmful religion may be defined as ‘a religious belief of practice which damages or hurts somebody spiritually, mentally or physically’. See Osborn and Walker (1997). For the fundamental importance of taking social responsibility for one’s symbols, ideas and interpretations see, e.g., McDonald (1993) Part 3. 10. Compare Luke 12.48: ‘From him to whom much has been given, much will be required.’ 11. See Miller (1987, pp.19–23) for a discussion of the ‘poor rich child’. 12. This is a kind of defence. Miller notes, ‘it is easier to see oneself as a criminal than to know and feel that one was, and is, an innocent victim who must be prepared at all times for torture and persecution’ (1991, p.74). Cf. Walker (1992, p.57) for victim guilt. 13. ‘Children who have been abused do not have high expectations of others. They do not expect help. They often do not have a sense of indignation when they are ill-treated.’ (Walker 1992, p.1). Cf. Shengold (1991). 14. Cf. Walker (1992, p.49). For ‘clenched irritation’ see Motion (1993, p.9). 15. For false self generally see Winnicott (1990) ch. 12; Richards (1996). For false self as a response to abuse see Capps (1995, p.101); Miller (1987a). For the intersection of religion with false self in oppressed women see Saussy (1991). 16. For Augustine as an abused child see Capps (1995) ch. 2; Augustine (1992, p.11). Augustine firmly introjected the view of the oppressive parent and makes this the basis of a ‘parent’s eye’ theology based on original sin and distrust of the human; cf. Miller (1991) ch. 6. 17. For a lack of words to describe experiences leading to their being discarded and forgotten see Crawford (1992) ch. 9. For a collection of personal accounts of sexual abuse and strategies used to survive it see Malone et al. (1996). 18. ‘A masochistic identity is a type of negative identity, which, however costly and pathological, nonetheless represents for some individuals their best possible effort at creating and maintaining a separate and autonomous sense of self, one that salvages for them a modicum of satisfaction, security, and self-esteem and thereby staves off tugs

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19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30. 31.

32. 33.

34.

toward identity confusion, psychotic regression, and/or suicide.’ (Sacksteder 1989, p.106). For images of God in the individual that can be pathological see for example Jones (1991). Compare the list of beliefs supporting ‘poisonous pedagogy’ that is oriented towards breaking the will and spirit of the child with much of the belief system that underlies and is commended by the majority Christian tradition in Miller (1987b, pp.59–60). For a critique of patriarchal theology and the family see Brock (1993). For the ‘symptoms’ of abuse, such as passivity, which are alluded to here, see Walker (1992). For ‘frailty’ rather than goodness as the differentiator between God and humanity, see Brueggemann (1993, pp.32–3). ‘O Lord, thou hast searched me out and known me! Thou knowest when I sit down and when I rise up, thou discernest my thoughts from afar’ (Ps. 139.1). A ‘text of terror’ (cf. Trible 1984) for the shamed! See Broucek (1989) for objectifying gaze. For further material on this theme see Brock (1993), Capps (1995). For the social and institutional convenience of passive unhappiness versus anger see for example Johnstone (1989). Prison camp inmates in the last war, brutalized and deprived of autonomy, freedom and value, similarly became detached from their own experience and in a fundamentally passive position resorted to daydreams of a coming cataclysm and to grandiose fantasies about future significance. See Bettelheim (1986, pp.167–9). Cf. Chancer (1992, ch. 2). For a feminist theological commentary on the need not unwittingly to mirror the anatomy of oppression, nor to regard victims as justified and righteous because of their abuse, see West (1995). Kohut (1971, p.82) points out, in relation to narcissistic wounds to the self, that it is not traumatic events in themselves that necessarily inflict damage upon the emergent self, but the way in which the child reacts to and interprets these. A similar consideration must be borne in mind when considering the reception and effects of theological ideas and symbols, though this must not be allowed to erase any sense of responsibility for these ideas, any more than Kohut’s ideas provide a mandate for parents traumatizing infants. See Miller (1991). Some of the theological implications of Miller’s work have been raised and explored in Brock (1993) and Capps (1995). The Nine O’Clock Service in Sheffield is an example of this phenomenon, but many churches seem to be full of ‘oppressive rescuing parents’ and ‘victimized saved children’ of whatever age. For consideration of the place and nurturing of a sense of debt, sacrifice and victimization in the ongoing life of churches see Fenn (1991): ‘It might seem strange that a religious culture like Christianity promises so much triumph but requires a lifetime of self-sacrifice’ (p.31). For the role of honest, or enlightened witness see Miller (1991, pp.167–75). Cf. Pattison (1994, pp.261–6). Cf. Symington (1995), who argues that Christianity holds up many valuable humanistic ideals which are needed, but lacks the techniques and means to help people to attain these. This hunch is, in principle, perfectly accessible to empirical investigation. Compare, for example, Greven (1992), which explores relations between the prevalence of physical punishment and the adoption of fundamentalistic, apocalyptic theology in modern America. An interesting historical study of the way in which Protestant theological ideas

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35.

36. 37.

38.

39.

and religious practices based round breaking the will in the name of fostering sanctity resulting in considerable mental distress may be found in Rubin (1994). For a hopeful, creative, non-masochistic interpretation of the sacrifice of Christ that works basically from a natural rather than revelatory theological base and so implicitly minimizes the concept of external ‘rescue’ see Bradley (1995). For guilt as a screen for the more difficult and personally challenging emotion of shame see Wurmser (1994, p.207). An important distinction between ideas of stain/ontological badness and offence/ judicial offence both contained within Judaeo-Christian ideas about evil is made in Ricoeur (1969). For the ambivalent effects of Christian symbols and ideas and the ways in which they are adopted and used by different individuals see Hunsinger (1995) ch. 4. Ideas and symbols fund the religious imagination and life of believers; see Brueggemann (1993). For a spirited and thoughtful positive assessment of Augustine from a feminist perspective see West (1995).

References Alves, R. (1986) I Believe in the Resurrection of the Body. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Augustine, St (1992) Confessions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bettelheim, B. (1986) The Informed Heart. London: Penguin Books. Blumenthal, D. (1993) Facing the Abusing God. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press. Bradley, I. (1995) The Power of Sacrifice. London: Darton, Longman & Todd. Brock, R. Nakashima (1993) Journeys by Heart. New York: Crossroad. Broucek, F. (1989) Shame and the Self. New York: Guilford. Brueggemann, W. (1993) The Bible and the Postmodern Imagination. London: SCM Press. Capps, D. (1995) The Child’s Song. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press. Carlson Brown, J. and Parker, R. (1989) ‘For God so Loved the World?’ In J. Carlson Brown and C. Bohn (eds) Christianity, Patriarchy and Abuse: A Feminist Critique. Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press. Chancer, L. (1992) Sadomasochism in Everyday Life. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Crawford, J. et al. (1992) Emotion and Gender. London: Sage. Ecclestone, A. (1993) Gather the Fragments. Sheffield: Cairns Publications. Fenn, R. (1991) The Secularization of Sin. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox. Gorringe, T. (1996) God’s Just Vengeance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Greven, P. (1992) Spare the Child. New York: Vintage Books. Gudorf, C. (1992) Victimization: Examining Christian Complicity. Philadelphia: Trinity Press International. Hunsinger, D. van Deusen (1995) Theology and Pastoral Counselling. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Johnstone, L. (1989) Users and Abusers of Psychiatry. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Jones, J. (1991) Contemporary Psychoanalysis and Religion. New Haven: Yale University Press. Karpman, S. (1968) ‘Script drama analysis.’ Transactional Analysis Bulletin 7, 26, 39–43. Kohut, H. (1971) The Analysis of the Self. Madison: International Universities Press. Loades, A. (1996) ‘Dympna Revisited: Thinking about the Sexual Abuse of Children.’ In S. Barton (ed.) The Family in Theological Perspective. Edinburgh: T & T Clark.

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Malone, C., Farthing, L. and Marce, L. (eds) (1996) The Memory Bird. London: Virago. McDonald, J. (1993) Biblical Interpretation and Christian Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Miller, A. (1987a) The Drama of Being a Child. London: Virago. Miller, A. (1987b) For Your Own Good. London: Virago. Miller, A. (1991) Banished Knowledge. London: Virago. Motion, A. (1993) Philip Larkin: A Writer’s Life. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux. National Commission of Inquiry into Child Abuse (1996) Childhood Matters. London: HMSO. O’Hagan, K. (1993) Emotional and Psychological Abuse of Children. Buckingham: Open University Press. Osborn, L. and Walker, A. (eds) (1997) Harmful Religion. London: SPCK. Parkes, P. (1990) Rescuing the Inner Child. London: Souvenir Press. Parkinson, P. (1997) Child Sexual Abuse and the Churches. London: Hodder & Stoughton. Pattison, S. (1994) Pastoral Care and Liberation Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pfister, O. (1948) Christianity and Fear. London: George Allen & Unwin. Poling, J. (1991) The Abuse of Power. Nashville: Abingdon Press. RELATE (n.d.) Notes for Adult Survivors of Sexual Abuse programme (n.p.). Richards, V. (ed.) (1996) The Person Who is Me. London: Karnac Books. Ricoeur, P. (1969) The Symbolism of Evil. Boston: Beacon Press. Rubin, J. (1994) Religious Melancholy and Protestant Experience in America. New York: Oxford University Press. Pattison, S. (1995) ‘The shadow side of Jesus.’ Studies in Christian Ethics 8, 2, 54–67. Sacksteder, J. (1989) ‘Thoughts on the Positive Value of a Negative Identity.’ In J. Montgomery and A. Greif (eds) Masochism: The Treatment of Self-Inflicted Suffering. Madison, CN: International Universities Press. Saussy, C. (1991) God Images and Self Esteem. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press. Selby, P. (1995) Rescue: Jesus and Salvation Today. London: SPCK. Shengold, L. (1989) Soul Murder. New Haven: Yale University Press. Symington, N. (1995) Emotion and Spirit. London: Cassell. Trible, P. (1984) Texts of Terror. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Walker, M. (1992) Surviving Secrets. Buckingham: Open University Press. Walsh, J. Paton (1995) Knowledge of Angels. London: Black Swan. West, A. (1995) Deadly Innocence. London: Mowbray. Winnicott, D. (1990) The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment. London: Karnac Books. Wurmser, L. (1994) The Mask of Shame. Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson.

14

Mend the Gap: Christianity and the Emotions

Emotions are fundamental to individual and social existence in contemporary society. The assertion that we are living in ‘postemotional society’ is problematised by everyday experience (Mestrovic 1997). The mass media soak the populace with passions, adding advice on feeling management for good measure. Popular paperbacks call for ‘emotional literacy’ and laud ‘emotional intelligence’ (Goleman 1996; Orbach 1994). In academe, biologists, psychologists, sociologists, philosophers and others haruspicate the nature and meaning of emotions, while organisational theorists increasingly recognise the importance of emotions and the significance of ‘emotional labour’ (Bendelow and Williams 1998; Ekman and Davidson 1994; Fineman 1993; Harre and Parrott 1996; Hochschild 1983; Stocker with Hegeman 1996). Popular and academic interest in emotions and emotional experience has been building since the time of Darwin and beyond (Darwin 1998). However, it is only recently that theologians have accorded serious attention to this aspect of existence (Haughton 1981; Sheldrake 1994; Watts 1997). In particular, the ‘negative’ or unpleasant emotions such as anger, hatred, envy, jealousy and shame have been almost totally ignored, except to be condemned (Bringle 1990; Campbell 1986; Whitehead and Whitehead 1994). Christian thought has reflected and reinforced ‘emotional illiteracy’. In this essay I will indicate some of the historical factors that may have generated and maintained this situation. Thereafter, I will suggest why this situation of stand-off from the emotions may be changing. The credibility of Christian thought and practice is at issue in rising to the challenge of focussing more directly upon the emotions.

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A historical perspective As soon as one begins to reflect upon the history of Christianity and the emotions, two problems are apparent. First, Christianity has always been diverse and pluriform. It is, therefore, dangerous to generalise about its practices and attitudes to anything (Nineham 1993). Secondly, the concept of ‘emotion’ is a modern one that arose with a new discipline called psychology (Danziger 1997, pp.36–50). Christians, like other members of society up till the eighteenth century, would have been concerned with a well-nuanced array of ‘passions’, ‘desires’, ‘affections’, ‘appetites’ or ‘vices’ rather than with ‘emotions’ or ‘affects’ (James 1997; Nussbaum 1994; Schimmel 1997). With these caveats in mind I will now generalise grossly in giving a broad account of Christian attitudes to the emotions, assuming that modem attitudes owe much to traditional dispositions towards the passions, desires and appetites. Like most inhabitants of the ancient world early Christians valued selfcontrol and order enormously (Meeks 1987; Nussbaum 1994; Perkins 1995; Stowers 1994). A major threat to control, and thus a major entrée to religious and social anarchy, was the functioning of the passions, desires and appetites. These drew people away from pursuing the good and the right. Philosophers such as the Greek Therapeutics and religious leaders strove to combat the pernicious effects of wrongly-directed passions and desires. While some desires such as the appetite for food were natural and not evil in themselves, people could be misled or driven by passions and desires so that they failed to live a good and, in the philosophers’ case, tranquil and detached life (Nussbaum 1994). Entering a world-view that suspected and disvalued the passions and desires while exalting self-control and detachment, Jesus, while displaying emotions such as anger and compassion himself, seems to go along with the need to be suspicious and controlling of them. Indeed, by teaching that appears to emphasise the inseparability of desires and actual actions such as the saying that a man who looks lustfully at a woman has already committed adultery with her in his heart (Matt. 5.28), Jesus, or the tradition that emanates from him, creates a link between feeling and deed that cathects desire with enormous danger. It is only in the twentieth century, under the aegis of Freud, that it has become possible within the Christian tradition to see that thoughts and deeds may not be the same thing and thus to begin to regard appetites and desires differently. Paul shared the typical cultural attitude towards desires and passions, emphasising the need for self control. In several places, he enunciates lists of passions that distort and warp the Christian life, including strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness, dissension, party spirit, and envy (Gal. 5.17). Paul basically followed contemporary mores (Meeks 1987). However, in bequeathing to Christianity a very mistrustful view of the ‘flesh’, i.e. the part of the person that is resistant to

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God centred upon the physical aspect of human being, Paul powerfully amplified the perception that anything relating closely to the physical body could not be valuable (Brown 1989, p.47). A fundamentally suspicious view of the body implied a similarly low view of the bodily-rooted passions. Much of early Christian living was oriented to subduing the body and the passions and desires that inhered therein to actualise a different kind of personal and social order (Brown 1989; Bynum 1995; Perkins 1995). The suspicion directed against the passions and desires particularly focussed upon sexuality and continence (Brown 1989; Countryman 1989). Christian views on the passions reached their fullest theological expression and formalisation in the work of the ‘Fathers’ like Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine of Hippo (Miles 1992). Adopting a fundamentally Platonic view of the world, these luminaries regarded God as unified, rational, immaterial, disembodied, perfect, pure, absolutely good, immutable, timeless, changeless, and, of course, passionless or impassive. Insofar as humans were, or could become God-like, they needed to develop and attend to the rational part of themselves that allowed them to share in the divine nature and which would draw them upwards to God. Being partly material and animal-like, humans were always in danger of falling away from God, drawn on by their earthly-focussed passions and desires. The passions and desires had to be controlled and directed by reason if they were to be harnessed to virtuous development rather than leading people into concupiscence and sin. Gregory of Nyssa likens the relationship of reason to animal impulses that can turn into harmful passions to that of a charioteer controlling his horses: If reason should let go of the reins and like some charioteer entangled in the chariot should be dragged behind it, wherever the irrational motion of the yoke-animals carries it, then the impulses are turned into passions, as indeed we can see in the irrational animals. (late C4 [1993, p.57])

Distrust of the passions authoritatively coalesced in the work of St. Augustine. Augustine was a passionate man, deeply aware of his sensual desires and appetites for food, sex, beautiful sound and many other things (Augustine 1991; Capps and Dittes 1990). These were constantly threatening to distort the will and to pull him away from intimate relationship with God, characterised by permanence, intensity, rest, equilibrium and peace, and into concupiscence and fragmented dissipation (Miles 1992). Siding with God against human and animal impulses in the self, Augustine opts for strict bodily and emotional continence and discipline. In a manner that may be painful for moderns to behold, Augustine

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condemns bodily-based earthly-directed passions and sexual desires even in babies where they form evidence of original sin and corruption (Augustine 1991, p.9; Gaarder 1997). In Augustine’s vision of paradise, procreation is a function of rational will power, not the result of sexual passion (Augustine 1972, p.590). Only in connection with the worship of God could passions and desires be appropriate and redeemed if controlled (Augustine 1991, pp.206–7). Thus Augustine prides himself on not crying at the death of his mother while pouring out his heart in passionate intimacy to a passionless divinity (Augustine 1991, p.174). Augustine’s teaching set a pattern for orthodox attitudes towards the desires and passions that have lasted till today. Intermediate thinkers have contributed modifications (Aquinas 1993, pp.156–69). However, notwithstanding the emotionalism of the Romantic movement, until recently it would not have been possible for a thinker from the centre of the Christian tradition to advance a really positive view of the desires, passions or emotions, particularly those that are regarded as ‘negative’. While some Christians have celebrated a range of ‘positive’ religious emotional experience as a sign of fervour, commitment and depth, they have been a somewhat derided minority from the perspective of theologians working within the paradigm of divine rationality (Knox 1987; Watts 1997). There is plenty of evidence of a generally negative view of feelings and emotions based on the continuing hegemony of Augustine’s passionless, changeless Platonic God in orthodox liturgy, creeds and theology even today. I was brought up on hymns that called for ‘earthly passions’ to turn ‘to dust and ashes’ in the fire of God’s love, or which suggested that God’s voice could only be heard ‘above the storms of passion’ and, significantly in this connection, ‘the murmurs of self-will’. Each morning and evening service in the Church of England started with a confession in which worshippers admitted that they had ‘followed too much the devices and desires’ of their own hearts. There are still very few hymns and prayers that acknowledge or celebrate the range and usefulness of a variety of human emotions. Passions remain dubious and undesirable.

The changing relationship between Christianity and emotions Things are beginning to change. I will now speculate upon some of the reasons that Christians are beginning to be able to acknowledge and accept the importance of emotions and passions, even ‘negative’ ones. First, the triumph of Darwinian theories of evolution has led to humans re-evaluating their place in the great chain of being. Humans now see themselves less as the crown of creation, differentiated from, and free to exploit, other creatures, and more as animals (Midgley 1983). The status of animals has risen

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commensurately. There is not, therefore, so much enthusiasm for denigrating the transient, embodied, ‘animal’ aspects of human nature such as appetites and desires. These appetites and desires are seen as interesting areas of exploration and understanding rather than as uncomfortable reminders of our ‘lowly’ status within the universe and our distance from God. Emotions are thus taken more seriously. The next factor is the revaluation of emotions as part of the whole human way of understanding, apprehending and being. For centuries, the passions, desires or emotions were seen as positively irrational and distorting in the apprehension of reality and in making decisions. This antithesis can no longer pertain unchallenged; many philosophers now argue that emotion is a main part of human knowing and deciding. It is not a distraction or distortion (Macmurray 1992; Oakley 1992; Sartre 1993). Not only may the emotions not be separated from the faculties of cognition and reason, ‘pure’ reason stripped of feeling and emotion is now regarded by many as suspect. In an ‘ecological nuclear’ age, cold detachment no longer seems like the ideal that it was. The application of rationality in science seems to have produced as many problems and dangers as it has solved (Beck 1992; McFague 1987). People are beginning to demand that their feelings as well as their articulated reasons and words should be taken seriously. This challenges the paradigm of rational detachment in knowledge and social-scientific development. Paradigms of the self are also changing in Western society, particularly under the aegis of the quest for increased equality of the sexes. This is symbolised and focussed in feminist critiques of the patriarchal social order. These offer new ways of seeing persons and human relations. No longer is the stereotype of the detached, autonomous, ‘rational’, emotionally ‘dry’ male who cannot cry or show emotions and who has an existence mostly outside the domestic sphere and intimate familial relations seen as some kind of unchallengeable ideal (Lupton 1998). Men as well as women are urged towards emotional ‘wetness’, expression and intimacy in a society that increasingly takes embodiment and its expression in sexuality perceived as good seriously (Nelson 1992). ‘Emotional illiteracy’ is increasingly problematic in this context (Orbach 1994). Within the theological sphere, too, important changes are taking place that move that discipline towards a more central focus on the embodied, passionate human being. Moltmann may be seen as one important early exemplar of this trend. The Crucified God asserted the primacy of an image of a God who, far from being passionless, feels intimately with and for humanity (Moltmann 1974). It introduces a kind of de facto patripassianism into theology where people have come to feel that a passionless, detached deity is not only inhuman, but is in fact inhumane. The traditional Platonic image of God as mainly characterised by rationality and independence has been further arraigned, by feminists in particular, as a dangerous and misleading

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patriarchal fantasy (McFague 1993; Moore 1996). Attempts have been made to formulate images and models of the divine that take models derived from lived, embodied, loving human relationships much more seriously. In an age of relative biomedical security, people increasingly value and trust the here and now rather than looking to a life beyond this one. Thus, all aspects of contemporary embodied existence are being taken increasingly seriously as ends in themselves rather than as temporary diversions on the way towards eternity. There is nothing that anchors human existence more closely to contemporary bodily experience than the emotions that seem to fluctuate widely almost from moment to moment. Despite acknowledgement of the ambivalence of the effects of human endeavours, there is a turn away from crude notions of original sin towards notions of original grace and the importance of human action and responsibility (Brock 1988; West 1995). Many Christians are effectively Pelagians now. They value the world and existence as they find it rather than seeing it as tragically fallen and only reparable by direct divine intervention from outside the created order. These changes within theology and the social order set the stage for a re-evaluation of the emotions or passions and redeem them from a sense of theological curse or irrelevance. The traditional passiophobia that has characterised Christianity in the past is now being challenged.

Conclusion It is time for Christian thought to re-assess and embrace all aspects of the emotional lives of individuals and groups. People need theologies that help to affirm incarnate worldly existence rather than to escape from or to deny it. If theology itself is to be taken seriously, it cannot ignore whole aspects of human existence that are important to human beings themselves. Nor must it collude in demonising or hiding dimensions of life that, if ignored or repressed, are likely to be more haunting and destructive than they would be if they were acknowledged. An understanding of the nature and importance of human emotions will deepen Christian thought and engagement. It may even allow a contribution to world peace; many wars are inspired by a flammable mixture of religious belief and practice that is ignited by powerful emotional experiences. Furthermore, this kind of engagement is consonant with central doctrines and images within Christianity. Notions of creation, incarnation and bodily resurrection point to the importance of taking all aspects of embodied human existence, including emotions, very seriously indeed. The Old Testament God is portrayed as being filled with emotions such as anger, compassion and love. Jesus, too, appears to have had a full range of human emotions. Theologians must look beyond the Platonic God of Augustine to

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reinstate passion at the centre of a religion that has often inspired passions of the most intense kind.

References Aquinas, Thomas (1993) Selected Philosophical Writings. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Augustine of Hippo (1972) City of God. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Augustine of Hippo (1991) Confessions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Beck, U. (1992) Risk Society. London: Sage. Bendelow, G. and Williams, S. (1998) Emotions in Social Life. London: Routledge. Bringle, M. (1990) Despair: Sickness or Sin? Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Brock, R. Nakashima (1988) Journeys By Heart. New York: Crossroad. Brown, P. (1989) The Body and Society. London: Faber. Bynum, C. Walker (1995) The Resurrection of the Body. New York: Columbia University Press. Campbell, A. (1986) The Gospel of Anger. London: SPCK. Capps, D. and Dittes, J. (eds) (1990) Hungers of the Heart. West Lafayette, IN: Society for the Scientific Study of Religion. Countryman, W. (1989) Dirt, Greed and Sex. London: SCM Press. Danziger, K. (1997) Naming the Mind. London: Sage. Darwin, C. (1998) The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals. London: HarperCollins. Ekman, P. and Davidson, R. (1994) The Nature of Emotion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fineman, S. (ed.) (1993) Emotion in Organizations. London: Sage. Gaarder, J. (1997) Vita Brevis. London: Phoenix. Goleman, D. (1996) Emotional Intelligence. London: Bloomsbury. Gregory of Nyssa (1993) The Soul and the Resurrection. New York: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press. Harre, R. and Parrott, G. (eds) (1996) The Emotions. London: Sage. Haughton, R. (1981) The Passionate God. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Hochschild, A. (1983) The Managed Heart. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. James, S. (1997) Passion and Action. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knox, R. (1987) Enthusiasm. London: HarperCollins. Lupton, D. (1998) The Emotional Self. London: Sage. Macmurray, J. (1992) Reason and Emotion. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press. McFague, S. (1987) Models of God. London: SCM Press. McFague, S. (1993) The Body of God. London: SCM Press. Meeks, W. (1987) The Moral World of the First Christians. London: SPCK. Mestrovic, S. (1997) Postemotional Society. London: Sage. Midgley, M. (1983) Animals and Why They Matter. London: Penguin. Miles, M. (1988) The Image and Practice of Holiness. London: SCM Press. Miles, M. (1992) Desire and Delight. New York: Crossroad. Moltmann, J. (1974) The Crucified God. London: SCM Press. Moore, S. (1996) God’s Gym. London: Routledge.

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Nelson, J. (1992) The Intimate Connection. London: SPCK. Nineham, D. (1993) Christianity Mediaeval and Modern. London: SCM Press. Nussbaum, M. (1994) The Therapy of Desire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Oakley, J. (1992) Morality and the Emotions. London: Routledge. Orbach, S. (1994) What’s Really Going On Here? London: Virago. Perkins, J. (1995) The Suffering Self. London: Routledge. Sartre, J.-P. (1993) The Emotions. New York: Citadel Press. Schimmel, S. (1997) The Seven Deadly Sins. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sheldrake, P. (1994) Befriending Our Desires. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Stocker, M. with Hegeman, E. (1996) Valuing Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stowers, S. (1994) A Rereading of Romans. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Watts, F. (1997) ‘Psychological and religious perspectives on emotions.’ Zygon 32, 243–60. West, A. (1995) Deadly Innocence. London: Cassell. Whitehead J. and Whitehead, E. (1994) Shadows of the Heart. New York: Crossroad.

PART 4

On Theology and the Christian Tradition

Introduction Those who have read previous parts of this book will by now be forming a clear impression that the author has strong, ambivalent feelings towards his religious tradition, Christianity, and towards his own profession, theology. I see both as having considerable potential and value; but I also see each as having problems and negativities that need to be addressed. Like most other things in the world, the power and value of religious thought and practice are ambiguous, potentially both creative and destructive. They are important enough to deserve substantial critical attention and analysis in the world and the academy. One of the most depressing things about contemporary Western Christian thought and practice is that it has largely failed to impact creatively and positively upon those who are not church members. It has become a tolerated, if somewhat dull and dusty, private indulgence for those who ‘like that kind of thing’. Professional theologians, mostly disliked, misunderstood and mistrusted in church, academy and society alike, are regarded with bemused indifference. In this book thus far, perhaps my main implicit argument has been that Christian thought and practice should both be more confident in their own traditions, methods and insights, not simply capitulating to intellectual or social norms, but also that they should be more open, generous and spacious in accepting people, ideas and insights that come from outwith the religious community and applying theological ideas and methods to ostensibly ‘secular’ practices. So I have argued [10] that spiritual care should not be allowed to displace religious identity. Equally, I suggested [9] that religious ideas of healing need to be informed by insights about illness and disease from outwith theology. In the last two parts of this book, I turn my attention centrally to theology and its significance and value as a professional discipline and practice. Papers in the next part consider aspects of practical theology specifically. In this part, I address the value of theology in general, suggesting that, while this discipline has become somewhat confined and limited since the days that it dominated the medieval academy as ‘queen of the sciences’, it still has much to offer if it can overcome some of the obstacles that prevent its voice being heard. As ever, I am 194

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critical of the discipline that I love and which has crucially stimulated and sustained my academic and personal life. ‘Can We Speak of God in the Secular Academy?’ was written in 1993, some years after I had stopped being a professional theologian. It begins to articulate what the contribution of theology might be in secular environments and practices. It is my first attempt at clarifying what would now be called the transferability of subject specific skills, methods, competences, knowledge and understanding from theology into other fields. If, as I fervently believe, theology is not a private subject or language, isolated from other subjects and concerns in world and academy, it should be able to offer aspects of its methods and subject matter to broader fields and debates. While this might not be easy, it is necessary if theology is to justify its place in higher education and public discourse. This essay should be helpful in engendering discussion amongst theological practitioners and students as to how they can contribute to wider concerns and issues in the contemporary world. It might also be useful to non-theologians who have the courtesy or curiosity to wonder what theologians are up to. Subsequently to writing this essay, I and others have done quite a lot of work on helping undergraduate students to identify subject- or discipline-specific transferable skills, methods and knowledge (Quality Assurance Agency for Higher Education 2000; Pattison 2005). In ‘Public Theology: A Polemical Epilogue’, an essay first published in Political Theology in 2000, the critique of the obstacles that stand in the way of theological engagement identified in ‘Can We Speak of God in the Secular Academy?’ is deepened and developed further. I survey and opine upon the state of liberal theology in society and academy as it stood around the turn of the millennium. The essay argues that theology needs to radically reform some aspects of its approach and identity if it is not to slip further into marginalisation and irrelevance. If theology is worth doing at all, it is worth doing in such a way that a wide audience can understand and make use of it. Thus, a ‘manifesto’ for action and change is suggested to ensure that theology is more likely to scratch where ordinary people within and outside the Christian community ‘itch’. My purpose here is to get people to think more clearly and carefully about how theology can be made vibrant, dynamic and evangelical in the contemporary world. The essay might be useful in generating discussion about the nature and purpose of theology today. Clearly, I hope its worst prognostications will not be fulfilled. My hope is to provoke transformation, not to raise a dirge. The final paper in this part is rather different in content and purpose from its two predecessors. Practical theologians are sometimes referred to as applied theologians, the implication being that they simply receive the Christian

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tradition and then interpret its meaning and significance for contemporary practice. On this understanding, practical theology does not contribute anything to fundamental understandings of the tradition. This applicationist way of conceiving the place of practical theology was challenged by Seward Hiltner (1958, cf. Woodward and Pattison 2000, pp.27–48). Hiltner argued that if it was theology at all, it should be able to contribute insights to the method and content of theology per se. In ‘The Shadow Side of Jesus in Scripture and Church’ I go some way to re-interpreting one of the main elements of Christian tradition – the life, ministry and effects of the founder of this religion. Working with the notion familiar in practical theology that human experience and insight is an important conversation partner in theology, I attempt a de-idealisation of Jesus with a view to helping readers to see the humanity and necessary ambivalence of this key figure. If the powerful character and ministry of Jesus was shot through with elements of both love and hate, of light and darkness, it is not surprising that the church founded in his name has also had mixed effects for good and ill upon the world. I realise this essay may seem controversial and even glib to some, but I wrote it in fear and trembling. It was one of those papers I felt compelled to write as I explored my own experience of interacting with Christianity in the 1990s, and it was written with great love and respect for its subject. In many ways, I would have felt much happier to have retained Jesus as an unequivocally good and spiritual figure. But this would demand the kind of denial and self-delusion which often makes Christianity inhuman and literally incredible to the fellow humans that God, imaged in Jesus, seeks to love and relate to. As with other papers in this part of the book, my aim is evangelical: to bring Christianity and Christian theology nearer to contemporary life and people rather than allowing it to languish as a testimony to some kind of lovely fantasy world that exists anywhere else but here and now.

References Hiltner, S. (1958) Preface to Pastoral Theology. Nashville: Abingdon Press. Pattison, S. (2005) ‘Using theology and religious studies.’ Discourse: Learning and Teaching in Philosophical and Religious Studies 4, 2, 136–50. Quality Assurance Agency for Higher Education (2000) Academic Standards – Theology and Religious Studies. Gloucester: QAA. Woodward, J. and Pattison, S. (eds) (2000) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell.

15

Can we Speak of God in the Secular Academy? Or, Need Theology be so Useless?

Theology made me. More precisely, most of my early life from my teens to my mid-thirties has been shaped academically by the discipline of Christian theology and personally by active Christian commitment in the church. I cannot get away from it – I am a Christian theologian, one whose intellect and world-view is bounded and informed by long-standing critical engagement with Christian ideas and practices. And I am not just a generic theologian, i.e. one who thinks critically about how people think about God using philosophical, literary, sociological and other tools of the human sciences. I am a practical theologian – one who tries to discern the practical implications of belief and thought for action and vice versa, and to construct action-guiding principles which have regard to ideas, principles and practices generated from within (if not solely from within) communities of religious commitment and belief. To be more specific still, I am a critical practical theologian of care; a person who seeks to analyse and create action-guiding strategies of religiously informed care which will preserve, develop and enrich human well-being within a horizon of faith. Theology may have made me, but it does not keep me. I work in a definitely secular context, writing open learning materials about health and social welfare for people of all faiths and none. In this context, I somewhat coyly describe myself as a wordsmith. But does this do justice to the reality of my past and my basic discipline? Can I take theology with me? Or, in a curious inversion of the story of Moses and the burning bush, must I discard it as I enter the university campus, for where I stand now is secular ground? In personal terms, this is a question of whether my training and past endeavours have any value for me now, whether I have any contribution to make, or whether my activity as a theologian

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has been some kind of mistake. In academic terms, this poses the question: ‘Is theology, and practical theology in particular, of any use to anyone other than theologians and practising Christians?’ Should I and others regard theology as useless or useful? I want to argue in this essay that aspects of Christian theology should be more useful in secular contexts than they might presently be perceived to be. I seek to address two audiences. The first, and main, audience is that of the colleagues I have left behind in theology who often seem firmly trapped in an obscurantist religious ghetto. I hope to challenge them to come out of the closet and share some of their skills and expertise in quarters where they may feel they have little to offer. The second audience is that of my new colleagues, some of whom feel vaguely embarrassed that they have a Christian theologian working with them and prefer to introduce me to people as an ethics or public service management specialist. I am neither: in terms of academic expertise I am a pastoral theologian. I need to explain what theology can offer to non-Christian non-theologians, so that my expertise can become an asset, not a liability or irrelevance, to me and to the organization in which I work. To put it in the helpful jargon of my institution, I have to articulate and demonstrate the competencies, skills and content which are transferable from directly theological activity into other academic pursuits oriented towards education and training aimed at producing human well-being and care.

Obstacles There are considerable obstacles to commending and demonstrating the usefulness and importance of theological insights, methods and skills in the contemporary world in general and in the academy in particular. Theology’s close association with the practice of institutional Christian religion, the source of much of its life and such interest as it possesses, makes it deeply suspect for many. Intellectually, Christianity, in common with other religions, is subject to the classic critiques of suspicion which hold that it is a dysfunctional projection (Freud), an ideological tool of social control (Marx) or an alienation of human potential (Nietzsche). Historically, the record of Christianity shows it as morally ambivalent at best, oppressive, violent and bigoted at worst. In the present, it is more or less socially tolerable as a repository of quaint archaism providing personal support for consenting adults in private (though still prone to unfortunate bouts of injustice and prejudice against groups whom others have come to accept, e.g., women and gays). In its virulent fundamentalist forms, however, it is rejected as nakedly authoritarian, dogmatic, intolerant and regressive. Those who have encountered Christianity in their childhood often regard their escape from it as emancipation. Small wonder, in the light of all this, that the advent of a

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theologian in a secular university department feels like returning to the dark ages of superstition and repression for many self-respecting liberal academics (even those who have personal religious commitments). But theologians do not make it easy for others to appreciate what they have to offer either. Until very recently, if not now, we have bound ourselves closely (even organically) and quite narrowly to the institutions, practices and concerns of established Christian churches. (Many theologians have been clergy and the organization of theology at Oxbridge was heavily clerically dominated until very recently.) The by-products of this have been various and considerable. First, despite protestations from some quarters that we have ‘let the world write the agenda’, we have allowed intra-religious preoccupations and concerns to dominate our thinking (the global crisis and the future of the welfare state, for example, are still low on the list of priorities for consideration in both church and academy). Christian theology is still largely confessional theology, taught mostly by believers to believers, addressing the concerns of believers. Secondly, following the direction set by the earliest theologians of churches (the so-called ‘Fathers’), we have been preoccupied with the cognitive aspects of belief. This means that when people talk of ‘theology’ they are alluding to the cognitive, dogmatic aspects of belief, not to non-cognitive matters such as basic trust, mythology, emotion, or practice. (Hence, in part, the low status of practical, operation- or action-centred theology within the academy.) Thirdly, because we have been concerned with matters of communal identity and legitimation, we have been largely engaged in looking backwards, exploring the tradition and ancient authoritative texts of this religion rather than with studying matters of contemporary general human concern. To crown it all, and as a consequence of all these, we have chosen to explore our concerns in concepts and language which are complex, technical and obscure to non-initiates. The reviews editor for a national paper told me recently: ‘I simply cannot recommend theological books for review because they appear to be written in a private language!’ A caricature of the academic discipline of contemporary theology would see it as cognitively and communally confined, privatized, jargonized, narrow, impractical, anachronistic, nostalgic and ecclesiocentric. And that is even before one takes on the major content difficulties of theology, such as the existence and nature of God, the nature of revelation, etc., all of which are likely to be problematic in the sceptical contemporary academy. The image of David Lodge’s fictional radical atheist Catholic theologian Bernard Walsh writing a book review on process theology which no one is likely to read for Eschatological Review is a telling and ironic icon here:

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It often seemed to Bernard that the discourse of much modern radical theology was just as implausible and unfounded as the orthodoxy it had displaced, but nobody had noticed because nobody read it except those with a professional stake in its continuation. (Lodge 1991, p.29)

There are many factors militating against the acceptance of this kind of academic theology into a wider academic world. If any theologian should doubt this, let him or her enquire of non-theologian colleagues when they last read a serious theological book and the reasons for their not doing so. The age of interdisciplinary enquiry has dawned with a vengeance. But consider the influence of thinkers like Foucault, Derrida or Habermas over many disciplines, compared to the influence of almost any major contemporary theologian you care to name. (Perhaps the last theologian to have a major influence outwith the world of church and theological faculty was the social theologian Reinhold Niebuhr.) Even those who bother to address the secular academy, like David Tracy (1981), have few non-theological readers. Theology is not even in the rearguard of knowledge. Many of its better ideas and methods are derived from other disciplines anyway. The waters appear to grow ever more stagnant in this backwater of academic life. Perhaps, then, at this point I should opt out of the struggle to assert that theology can be useful outside a very narrow context. There are too many walls, too many difficulties. Maybe, like Moses, I should turn my back on Egypt and head for the promised land, taking nothing with me and hoping that soon neither I nor those around me will remember my dubious academic past. But this would be to lose and deny too much. I am a critical practical theologian of care. Are there not things that I can and should profitably take with me into my secular environment for my own good and that of those already there? I think there must be.

Theological offerings The one thing you cannot leave behind when you travel is your self, as many unhappy would-be escapees know to their frustration. Whether I like it or not, my intellectual life and personality have been shaped by theology and engagement with Christianity, and this continues to have an impact on the way I see the world and my interactions with it. To be a theologian is to acquire habits of mind and practice, to become a certain kind of character with certain skills. This may seem a banal and minimalistic assertion, but I think it is important. It is often assumed in theology conceived of as overt consideration of explicit dogma that only when one is using technical theological jargon is one doing theology or contributing a theologically based viewpoint. If theology could come down off its cognitive perch, keep quiet and engage in common discussion using

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non-technical language, there would be more hope that it could contribute seriously to discussions of greater general significance than is the case at the moment. (Who wants to be preached at by a gaggle of verbose ‘vicars’ talking in a private polysyllabic code?) The effective and acceptable theological contribution in the secular environment will often depend on the sort of person one has become and one’s implicit frame of reference, not on a showy pyrotechnical display of jargon (which might in any case be a substitute for thought and serious engagement as well as a cover for considerable insecurity!). Emphasizing the character and intellectual habits of the theologian as a contribution to general discourse is not enough. It must be possible to be more explicit about what transferable skills, competencies and knowledge a theologian can offer. In a moment, I will go on to say more about this. However, two preliminary remarks must be made. First, I very much doubt whether the overt fideistic cognitive content of theological discourse can be of much use in dialogues in the secular academy. The content of belief really has become largely a private matter these days and people will not usually take kindly to overt evangelism. Theological concepts can have some place. Theological questions and methods can have a large place, particularly if they are not tagged as theologically derived. I will demonstrate the utility of this later. Following on from this, I think it must be owned that it is most unlikely that theological distinctiveness lies in a monopoly of particular methods, insights or questions. Academic theology itself is composed of insights and methods from many other sources, e.g., literary criticism, hermeneutics, history, sociology, philosophy, anthropology. The distinctiveness of the theological contribution lies in the particular combination and configuration of these insights within certain definite horizons of concern and discourse. Theologians do not know better (though many behave as though they do). They simply know differently because of their particular training and life experience. It is this difference which needs to be articulated and offered appropriately and sensitively within the secular academy. So, what kind of usefulness might my particular experience and training as a practical theologian of care offer to the overall project of seeking general human health and social welfare, the enterprise which my job now requires me to pur1 sue? One important but not particularly exalted contribution which can be made to the general quest for human health and social welfare is simply to provide information about the religious community, its history, practices, present state and preoccupations. In the understandable flight from religion as superstition, and Christianity as dominant religion, into the modern democratic state where no one should be prized or discriminated against for their colour, creed, sex or social status, it can easily be forgotten that many of our social assumptions and institutions have been formed partly by religious groups and views. Examples can

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be multiplied of social reformers and organizations whose activity was motivated at least in part by religious preoccupations (Shaftesbury, Tawney, Temple, Relate) (Forrester 1985). Having some kind of empathic understanding of how religion has interacted with social institutions may be a very important clue to the nature of these same institutions today. Even more important is to have some understanding of how religion functions in people’s lives today. In a materialist, capitalist liberal economy where religion has become at most an ironic pastime for many members of the educated middle classes, it can be forgotten that for some groups and persons it is still a central shaping force, not an epiphenomenon. This is graphically illustrated by the encounters of Afro-Caribbean people with psychiatrists in this country. What Afro-Caribbeans take to be the expression of appropriate religious sentiments can be taken by psychiatrists as symptomatology – with disastrous effects for their reluctant patients (Littlewood and Lipsedge 1989). Religion round the world is not a spent force – most of the world’s population is still overtly religious (Ambler 1990). Religiously formed and committed people continue to form a substantial and influential social group in this country. They deserve to be understood as much as any other minority group. Understanding how religion functions for people and groups in terms of content, context, practice and world-view is an important part of seeking health and well-being. There is a certain inevitability about religion in human life. For whatever reason (psychological need, social cohesion, etc.), individuals and groups feel the need to construct metaphors, myths, symbols, rituals and communities of practice which have some kind of transcendent reference and give shape and coherence to personal and social life. Arguably, no one escapes being bound up in some kind of religious/theological system if one accepts Geertz’s definition that religion is: (1) a system of symbols which acts to (2) establish powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by (3) formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and (4) clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that (5) the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic. (C. Geertz, ‘Religion as a cultural system’, quoted in Cooter 1984, p.368, n.86)

The challenge for all seeking human well-being is to recognize this religious component of existence and to see how it can be integrated into an overall quest for human flourishing. The practical theologian, as a self-conscious and critical ‘insider’ of a particular religious community of faith, metaphor, etc., has several useful things to contribute in this quest as (a) artist and critic of belief, myth, metaphor and symbol; (b) practitioner of transformational and reflective knowledge; (c) purveyor of distinctively theologically derived methods, concepts and insights.

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(a) Artist and critic of belief, myth, metaphor and symbol Bernard Walsh, David Lodge’s hero in Paradise News, may have despaired because no one was interested in theology except fellow professional theologians. Clearly, his vision of the pervasiveness of theology and religious symbols was too narrow. As he later discovers, paradise as a guiding myth of purposeful pilgrimage is what fuels the tourist industry. If he had wandered into the public sector of the British welfare system he would have found it similarly full of powerful myths, metaphors and symbols [7, 8]. (Arguably, indeed, the last decade in Britain has been composed of a theological revolution – witness Mrs Thatcher’s ‘Sermon on the Mound’. Unfortunately, most theologians missed the theological nature of this revolution and so proved poor critics of it.) Even in such apparently finite and concrete activities as health promotion, ostensibly firmly based on scientific findings about the causes of disease, there is a real sense in which understanding seeks after faith. It is, for example, one thing to know that 35 per cent of cancers are diet-related, but quite another to know who will contract them, where and when. In asking people to change their individual dietary habits one is asking them to put their trust in extrapolations from experts’ interpretations of scientific findings. Upon such acts of faith are individuals’ world-views changed or confirmed, and government policies determined. One of the advantages of a theological training is that one can recognize the symbols, myths and metaphors of a faith system when one sees one, whether it be 2 in medicine or in social policy. In the case of the latter, we are clearly in a situation where the manufacture of action-guiding metaphors is at a high premium. Within the overarching myths and metaphors of the free market economy (itself sustained by the belief of ordinary people) there is a veritable industry manufacturing meanings, visions and symbols which are supposed to motivate people and guide the direction of organizations (Jenkins 1991, ch.8). The language of apocalyptic is rife as people throw out mission statements, doom scenarios and metaphors of chaos and order. The rediscovery of values and meaning lies at the heart of the management revolution which has swept through public service as well as private industry in the last decade or so (Pattison 1991). Peters and Waterman (1982, p.37), for example, wax lyrical as they claim that ‘so much excellence in performance has to do with people’s being motivated by compelling, simple – even beautiful – values’. They suggest that ‘good managers make meanings for people, as well as money’ (p.37), and they argue that ‘Instead of brain games in the sterile ivory tower, it’s shaping values (management’s job becomes more fun) through coaching and evangelism in the field – with the worker and in support of the cherished product’ (p.29). The company or organization should become a community of the faithful finding meaning and productivity together as they colonize an ever-expanding future and wrest from it blessing for themselves and

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their customers. Having developed their key values, the point is then to act, for actions speak louder than words and, of course, they reinforce faith (p.xxv). The faith of the managers can be summarized as ‘I believe, therefore I can do’ (p.74). Unfortunately, most of the charismatic organizational prophets who are so keen to coin and commend snappy organizing metaphors which give order, meaning and direction to life seem largely uncritical of the dangers and limitations of this activity (for example, the metaphor of mission may have unwanted connotations of dualism, ‘us and them’ thinking and legitimate aggression) [6, 7]. Theologians, as self-conscious purveyors, interpreters and users of metaphors and symbols such as these, can be useful here in drawing attention to the disclosive possibilities of words, concepts and faith systems, interrogating them and dialoguing them with others in such a way that they are not uncritically accepted as straightforward descriptions of reality. Perhaps most importantly, theologians who are aware of the reifying, idol-creating possibilities of language in talking about God can continue to remind people of the limits of language and the inexhaustibility of explanation. There is no one discourse or set of metaphors with explanatory power which does not exclude other ways of seeing and describing. Our knowledge of reality, as of God, is partial, fragmentary and ever changing. Marking boundaries to the ‘totalizing’ potential of human discourses is of vital importance in a world where a mixture of pragmatism and ideology can easily be mistaken for the totality of all that is. At their best and most creative, theologians may be able to suggest better, more comprehensive, or more adequate metaphors and symbols for guiding individual and social processes which tend more to the desired good and avoid unfortunate side-effects. In his novel The Gift of Stones (1989), Jim Crace describes the delicate process of making flint blades. First, stones of good potential are selected, then they are heated, then they are deftly struck by a craftsman who, as it were, discloses the blade which was already contained in or implicit in the rock. So with the theologian, there is an element of artistic craft which can hew from the word-face illuminating, multifaceted metaphors which can help to orient and give meaning to life and activity. There is more than a little of the poetic and artistic about religious and theological discourse, which can provide the sort of ‘soft knowledge’ which people appear to need to order their lives and activities. The language of longing and desire is part of describing reality and human motivation adequately. It deserves more explicit attention in most contemporary endeavours worthy of human participation. If we live by metaphors, myths and symbols, and these structure our lives and institutions with their implicit teleologies and ontologies, then the task of analysing the faith systems pervading the world in which we live and the various activities we undertake is a vital and central service, not just an optional extra for

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the theologically marginal and unemployed. The discourse of devices and desires, hopes and fears, which is so familiar to theologians, can have an important critical function beyond the narrow sphere of the specifically religious and theological. If this kind of analysis and engagement can be supplemented by adding in to discussions about human well-being new and more creative metaphors and symbols, then theology can be a very useful partner in helping to educate and attain human flourishing.

(b) Practitioner of transformational and reflective knowledge The mention of ‘soft knowledge’ above brings me on to the role of the theologian in purveying transformational knowledge. Increasingly, we are living in an environment where all activity must be measured and must be clearly describable in terms of actual behaviour (hence the emphasis on skills and competencies which can be observed in many activities). Vague concepts of ‘education’ are giving way to much more limited and concrete ideas of training which is designed to produce particular skills and competencies for specific roles. However, at the very moment when a ratio-technocratic view of life seems about to triumph, the realization that not everything can be reduced to these terms is beginning to emerge. Senior managers in the public sector are starting to show an interest in nebulous topics such as ethics, and want to develop skills of judgement and discernment which are not easily categorizable. Some nurses are revolting against the idea that all their activity can be reduced to itemizable and separable acts – the actual task of nursing, they say, is more than the sum of its separate parts (see further for example Hart 1991). Lying behind this kind of protest is the quest for what can be called ‘transformational knowledge’: Transformational knowledge involves intuition, wisdom, and mystery in contrast to technical control.… Transformational knowledge is a peculiar amalgam, different from the methodological knowledge sought by the humanities in their academic and scholarly pursuits. Members of the transformational disciplines are always faced with the ‘messy’ aspects of human life. 3 (Patton 1990, p.70)

This kind of transformational knowledge emanates in large part from the transitional realm of the symbol, where reason and emotion, conscious and unconscious intersect and interconnect to generate fundamental, if not necessarily verbally articulatable, understandings, hopes, fears and world-views. It is in this dimension that religion operates and from it that it gains its importance and significance if psychoanalytic theorists are to be believed (see further for example Jones 1991, Maloney and Spilka 1991).

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The point about transformational knowledge is not just that it is messy, and in a sense amounts to informal knowledge, personal knowledge and that elusive thing, ‘wisdom’ (the kind of knowledge which is very difficult to evaluate and assess by any kind of examination process). It is also knowledge which arises to a large extent from people’s experience of living. It is knowledge directed towards actually changing or transforming people. American psychologist of religion Paul Pruyser writes ‘It has always been the business of the religio-theological enterprise to transform people, not just to know what people are’ (quoted in Patton 1990, p.69). Clearly, practical theologians are not the only group who have to do with transformational knowledge (Pruyser believes most groups which have to try and make meliorative interventions, e.g., psychiatrists and social workers, have to work with this kind of knowledge). However, theologians have the possible advantage of standing within a long tradition of using and reflecting upon this kind of knowledge in order to help people achieve their potential. They have taken this kind of knowledge very seriously (having not had the benefit of hard, objective, arm’s length scientific knowledge), and this endows them with experience and reflective skills which may help them to meet the demand for training in wisdom and virtue which is now becoming very audible. It could reasonably be argued that philosophers, and particularly ethicists, have as much to contribute here as theologians. While this may be true in theory, in practice modern philosophy has frequently lost touch with the quest for the integration of action and transformational knowledge in the wise person. Philosophers, even so-called ‘applied philosophers’, are confined within a paradigm of rationalistic analysis, detached from action and the wider community within the academy. They are not necessarily practitioners of their own ideas or involved in practical action within communities or outside the academy. Curiously, one of the last repositories of the search for wisdom and following through thought in personal and corporate character and action is the religious community. The experience of trying to do this is now of value in the secularized world.

(c) Purveyor of distinctively theologically-derived methods, concepts and insights I have left until last the more specific aspects of theological content and method which can be contributed to the general quest for human well-being. This is to re-emphasize the point I made earlier, that very overtly religious questions and techniques can only appropriately be introduced into wider secular discussion with great discretion, lest they seem intrusive, evangelistic or obfuscatingly ‘theological’ in the pejorative, mystifying sense of the word. One set of techniques which can find favour with a wide audience is that of critical hermeneutic method. The interpretation of ideas, events and persons

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is another important aspect of the ‘soft knowledge’ of reality, which I have suggested is becoming ever more important in seeking to intervene usefully to nurture human flourishing. The extensive expertise of theologians in trying to discern action-guiding interpretations from texts is also applicable on a much larger stage, and can help to loose people from narrow, monolithic or unduly pragmatic understandings of reality. Some of the basic questions which form the horizons of theological enquiry can form a similarly useful critical framework for practitioners and others attempting to discern directions for action. To help people to stand back and ask questions such as ‘What are our fundamental understandings of life and its purpose?’, ‘To what end do we tend?’, ‘Are we the beginning and end of our own existences?’, ‘To what extent are we responsible for our events which take place in the world?’ and ‘How do we cope with failure and the inability to accomplish our good intentions satisfactorily?’ is a useful function which can be welcomed in situations where utilitarian pragmatism and fragmentation have come to dominate a good deal of discourse. (This last question is a particularly pertinent one in British public service at the moment, where the gospel of high-morale success is preached by managers who lack the resources to implement their visions, and where dissent and criticism are being increasingly viewed as disloyalty.) Interestingly, these large and apparently abstract questions seem to be practically liberating for many people who begin to perceive their thought and action within a much wider context. Finally, there are distinctively theological insights arising from the community of faith, the consideration of which can be of service. So, for example, the concept of mission, so beloved now throughout the secular world, can be greatly illuminated, and its strengths and limitations assayed, by consideration of the Christian community’s experience of mission (a very ambivalent one) [7]. Or the nature of social institutions can be usefully critiqued from the perspective of Christian ideas about spirits and demons [8]. To elaborate a little further on this second example, Walter Wink, a New Testament scholar, suggests from his researches that heavenly powers or spirits always have a material and an immaterial aspect (Wink 1986). Thus, the various churches of the Revelation of St John the Divine have an outward aspect (their embodied members, the place where they meet, etc.), but there is also a ‘spirit’ of the church which manifests its ethos. This consideration of material and nonmaterial reality is enormously illuminating when applied to organizations such as hospitals, as it helps us to grasp and take seriously the ‘feel’ of the place as well as its outward realities (e.g. number of staff, management systems, etc.). Workers within the ‘harder’ social sciences find it difficult to lay hold upon and analyse what is a pervasive and important yet elusive ‘spirit of place’. To do the complexity of reality justice, it is just this spirit which must be taken into account, rather

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than allowing it to be dismissed because it is intangible and cannot be surveyed or measured. Doubtless, this kind of example might serve to justify the worst fears of an emancipated liberal academic who might see it as an attempt to re-sacralize or re-demonize the world. This underlines the need to be sparing in one’s overt use of theological insights and concepts. However, it is important to note how useful and real the ‘soft knowledge’ provided by theological study actually can be in encountering social reality and system.

Conclusion I hope I have now said enough to establish the usefulness of theological training, methods and insights outwith the narrow confines of academic theology as it is presently conceived and studied. With its roots in the symbolic, transformative, reflective ‘soft’ knowledge of the community of faith, theology is in an excellent position to remind people of the extent, significance and nature of historical and contemporary religious belief and practice. It can have an enormously positive role in pointing up and helping people to negotiate the forest of symbols, myths and meanings which permeate all aspects of human life with critical commitment. It can also contribute helpfully to myth analysis and manufacture, as well as to the quest of disclosing the limits and possibilities of the metaphors we live by. Finally, from the content of theology can be derived critical concepts which can question and modify conceptualizations and practices over a wide range of human activity. Whether or not I have succeeded in substantiating my case, it behoves me to make a few final qualifying remarks before I issue a twofold concluding challenge to theologians and non-theologians in the academy. First, I must re-emphasize that this has been a solipsistic and functional account of the usefulness of theology, based on my own experience and activity. Others will have had other experiences and will be able to suggest other ways in which theology can be made more useful. Secondly, it may rightly be argued that many of the tasks which I have suggested for theology and theologians could be contributed by practitioners of other disciplines from which theology has drawn, e.g. literary criticism, linguistic theory, philosophy, psychoanalysis. I would not want to contest this for one moment. I would only say that theology combines many of these methods and insights together in a distinctive way which is directly related to practice and ordinary living. Thirdly, there is a danger that I have exaggerated some aspects of the contribution of theology, while minimizing or completely omitting others. I could not rebut this criticism, except by saying that what I have attempted here is a functional and personal rather than a systematic or comprehensive account.

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Finally, some might accuse me of reinventing the wheel. Theologians like David Jenkins, for example, have long been engaged in trying to pay close attention to human flourishing, and to introducing elements of linguistic analysis and theological critique into the secular sphere of, for example, the National Health Service. That this is so is both irrefutable and welcome. However, there is scope for many people to reflect upon and engage in this kind of activity, from many directions. I have simply recorded my own preliminary reflection on my own involvement, in the hope that it is better for the wheel to be reinvented rather than completely forgotten or discarded. So, then, to my positive challenges to theologians and non-theologians in the academy. To the theologians, I say: Your training, disciplines and methods could certainly contribute more directly and more usefully on a wider stage. However, this will require changes both in the way that theologians regard themselves and their relationships, and in the way that they conduct and communicate themselves. Contrary to most leading theologians (practical and other), I have to assert that theology must be willing to come to regard itself not just as servant of the church and Christian community, a kind of critical feedback mechanism for Christian 4 practice alone, but must see itself as serving wider human concerns and interests. This does not necessarily mean breaking connections with communities of faith (these, after all, are source of part of the knowledge and skill base which theology distinctively offers). It does, however, entail a willingness to engage with broader agendas and concerns in a more serious and direct way. I do not think that this is unreasonable to ask or impossible to perform. The current shape of academic theology owes more to accident and historical precedent than it does to any self-conscious deliberation about what theological and human priorities should be. There is no reason why this should not change. And along with this, there is no reason why theologians should not make more effort to interpret themselves, their insights and methods to a wider audience whose concerns are more directly addressed. It is surely time for theologians to apply hermeneutic principles to their own discourse, in the belief that if something is worth saying it is worth saying it in such a way that non-theologians can appreciate its worth and significance. (A friend of mine who ran a theological college banned the use of the word ‘theology’ and that of theological technical jargon for a term in his college, on the grounds that these were often used ideologically, obfuscatingly, and as a substitute for more widely intelligible communication!) For the sake of theology itself, theology must resist becoming a private language, for private languages inevitably decay, die and are forgotten. To those who regard themselves as non-theologians and who may regard this discipline as systematized and partisan superstition, I would say two things. First, are you quite sure that you do not yourselves have implicit hopes, fears, mythologies, theologies and belief systems in your own disciplines which could benefit

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from self-conscious theological interrogation and insights? Secondly, is it not about time that those disciplines which have emancipated themselves from the historic control and distortions of religion preceding the Enlightenment had the selfconfidence to critically assimilate and learn from the insights and methods which theology has to offer? Modern liberal theology is interrogative, critical and increasingly powerless institutionally; it does not deserve continuing demonization. If theological and non-theological disciplines can find some willingness to listen respectfully to each other and to change a little along the lines which I have tentatively suggested it is possible that, far from being useless, theology could come to be perceived as very useful indeed.

Notes 1. 2.

3. 4.

Paul Lehmann (1976) argues that the purpose of Christianity itself is that of ‘making and keeping human life human in the world’. It is doubtful whether any meaningful human activity can take place without some kind of guiding mythology to inform and integrate it. Campbell notes four main functions for myths. These are (1) the awakening and maintenance in the individual of a sense of awe in the face of ultimate mystery; (2) the rendering of a cosmology which makes the world intelligible; (3) the validation and maintenance of social order; (4) the centring and harmonization of the individual. If he is right, then clearly mythology is omnipervasive. The engagement of theology with all these areas has been and should continue to be significant, thus making it highly relevant. See further Campbell (1976, ch. 9). For more on the concepts of ‘transformational knowledge’ and ‘soft knowledge’ see Schön (1991). See for example Forrester (1990, p.9): ‘Practical Theology is, in my opinion, a churchly discipline’.

References Ambler, R. (1990) Global Theology. London: SCM Press. Campbell, J. (1976) The Masks of God: Creative Mythology. London: Penguin. Cooter, R. (1984) The Cultural Meaning of Popular Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crace, J. (1989) The Gift of Stones. London: Pan Books. Forrester, D.B. (1985) Christianity and the Future of the Welfare State. London: Epworth. Forrester, D.B. (1990) ‘Divinity in Use and Practice.’ In Duncan B. Forrester (ed.) Theology and Practice. London: Epworth. Hart, E. (1991) ‘Ghost in the machine.’ Health Service Journal 101.5281, 20–2. Jenkins, D. (1991) ‘False Gods and False Accounting.’ In David Jenkins and Rebecca Jenkins (eds) Free to Believe. London: BBC. Jones, J.W. (1991) Contemporary Psychoanalysis and Religion. New Haven: Yale University Press. Lehmann, P.L. (1976) Ethics in a Christian Context. New York: Harper and Row.

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Littlewood, R. and Lipsedge, M. (1989) Aliens and Alienists: Ethnic Minorities and Psychiatry. London: Unwin Hyman. Lodge, D. (1991) Paradise News. London: Secker and Warburg. Maloney, H.N. and Spilka, B. (eds) (1991) Religion in Psychodynamic Perspective. New York: Oxford University Press. Pattison, S. (1991) ‘Mystical management: a religious critique of public service management.’ Modern Churchperson 33 (NS), 17–27. Patton, J.R. (1990) From Ministry to Theology. Nashville: Abingdon. Peters, T. and Waterman, R. (1982) In Search of Excellence. London: Harper and Row. Schön, D.A. (1991) The Reflective Practitioner. Aldershot: Avebury. Tracy, David (1981) The Analogical Imagination. London: SCM Press. Wink, W. (1986) Unmasking the Powers. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.

16

Public Theology: A Polemical Epilogue

Unlike Edward Schillebeeckx, I am not a happy theologian. The main reason for my discontent is my perception that my kind of theology, non-fundamentalist theology in the Western, liberal academic tradition, is marginalized from public debate and the public arena generally. Despite much rhetoric and a few admirable attempts to breach the walls of the ghetto to which theology seems to be confined in a secularized society, this discipline is now on the edges of making any kind of positive, appreciated, intelligible contribution to mainstream public issues and practices. Public theology can be variously defined (Bennie 1995). However, if it is to be worthy of the name, I believe it should address issues of general public concern, in a genuinely public arena, in a publicly accessible way, using publicly comprehensible concepts and mechanisms. This with a view to effecting some kind of transformation of public views, policies and actions. Furthermore, it should be recognized as making a useful contribution by the public at large. Presently, most liberal academic theology is a million miles away from this ideal. To a large extent, this is not theology’s fault. Wider social and political factors have moved it onto the margins. However, I believe that theologians themselves continue to assist in the demise of theology as a subject of public significance and relevance. Too much contemporary theology seems to be a kind of whispered conversation on matters esoteric conducted in a foreign language behind closed doors in a distant attic. Even when theologians claim to be addressing or participating in the public domain, as Jürgen Moltmann appears to be trying to do in his book, God for a Secular Society (1999), it turns out that they are largely addressing Christian audiences on a range of concerns and in a vocabulary that would seem intelligible and relevant only to the ‘faithful’, fairly narrowly understood. To be pejorative, it could be said that liberal, critical Christian theology as found in the

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contemporary academy and book lists of publishers has become a kind of cadaver that is of interest only to necrophiles. Its supreme achievement has been to make even the idea of God seem boring. It has no power to transform or inform lives or thinking in a vivifying, hopeful way, much less to contribute credible analysis and principles to public debates and policies. Thus, it is likely that it has no positive, useful future. In this essay I propose to bite the hand that feeds me. I will unleash something of a polemic upon the academic and literary discipline of Western, especially British, theology. My purpose is to engender debate and reformation. Theology should have a significant, though not supreme, contribution to make to the world in general. If, however, it does not drastically change its modus operandi and self-conception, I fear that it will continue to decline and eventually die, except as a narrowly confessional discipline that relates to the faithful alone. The essay falls into several parts. First, I survey some of the internal and external factors that have led to theology’s irrelevance to the public realm. Next, some responses to this from within the theological domain will be figured. In the third part of the article I make some suggestions for change and reformation. Since this is a polemic, I shall be at all times selective and partial in my analysis and solutions. I will generalize grossly and reference sparingly.

1. What prevents theology making a lively, vibrant and relevant contribution in the public sphere of academy and society? A number of diverse factors conspire to marginalize theology and to make it suspect and irrelevant in contemporary Western society and academy. The first of these is the ecclesiastical confinement of theology. Two hundred years after the Enlightenment, theology is often still perceived as an ideological activity that serves the interests and needs of the churches, their hierarchy and clerisy. Theology is thought by many to be the handmaiden of ecclesiastical authority. Of course, there are many theologians who have little problem with this; they see their activity as ecclesially related and determined. The price of being credible to ecclesiastical ‘stake holders’ in the discipline is that the fortunes of theology rise and fall with those of the church. If the institutional churches are then discovered institutionally to discriminate against women, to have shaky views on equal rights in employment, to be illiberal in their attitudes to homosexuality, or to be basically indifferent to abuses such as those inflicted by ministers on children, the academic and public credibility of theology is adversely affected. It is suspected of being retrogressive and parti pris; it is not seen as open, participative rational enquiry that carries independent moral authority.

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If theology is still in many ways ecclesiastically confined and affected, it is also academically confined. Contemporary theology is made up of several different disciplines such as languages, philosophy, sociology and history, all of which have wider applications than within the study of religion. However, theologians mostly seem happiest when they are in departments or faculties which have a definite ‘theology’ or ‘religious studies’ label affixed to them. Here, they easily become cut off from wider interdisciplinary questions, concerns and debates, especially because of the general pall of suspicion that shrouds religious (i.e. ‘ideological’ or ‘superstitious’) commitment within the rationalistic academic. Theologians then exist effectively in a ‘monotechnic’ environment in which they do not have to justify themselves to others. At the same time, their own issues and concerns are not brought to the attention of colleagues in different academic disciplines. Theologians insist on engaging in their activity apart from others. They then affect surprise that others in the academy are not interested in them. Theology is intellectually, as well as academically, confined. In general, theology is an uninnovative discipline that is conservative in its assumptions, structures, methods and findings. It is tradition bound and backward looking. It functions within an arbitrary pattern of disciplinary organization that is mostly unquestioned. Most theological disciplines give overwhelming attention to the past and the texts of yesteryear rather than having regard to the texts or challenges of the present. Thus contemporary feminism has not had the enlivening impact upon theology that it has had on other disciplines. Insofar as theology develops at all intellectually, it is usually due to the belated adoption of insights and methods of non-theological disciplines such as sociology and literary theory. ‘New’ ideas and methods often become widespread and accepted in theology just as they are going out of fashion elsewhere in the intellectual world. Seldom does an insight or methodological innovation flow outwards from theology into other disciplines. Theologians are not perceived to have anything very significant to contribute to intellectual life as a whole. Part of the rationale for academically based theology is that religious practices and beliefs should be subjected to rational scrutiny. Here there is a fine set of ironies. In the first place, religious conviction and practice is not ultimately a rational matter. Secondly, it is arguable that it is the symbolic, mythic and arational aspects of religion that are of most interest to non-theologians – and these elements are mostly ignored by theologians themselves in a quest for intellectual respectability. Finally, while theologians are engaged in trying to establish their reasonableness and academic credibility, they are not perceived to be engaged in a rational activity outwith the discipline, as occasional articles and debates in the Times Higher Education Supplement regularly show. Thus theologians cut themselves off from the enlivening, interesting aspects of religion while still being perceived as irrational, and therefore suspect (perhaps self-deceived?), by

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non-theologians. In this sense, although it adopts rather rationalistic criteria and methods, theology is not thought to be good ‘science’. But if theology is not good science, it is not good ‘art’ either. Somehow, a literary and textually based activity founded upon a tradition of the creative Word, the Word incarnate that radically renews and transforms creation and humanity, fails to engage with the imagination and passions. Theology seems to have become poor at expressing itself in an enlivening, interesting, imaginative way that makes both believers and non-believers reassess their judgments and positions. The Word made flesh is made word again in contemporary theology – and this word is not even well expressed for the most part. It fails to cut common reality at its joints and does not reveal new practical and intellectual possibilities. If theology has nothing especially interesting to say on most issues, it does not say it particularly well either. Most theology books and papers are quite simply dull. They deserve the neglect that is so often their fate among the general reading public. Ironically, amongst the least intelligible books written by theologians are those that claim to contribute to public issues and debates in a publicly defensible way (Tracy 1981). Perhaps we should be grateful that most theologians have the courtesy to warn people not to read their books by publishing within the ghetto of religious publishing and ensuring that their books are clearly labelled as ‘theological’. This ensures their widespread dismissal and neglect even before people have opened their pages. Curiously, colleagues in non-theological disciplines seem to feel no compulsion to designate their works as being ‘sociological’ or ‘philosophical’ when considering particular topics. At one time, theology was ‘top’ academic discipline, the pinnacle of study and achievement in a world dominated by institutionalized Christianity. The ‘Queen of the Sciences’ is now often the Cinderella of a few arts faculties. However, the unmourned memory of past supremacy, together with an overidentification with the subject matter of theology, the omnipotent patriarchal God, has left this discipline with some unfortunate attitudes. Theology often seems to conceive of itself as the ultimate discipline with a ‘comprehensive, all-encompassing and unsurpassable overview of the whole field of human knowledge and behaviour’ (Pattison 1998, 11). This means that it is often unwilling to recognize and learn from other disciplines. Theology is poor at listening to voices from outside its own limits. Furthermore, it is inclined to have a view on everything and to pronounce before it properly analyses and understands. Theology generally seems to prefer to speak rather than to listen. Ever since God spoke and created the world, theologians seem to have adopted the idea that communication is one-way – they should speak and others should listen. This ensures contempt and irrelevance in the outside world. Theologians often seem to want to have the first word, the last word, and every word in between on the assumption that overt God language is the most

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important kind in every situation of discourse. This otiose arrogance is unattractive and offputting. It perpetuates self-serving ignorance in theology. Small wonder, then, that the experts in other fields feel dismissed by theology, nor that the utterances of theologians on matters of public import often seem poorly based, ignorant or superficial, for example on sexuality, ecology, non-Christian faiths. Theology still has the capacity to shock sometimes. But frequently this is only because people outside the theological arena are amazed at the attitudes, anachronisms and ignorance of theologians: do people really say those things anymore? Unfortunately, one of the effects of the marginalization of theology may be to enhance its own defensive sense of grandiosity and ultimacy. It is a hard lesson to learn that, in the modern world, on many issues, theology has ‘nothing special to say’ (Pattison 1998, 9). It is now just one discipline among others, many of which are far better informed than theology itself. Unless theology can mourn the past and grasp the reality of its present ‘diminished’ state, there is little hope that it will open to becoming a more creative, dialogical and truly public discipline. The modern or postmodern world can be characterized as pluralistic, fragmented and unstable. There is much in the ‘soul’ of theology that makes it unable to deal with this situation. Theology is anachronistic by nature, prizing the past over the present. This means that scant attention is paid to present concerns. ‘Pattison’s law’ states that ‘The more concern an issue or topic is to ordinary contemporary people, the less likely it is that theologians will engage with or write about it – unless it is to moralize about it’. The methods of theology tend to be scholarly and difficult to acquire. There is an emphasis upon relatively permanent written texts rather than upon ephemeral utterance. Furthermore, there is a structural elitism built into the subject that excludes the interests, methods and concerns of non-theologians. Above all, perhaps, theology has aspired to unified systematic organization of knowledge – a place for everything and everything in its place. This militates against taking seriously the fragmentary, transient interests and concerns that characterize most contemporary people’s lives and experience. The cumulative consequence of these features is that contemporary academic theology fails to recognize and nurture the theologizing done outwith the academy and by a variety of methods. This cuts theology off from a vital source of stimulus while reducing its relevance to everyday public life. Sometimes grassroots theologies based on contemporary interests and concerns such as liberation theology do become large and literary enough to be taken seriously by theologians. Their response is to domesticate them to traditional theological criteria and methods. Living movements thus become dead exhibits in the theological mausoleum. It is not surprising that many people therefore find that theology is ‘above’

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them and fails to address or explain their experience. While theologians seek to find a master narrative or system that encompasses the whole of life, modern individuals insist upon the importance of telling their own stories to make sense of experience (Frank 1995). ‘Official’ theology reserves the right to impose its own orthodox song upon all. However, ordinary believers as ‘anonymous theologians’ are increasingly composing and performing their own faith narratives without reference to scholarly theological norms. Perhaps at the root of the malaise that challenges the public relevance and credibility of theology is the fact that this discipline does not really know for whose benefit it exists or what it is there to do. Theology is mainly of interest to believers. However, in Britain much of it is undertaken within non-ecclesiastical public institutions. These are largely indifferent to its existence, findings or fate. Thus contemporary theological endeavour is conducted in a kind of floating world where there is little real accountability or concern. Nobody in the world of higher education seems much bothered about what theologians write or think unless it is in some way sensational or silly. This means that theologians mostly write for a small, hypothetical audience of other scholars and theologians. Unfortunately, due to rationalizing managerial pressures such as the Research Assessment Exercise, most of us do not have time to read what others write as we are too busy demonstrating our own ‘productivity’. The net result is the proliferation of highly academicized theological writing that is of little significance or use to anyone, least of all to the governmental paymaster who insists upon its production. The casualties of battery scholarship of this kind are creativity, fruitfulness, dialogue and communal wisdom. In this context, theology as an activity becomes implicitly ironic – or perhaps objectively cynical. Meanwhile, almost no effort is expended upon thinking about what kind of theological production might be of use to what sorts of people and for what purpose. The notion that theological endeavour should perhaps have something to contribute to the increase of human flourishing, compassion, creativity or justice is almost never raised in the McDonaldized academy except in the most recherché terms. (And, needless to say, individualistic, scholarly academic theology has almost no critical socio-political analysis of its own context within the managed university in late capitalist society.) I sometimes think that it is getting to the point where useful, creative, truly critical religiously informed thinking takes place only outside the legion of career theologians (cf., e.g., Alves 1990; West 1995). There it is possible for people to eschew conformity and to seek after truths and insights that are transformative, humane and practical, that is evangelical! A number of factors have now been cited as obstacles to academic-type theology having public relevance or concerns. Obviously, the critique I have offered here has been one-sided and generalized. There are, for example, theologians who do try to address public issues in a publicly accessible way (Forrester 1997).

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However, I fear these are exceptions that prove my pessimistic general rule. This rule, that contemporary academic theology has little of use and accessibility to add to public debate, can easily be tested. Ask yourself when you last read a book written by a ‘serious’ theologian that you yourself enjoyed and found enlightening on an issue of contemporary public concern and that you would be confident to recommend as essential reading to a non-Christian friend interested in that concern. The number of works that I can think of in this category is miniscule. This suggests that Christian academically based theology is terminally introverted in terms of its structure, assumptions, methods, concerns, findings and methods of communication. This gloomy judgment is not entirely solipsistic. David Ford, one of the more communicative, extrovert, optimistic contemporary systematic theologians in Britain today, notes that Religious and theological concerns are essential to many debates about politics, law, economics, the media, education, medicine, and family life. But where is high-quality theological attention being paid to such matters? … This is probably the greatest lack in the world theological scene at present. (Ford 1999, 21)

As theology enters its dotage it appears to mutter to itself in an incomprehensible fashion. This is a sad fate for what was once an important and, indeed, quite a public discipline, populated by the likes of Paul Tillich and the Niebuhr brothers. Their writings were read by believers and non-believers alike (Forrester 1997).

2. Responses to marginalization Theologians have not been entirely indifferent to the contemporary marginalization of their discipline. A number of different responses to it can be observed. I have engaged in a variety of them myself from time to time. One reaction to marginalization is simply to be assertive and to shout louder about the usefulness and value of theology. The assumption here is that if only ‘they’ (the non-theologians) understood how valuable and interesting theology is, they would want to know more about it and see its significance for many issues. This strategy is only really successful in relation to those who are convinced of the importance of theology already, usually theologians. However, it does help to maintain morale and self-respect. A more subtle approach is gently to educate people about the value of theology, interpreting its more abstruse methods and concepts in ways that a wider public can understand. This kind of hermeneutic strategy is a classic liberal response. The underlying belief here is that theology does not have to change itself much fundamentally. People of good will and reason will eventually

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recognize and accept the reasonableness of theology. Unfortunately, this puts a heavy burden upon the cognitive aspects of communication. Furthermore this hope can often be vitiated by an indifferent, inattentive audience and by more vigorous, self-assertive strategies on the part of other theologians. The mild-mannered liberal approach can be contrasted with a much more definite traditional or conservative approach. This has been prominent in British theology over the last couple of decades as neo-orthodox theology has supplanted the liberalism of the 1960s within the academic sphere. Here, under the aegis of Karl Barth, the emphasis lies upon the foreignness and differentness of religious revelation from other kinds of knowledge and experience. The implicit strategy underlying neo-orthodox, traditional approaches to theology is that ‘outsiders’ have to change their ways of thinking to appreciate the illuminative power of theology. It is not so much a question of modernizing theological methods or explanations as of holding fast to traditional religious norms and explicating their lasting veracity and relevance in the modern, changing world. Eventually, their revelatory truthfulness and insight will commend themselves. This approach, popular in much systematic theology, seems now largely to have failed to establish the universal importance of theology, despite its distinguished protagonists. A much less systematic, de facto response to marginalization is to become abstruse and obscure, embracing the postmodern thought world of Derrida, Foucault et al. in all its theoretical opacity. This strategy may at least convince others in the academy that theology has some contemporary intellectual relevance and currency. However, it does little to help academic outsiders to understand themselves or religion any better unless they are prepared to undertake an intensive process of re-education. Most people are not game for this, though practitioners of postmodern theology seem to enjoy their activity very much and have welcome space for flexibility and imagination that is often much more attractive than other theological approaches. It is unlikely that this can be a means of gaining mass interest in theological insights and thought. Nor has postmodern influenced theology got much to offer specifically upon public issues of common concern. An interesting, emergent response to marginalization is to refuse to accept that theology is marginalized and to assert instead that secularism is but a brief heretical moment within the religious history of the world (Milbank 1990). This is the strategy of the Radical Orthodoxy movement, which combines traditional doctrine, Platonism and ecclesial confessional loyalty in an attempt to reassert the significance of theology (Milbank et al. 1999). Unfortunately, it seems to me that Radical Orthodox theologians still conspire in the self-marginalization of theology. For one thing, they think that there is only one significant kind of theology and belief, that is orthodox theology and belief. This ignores the heterodox

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elements that have characterized Christianity from its beginnings. For another, they seem unconcerned to include the views and concerns of people who differ from themselves – in this sense they are indeed radically orthodox. Then again, they seem to require faith of a particular kind as a prologue to theology. This seems to jeopardize rational enquiry in the academy. Furthermore, there seems to be little attempt to relate this version of theology to contemporary human needs, so that it is not in fact evangelical. What we have here, then, is a species of theology which is humanly irrelevant, religiously uninteresting and rationally indefensible as a publicly supported enterprise within the academy. Theology has often been set up as a laughing stock in public – the last refuge of pre-Enlightenment, closed-minded dottiness. However, radical orthodox thinking seems merely tedious, a theology of postmodern elitist ironic ennui. At another point of the compass of response from Radical Orthodoxy lies that of the empiricists. Their strategy consists in trying to turn theology as far as possible into a kind of social science in which one concentrates upon assessing religious behaviours, the effect of beliefs etc. ‘Empirical theology’ has the attraction that it makes theology look like a ‘hard’ discipline that has public relevance. It can also attract funding of various kinds, which is an advantage in the contemporary academy. However, the problem with this kind of approach is that elements like textual studies and the study of meanings and theological ideas become secondary. Theology may then become a second rate kind of sociology or psychology while the inhabited religious tradition is not taken seriously. Perhaps the most common response to the marginalization of theology is, however, unthinking fatalism, quietism and indifference. Many theologians are happy to plough the furrow they have always ploughed with scant regard to the relevance and implications of their work outside a very narrow academic sphere. Insofar as they think about the future of theology as a discipline at all, they are fatalistic, waiting for the axe to fall rather than trying to think of ways to make their work more publicly relevant. Moltmann seems to suggest that some theologians, perceiving their own marginality to the public sphere, have fallen into depression, lachrymosity and ‘the snare of self-pity’ (Moltmann 1999, p.2). While I am not clear that I have met theologians who weep at the public state of their discipline and their relevance to public issues, I think it is true to say that theology is in a somewhat depressed state of retreat. It is confused and perplexed about its purpose and its failure, and aware of its vulnerability to the pragmatic utilitarian managerialism that is now the undergirding faith system of the academy (Pattison 1997). None of the responses that I have outlined above has been particularly successful at reviving theology or demonstrating its significance within the public sphere. All of them have the taint of beleaguered reaction to secularism. Some of them are effectively escapist fantasies of idealism or nostalgia.

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In thinking about the responses of modern British theology in the academic tradition to public marginalization and irrelevance, I am reminded of the bell in my local parish church. It is made of steel and it is cracked. Thus it makes noise and attracts attention to itself in public, but it is actually rather an unpleasant sound which does little for anyone who has to listen to it. It is not beautiful, or interesting, just annoying in its insistence. It does not intrigue people. Nor does it draw them into a different way of living, thinking and acting in the world. In these circumstances what is needed is perhaps a different, more positive and more proactive vision of theology. Theologians of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your irrelevance and your cobwebs.

3. Can these dry bones live? A vision for publicly relevant theology My suggestion is that, instead of reacting to marginalization by either sulking in its tent or creating an enemy to smite, theology should aim to be useful, interesting and imaginative for a change (Pattison with Woodward 1994). Interesting performance and positive lure are much more likely to be of interest to non-theologians than defensive posturing. Arguably, this mode of proceeding is more consonant with a vision of God who attracts and intrigues rather than coercing or conquering. Instead of cultivating lapidary rationality whereby ideas, symbols and metaphors are constantly handled and polished till they have no sharp edges or facets left, theology needs to become imaginatively irritating and adhesive. This means leaving edges unsmoothed and ends untied as people step out towards horizons of human and religious possibility. In this connection, I believe publicly interesting and credible theology should self-consciously aim to develop the following features, among others. In the first place, theology should be transformative and mutative, both for its practitioners and for those with whom they work. That is to say that theological activity should actually make a real difference to the lives and thinking of peoples of all kinds. Secondly, one of the vital signs of a truly public theology should be its ability to create and analyse the myths, symbols, metaphors and narratives that constitute the action-influencing world views that people inhabit [8, 15]. Part of this work would be analytic. It would expose these elements, their meanings and implications whether within the overtly religious community or outside, for example, in health care or management. However, part would be creative, trying to fund transformative, mutative understandings and meanings, some of which might be drawn and interpreted from the Christian tradition, for the public imaginations of individuals and groups (Brueggemann 1993; Cox and Theilgaard 1997). The quest to create new symbolics and imaginaries (Jantzen 1998) might

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enable people to understand their inhabited faith systems better. It could also help to change them from within a stance of participative commitment rather than detachment. Theology that aspires to be public in the contemporary world should also be evangelical (and at least not anti-evangelical). By this I mean that it should aim directly to contribute to human wellbeing and flourishing, to increase and enhance life rather than remaining on the scholastic sidelines (Jantzen 1998). Any theology that stands in the Christian tradition cannot be neutral about life itself and contemporary theology needs to ‘choose life’ in a broader, more determined and more clearly visible way than it has done in the recent past. A fourth aspect of publicly orientated theology might be a concerted focus upon nurturing and analyzing interesting, illuminative contemporary religious performances that have taken place either in word or in deed. Much of the ‘dryness’ and deadliness of academic theology emanates from a preoccupation with authoritative written texts that were selected in the past for their interest and significance for particular groups. Subsequently, concerns may have moved on. Thus there is a need to be prepared to tackle new and different kinds of religious performance that may engage the public imagination. A key feature of any kind of publicly useful and accessible theology is that it should be playful, imaginative and porous, a zone of experimentation and innovation, rather than a closed domain of orthodoxy and conformity. For too long, theologians have seen themselves as custodians and interpreters of doctrinal ‘truth’ rather than as facilitators of imaginative theological gymnastics. Creating imaginative horizons in which men and women can play with the possibilities of ‘becoming divine’ (Jantzen 1998) while learning from the performances of others in the past might be a truly liberative service. Human beings cannot live without action-influencing world views and faith systems, but they need to have the possibility of testing their boundaries, validity and potential to nurture flourishing. In this context theological activity could become more creative, more fun and more publicly significant. To attain this, theologians need to come to see themselves more as coaches enabling positive performance than as prison warders keeping chaos at bay. Individuals and group all inhabit faith systems, religious and other. They often appreciate analysis and help with understanding and managing these faith systems, but seldom receive this from the critical inhabitants of faith systems called theologians. Theology has the potential to perform important analytic anti-idolatrous functions together with imaginative healing and creative work in the public domain (Bondi 1995, p.11). It can help people to understand how images, symbols and metaphors of faith impact upon lives and organizations and contribute to the creation of imaginative, action-influencing futures. None of this necessarily requires the relinquishing of traditional theological skills of inter-

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pretation, textual analysis, historical understanding and doctrinal knowledge. However, a fundamental re-orientation towards trying to be imaginatively useful in the public domain with these skills is necessary. It may also be desirable to supplement traditional skills of understanding and interpretation with new ones. Theologians must learn to commend themselves as useful in the public domain. Once this fundamental conversation has taken place, a number of practical steps might be taken to ensure that theology remains extroverted and public rather than languishing in introverted unintelligibility and gloom.

4. Some suggestions for transcending irrelevance and marginalization I will now outline a number of suggestions that might help to ensure that theology becomes more publicly focused, useful, credible and accessible. These are given in no particular order of importance. They are by no means comprehensive and they are intended to be controversial. Furthermore, they can only be briefly expressed and explained. 1. Mourn the ‘great’ past of theology and then leave it behind to grasp new possibilities and challenges. The past, with the methods and assumptions it has bequeathed to theology, often hangs like a millstone round its neck. It can no longer pretend to ultimacy or depend upon the dominance of the grand, unified narrative. If, however, it shows proper humility and egalitarianism, it may be able to contribute MacIntyrean ‘theological fragments’ of insight and wisdom to public discussions (Forrester 1997, pp.195–6). These may provide illumination, challenge conventional wisdom, and help to engender individual and social flourishing. Successful mourning allows the welcoming of the new and prevents constricting and unconstructive preoccupation with the past (Freud 1985). 2. Abolish free-standing, independent theology and religious studies departments. This will force those who are trained and interested in religious ideas, traditions and insights to work at them in the interdisciplinary market place of ideas. Hopefully this will be conducive to greater intelligibility and relevance. In the Forum for Religion and Theology’s call for members (1998) that diagnoses many of the same problems with theology that I have noted here, it is suggested that the solution to the public irrelevance of this discipline is for theologians to come together in an association like the American Academy of Religion. I disagree with this method of proceeding, though I appreciate the motives of those concerned and

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the need for identity and common concern. What is actually needed is for theologians and religious studies specialists to stop talking to themselves and each other and to get out to make common cause with those in the wider academy and the public world. 3. Make all theological activity issue based. If all theological investigations proceed from issues of expressed public concern this will ensure that theology contributes directly to a relevant agenda that is not determined by theology itself. Theological insights and analyses will then have to be expressed in publicly intelligible ways. Theology needs to escape from its own self-imposed fences and boundaries including using a private language. It needs to embrace all manner of phenomena and events using all manner of disciplines. Focusing upon issues will also prevent a theological descent into methodology as an end in itself. Theology, like philosophy, is likely to be at its best and most creative when it does not set its own agenda, however daunting and unwelcome that prospect may seem. 4. Wherever possible, avoid the use of the self-ghettoizing term ‘theology’. Theology is a vague and pluralistic term anyway. Often it adds nothing to debate and its use may be ideologically obfuscating. The designation of discourse as theological allows people prematurely to ignore insights that they might otherwise find useful. ‘Theology’ has too much ideological and historical baggage attached to it. Those theologians who want their ideas to be taken seriously in the public arena should eschew pigeonholing themselves by using it. It is time that this term was retired from common usage. It might be helpful for theologians to redefine themselves as public critical thinkers who happen to address issues of common concern from the perspective of being critical inhabitants of a particular faith tradition or world view. 5. Determine the use and purpose of theology. Deciding who theology is for, who it should serve and what it should accomplish for its practitioners and ‘stake holders’ is an important corrective to the present state of indeterminate drift and lack of effective intellectual and practical accountability. I have already suggested that the ultimate goal of theology should be to make a meaningful contribution to the theory and practice of nurturing human flourishing. However, within this broad objective, there is plenty of scope for determining the role of theology more contextually and specifically in practical, public ways.

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6. Recognize and prize the theology that is done by many different people, unpaid, in different places and diverse ways even though they may not see themselves as theologians, and learn from them. This might lead to possibilities of a more pluralistic, energetic, truthful and relevant set of methods and discourses for engaging with contemporary concerns. 7. Regard the theological tradition as an imaginative resource or spring board rather than as a strong room or set of manacles. Set theologians free to be coaches for significant performances in theory or practice rather than being hostile critics, uninvolved bystanders or aggressive guardians of monolithic doctrinal ‘truths’. 8. Work on making theology a more truly imaginative and innovative activity that is universally accessible. For example, it may be possible to create new religious stories that are not the old stories in new words but are actually new stories that have some indebtedness to the old. This will ensure imagination and inventiveness as well as continuity. Means of conveying these stories should not just be books or analytic narratives. Media such as film, art and poetry need to be considered as appropriate ways of conveying theological insights and analytic perceptions. A useful and pertinent public theology would be one that funded the public imagination with images, metaphors and symbols that ‘cut the world at its joints’ (Gunton 1988, p.31). This is not to reassert theological dominance, nor to suggest soundbite theology shaped by media imperatives. It is to say that if an idea or concept is interesting we should work harder at making it intelligible and illuminating. In mediaeval times, the seven deadly sins were written about, but they were also depicted on the walls of churches, personified in plays and so on (Schimmel 1997). Thus an important set of religious ideas was well understood by the masses through a variety of media. What theologians currently tend to offer people is another thick book written in private language. 9. Ensure the interest and intelligibility of religious ideas and insights. One way of ensuring that theology is truly public, accessible and intelligible would be to make a main vehicle for theological publication 500–1000 word articles in the national press. This would assure authors of a much wider audience for important concepts and ideas. It would also represent some kinds of real public accountability for intellectual endeavour and prevent professional introversion. J.L. Austin warns, ‘it is not enough to show how clever we are by

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showing how obscure everything is’ (Phillips 1993, p.xi). While the religious publishing arena might continue to be a good place to engage in extended analysis, this should not be an excuse for confining good theology to publications that are little read by the general public. 10.

Study and learn from the kinds of religious performances and discourses that have been public and have struck a chord in the public imagination. There have been successful public theological performances that have made a difference to the ways people perceive issues and reality within the recent past. For example, Bishop David Jenkins had a knack of identifying issues of public concern and coining transformation metaphors that changed perceptions in some of his speeches and sermons. The Church of England report, Faith in the City, was another highly respected and influential document that impacted on public consciousness. These performances deserve to be better understood so that would-be public theologies improve and gain entry to wider worlds of discourse.

11.

Theology must be practised by stealth, and with humility. With theology’s past track record, there is not much room for arrogant self-assertion in the public arena. Non-theologians may welcome the interest of theology and theologians as conversation partners if they are prepared to learn, to listen and to wait instead of pronouncing. A certain amount of interpretative ingenuity and stealth is needed in terms of analysis and expression if people’s anxieties about the ideological and obscurantist nature of theological activity are to be allayed. Theology must constantly commend itself as useful to the concerns and agendas of others rather than assuming its ‘right’ to be involved and to determine the subject, terms and vocabulary of discussion and debate.

12.

Theology should be practised with passion and commitment. The stance of detached scholarly distance is unlikely to commend this activity in the public domain, even to religious believers. People need to feel that theologians care about their issues and concerns and are prepared to get involved both academically and practically. Theology was born out of issues of life and death and has often overtly engaged human passions. Luther, for example, wrote, ‘A theologian is born by living, nay dying and being damned, not by thinking, reading or speculating’ (Erikson 1962, p.251). It is time to recapture and better express this kind of commitment if theology, like other

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disciplines (Game and Metcalfe 1996), is to attain recognition in the public domain and credibility as a life- and intellect-enhancing area of concern.

5. Conclusion: RIP? Barth, Tillich, Niebuhr et al. were theologians with a public platform accorded to them by the traditional significance of Christianity. As their memory fades there are no new professional theological prophets of stature in the Western world to succeed them. The slow demise of liberal theology within the public domain seems guaranteed. It would be easy simply to preserve a respectful silence as it moves towards death. I hope, however, that liberal, academically based theology will not accept this destiny for itself, that it will rage against the dying of the light. And not only rage, but also work, adapt and become ingenious to ensure its continued relevance. For it seems to me that there is much essential work for theology to do (Pattison 1995) [15]. If theology accepts its marginalization from the public realm, the way is left wide open for uncritical faith systems to hold sway without effective corrective critique. So, for example, the religious Right can commend a kind of authoritarian blinkeredness that is then unchallenged in the political domain. Within institutions, the surrogate religion of managerialism remains largely unanalysed although the world view it offers in its theories and practices fundamentally shapes characters and communities (Pattison 1997). Throughout society, people inhabit action-influencing world views and belief systems, some of which owe much to Christianity and not all of which are life-enhancing. These need the analysis and creative insight that theologians as critical, committed inhabitants of an ancient tradition might on occasion be able to provide. Potentially, theologians have an important continuing role to play in the world where living religion plays a significant if often unacknowledged role throughout life. If theology is to choose life, as I hope it might, it will need to change its focus of concern, approach, self-conception and modes of practice and conception radically. A kind of kenosis is required, whereby theology becomes less grandiose in its claims and ambitions and less bothered about its own identity and importance. Like the founder of Christianity, it may need to lose its life to gain it. It must be prepared to disappear into the world to merge with crowds of discourses and people who may occasionally be helped by the wisdom and insight of some of its contributions. The fate of critical and creative religious wisdom and insights does not depend on the efforts of professional theologians. But it would be wonderful if we could contribute something just a little bit more positive and useful in nature

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in the public domain, rather than simply bewailing the retreating tide of a certain kind of faith and influence in the world.

Bibliography Alves, R. (1990) The Poet, The Warrior, The Prophet. London: SCM Press. Bennie, R. (1995) The Paradoxical Version: A Public Theology for the Twenty-First Century. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Bondi, R. (1995) Memories of God. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Brueggeman, W. (1993) The Bible and Postmodem Imagination. London: SCM Press. Cox, Murrey and Theilgaard, A. (1997) Mutative Metaphors in Psychotherapy. London: Jessica Kingsley. Erikson, E. (1962) Young Man Luther. New York: W.W. Norton. Ford, D. (1999) Theology: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Forrester, D. (1997) Christian Justice and Public Policy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Forum for Religion and Theology (1998) ‘A New Theological Vision: A Call to Join the Forum for Religion and Theology.’ Reviews in Religion and Theology 2, 11–13. Frank, A. (1995) The Wounded Storyteller. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Freud, S. (1985) ‘On Transience.’ In D. Albert (ed.) Art and Literature. London: Penguin Books. Game, A. and Metcalfe, A. (1996) Passionate Sociology. London: Sage. Gunton, C. (1988) The Actuality of Atonement. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Jantzen, G. (1998) Becoming Divine. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Milbank, J. (1990) Theology and Social Theory. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Milbank, J., Pickstock, C. and Ward, G. (eds) (1999) Radical Orthodoxy. London: Routledge. Moltmann, J. (1999) God for a Secular Society: The Public Relevance of Theology. London: SCM Press. Pattison, G. (1998) The End of Theology – And the Task of Thinking about God. London: SCM Press. Pattison, S. with Woodward, J. (1994) A Vision of Pastoral Theology: In Search of Words That Resurrect the Dead. Edinburgh: Contact Pastoral. Pattison, S. (1995) ‘Can We Speak of God in the Secular Academy?’ In: F. Young (ed.) Dare We Speak of God in Public? London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers. London: Cassell. Phillips, A. (1993) On Kissing, Tickling, and Being Bored. London: Faber and Faber. Schimmel, S. (1997) The Seven Deadly Sins. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tracy, D. (1981) The Analogical Imagination. London: SCM Press. West, A. (1995) Deadly Innocence: Feminism and the Mythology of Sin. London: Mowbray.

17

The Shadow Side of Jesus

1

Jesus preached the Kingdom of God but got the Church. This quotation, drawn from an exam paper that I saw some years ago, implicitly encapsulates a tendency which I wish to question in this paper. This is the tendency, going back beyond Tolstoy, to draw a definite and very wide distinction between the life, teaching and theology of the man Jesus and the subsequent life, teaching and theology of 2 the church which came after him and claims to derive its inspiration from him. Awareness of the supposed ‘sins’ and ‘corruption’ of the church and the christian tradition historically, as well as of various types of historical critical methods, has led to the attempt to distinguish the human Jesus from the community called church. In one way, the effort to save what we know of the historical Jesus from being tarred with the ecclesiastical brush can be seen as an important humanistic endeavour – recovering Jesus as a hero of the human race who belongs to and can inspire all people. However, this quest in itself perhaps lends itself to possible ideological distortion of perceptions of Jesus. I want to suggest that, paradoxically, recent scholarship such as that of Vermes and Sanders, in trying to humanify and contextualise Jesus as a Jew of his time and to distinguish him from the church, runs the risk of being inadvertently used to idealise him as a human being. In so doing, Jesus is exonerated from his responsibility for the possibly less 3 than good things which have been done in his name by the church. To counter these tendencies, I want to argue, firstly, that whatever Jesus’ putative status as God–man, inspired wandering prophet, charismatic leader, moral exemplar, mystic or Jewish peasant, his life and teaching had a down, or shadow, side during the time of his own ministry. Secondly, I want to suggest that, whether or not God was incarnated in Jesus, Jesus is ‘incarnated’ in the church. It is precisely because he was the person he was with the shadow side that he had that some of the tendencies towards sin and corruption recognised in the church over the centuries came about. If Jesus was truly human (and there is every reason to have sure and certain faith in this) then for the sake of coming to terms with his

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reality and ours he must be rescued from the tendency, latent even in some of the best critical scholarship, to maintain him as an essentially admirable, innocent ‘type’ whose life had no discernable negative effects and who can therefore be exonerated by history of any responsibility for what came after him in the church.

Preliminary remarks Before proceeding, it will be useful to layout some preliminary and methodological points which would otherwise remain unhelpfully implicit. The first of these concerns my motivation. Writing of nineteenth century attempts to rediscover the historical Jesus, Albert Schweitzer wrote: Each individual created [Jesus] in accordance with his own character. There is no historical task which so reveals a man’s [sic] true self as the writing of a life of Jesus. No vital force comes into the figure unless a man [sic] breathes into it all the hate or all the love of which he [sic] is capable. The stronger the love, the stronger the hate, the more life-like is the figure produced. (quoted in Houlden 1992, p.115)

It is doubtful whether anyone commenting on any aspect of the historical Jesus can ever present a picture of him which is free of personal bias and preconception: ‘Tell me the picture of Jesus you have reached and I will tell you some important traits about your character,’ writes the Swiss pastor and psychoanalytic disciple of Freud, Oscar Pfister (1948, p.179). This being the case, let me admit openly that the reason that I want to fill in a shadow side to Jesus is because I am in the process of exploring that side of my own humanity in analytic psychotherapy. Houlden suggests that ‘Modern people usually have no difficulty in seeing Jesus as a human being. Problems come when it comes to expressing belief in him as divine’ (1992, p.68). While the second part of this statement is certainly true, I am not at all sure that those of us who have been brought up within the worshipping community of the church via Sunday School, the creeds, etc., do not find it almost impossible to see Jesus without a good deal of divine aura around his person. My perspective is biassed, indeed passionately biassed, starting with the conscious preunderstanding that if Jesus was truly human he cannot have been so unlike me and my contemporaries that he did not have a shadow or negative side to his life and work. I therefore use a hermeneutic principle of partial analogy between my humanity and his to engage with the Jesus of scripture. My second preliminary point is complementary to the first. This is that I work on the assumption that the human individual, Jesus, cannot be satisfactorily abstracted or separated from the texts in which he is presently rendered, from the process of production of those texts, or from the community which derived

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inspiration from his life and work, preserved his memory and constructed those texts. The study of Christian origins runs into the sand when it tries to distinguish 4 too finely between what is of Jesus and what is of the early church. The fact is that there seems to have been a man Jesus whose life, work and teaching underwent a process of elective affinity with a particular community which adopted, pre5 served, adapted and changed aspects of those things over time. The texts which we now have concerning Jesus are the product of an evolutionary process which is characterised by both continuity and change. The Jesus to whom we have access in the texts is in a real and ultimate sense the Jesus of the church and there seems to be no going beyond this. John Bowden neatly encapsulates the futility of attempting to get behind the texts to some definitive picture of Jesus thus: ‘There is a good deal that we probably do know about Jesus; the trouble is that we can rarely, if ever, be sure precisely what it is’ (1988, p.33). Having said this, however, there is a fair consensus about a great deal which can be said with reasonable certainty about the historical Jesus mediated through the understanding of the church. And it should be remembered that for Jesus to be a figure whose life, work and teaching could be of use to a particular community there must have been some elements in it which could be latched onto and which have in fact been preserved. Jesus was not just any person doing anything – a kind of blank screen. To attract a community of followers there must have been distinctive things which he did and taught upon which they could satisfactorily project their needs and purposes. Indeed, one of the main points that this paper is attempting to make is that there is possibly more direct continuity of the historical Jesus with the Christian community than some would care to admit, perhaps because they do not like what they see. Thirdly, I need to make it clear that often the points I make about Jesus could be made about other figures of his own time or subsequently. For example, I argue that exorcism of demons was an important part of Jesus’ ministry and that this has helped to shape subsequent ecclesiastical practices and attitudes. It is extremely likely that there were other exorcists in Jesus’ own day in Judaism (cf. Luke 11.19: ‘If I expel the evil spirits by Beelzebub, by whom do your own sons expel them?’). Jesus was not necessarily special because he did things that nobody else did or had done. For the purposes of this essay he was, however, special because what he was and did in particular helped to shape a unique church community which has to some extent reflected aspects of his life, work and practices down the ages. This essay is written primarily from the perspective of contemporary moral and practical theology. The impetus for it comes from the need to apply psychodynamic insights to scripture and the Christian tradition to liberate aspects of that tradition which help to keep contemporary Christians in a position of passive dependence on an omnipotent, all-good person, Jesus, who will do his perfect work of salvation without humans having to take responsibility for

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themselves and their world. De-idealising Jesus is vital if Christians are to empower themselves in his name. Integrating the man Jesus and the church is also important if we are to come to maturity and not to covertly idealise the former while overtly despising (i.e. negatively idealising) the latter.

The shadow side of Jesus’ ministry and person Folklore has it that only the devil has no shadow. There is a valuable perception contained in this picturesque and curious assertion. This is the acknowledgment that one of the recognisable characteristics of being human is to have the potential for good and evil and for one’s actions to have both bad and destructive as well as good and creative effects. One of the real achievements of psychodynamic analysis in the twentieth century is to have exposed the importance of both the good and the evil imagination and to suggest that love and hate must be integrated in the full human personality rather than one or other 6 element being repressed or ignored. The implications of this almost common-sensical observation for looking at Jesus are as significant as they are almost wholly ignored. If we are to discover a man called Jesus we must expect to find a considerable shadow side to his person and ministry. This is manifest in several aspects of his life and ministry. The following will serve as examples: (i)

Dualism and demons. It is likely that Jesus was influenced by the ideas and practices of the apocalyptic movement (Rowland 1982; Russell 1992). Amongst the features of that movement was an emphasis on semi-autonomous evil spirits or demons which, in the first century world, were widely thought to exist and to have a real and negative effect. It therefore seems highly probable that the tradition that Jesus was an exorcist, a caster out of evil spirits, attested to in many parts of the synoptic gospels, goes back to Jesus himself (cf., e.g., Mark 1.32; 3.10; Luke 1.14–23). Bowden asserts, ‘That he (Jesus) performed “wonders”, particularly in driving out demons and healing the sick, is attested in the tradition in so many ways that it can hardly be doubted’ (Bowden 1988, p.162; cf. Sanders 1985, p.272). It has been suggested that Jesus actually intensified and focused the tradition of exorcism. Lane Fox, for example, describes Jesus as ‘a master and founder of the art’ of exorcism (1988, p.328). Jesus may well have brought interest in semi-independent personal forces of evil which needed to be cast out to a theoretical and practical crescendo in his ministry, seeing them as signs of the validity of his ministry 7 and of the inbreaking of the kingdom of God. In seeking to cast out evil Jesus probably contributed directly and definitively to the 8 sustenance and growth of the discourse of evi1. Sociologists have

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exposed modern doctors as the inventors of the diseases which they had to convince people they had before their services could be used and valued (see Seale and Pattison 1994, especially ch. 5). Jesus’ encounters with demons may be seen in a similar light and as part of an attempt to create a market for a very particular kind of salvation 9 which could actually only be supplied by Jesus. (ii)

The gospel of fear. In his study, Christianity and Fear, Oscar Pfister acknowledges that right from its beginnings in Jesus’ life and ministry, the gospel contained an element of fear and punishment alongside the good news of salvation: ‘the Gospels record on every page words, acts and experiences of Jesus which were calculated to occasion the formation of fear and which, in the course of history did in fact again and again do so’ (1948, p.211). Pfister has in mind not only sayings threatening eternal punishment (e.g. Matt. 5.22; 8.12; 22.13; Mark 9.46), but also sayings where God is presented as a destroyer or judge (Matt. 10.28; Luke 12.40) and those where the demands of God are presented as absolute and terrifyingly exacting (e.g. Matt. 18.8–9; 19.21; 5.44, 48). It can be argued that without some element of fear and punishment to act as foil and spur it is not at all clear what salvation might concretely mean. Pfister suggests that all religious movements which seek to do good and to give hope tend to create fear as well as faith. It comes as no surprise to him, therefore, to discover Jesus threatening people with the fear of eternal punishment and the fires of Gehenna. Fear and punishment as motivators and curbs appear to go right back to the man Jesus – and why not, for Jesus was a real person like the rest of us? It would be neither relevant nor realistic to proclaim a message of hope and faith if one were not willing also to construct a contrasting element of destruction and doubt. Here again then, Jesus the man seems to be helping to create the problem which it is claimed that he solves or saves people from. A human, if disillusioning, finding!

(iii)

Perfectionism and idealisation. There is substantial debate about the nature and content of Jesus’ ethical teaching. Those who argue that Jesus was not a systematic ethical teacher, a total supplanter of the Law or even a supreme moral exemplar seem to dominate liberal scholarly consensus at the present time (see for example Harvey 1990; Harvey 1991; Rowland 1985, pp.141–5). However, it is undoubtedly the case that one of the most striking and fascinating features of Jesus continues to be his apparent concern for the behaviour and ethics of his followers. Theissen (1978, p.15) asserts

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that the synoptic tradition is characterised by ethical radicalism which accompanied its genesis in the original charismatic wandering group of followers around Jesus. Jesus himself probably expected the imminent coming of the end of the age; he therefore attuned his teaching to be consonant with a very short, very intense period of commitment on the part of a few while the present age lasted. In the present context, the important thing is to highlight an element of idealisation and perfectionism in the Beatitudes and other parts of Jesus’ teaching deemed to be typical of his general ethical approach to life. ‘Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect’ (Matt. 5.48) is probably the clearest expression of this tendency. The so-called ‘hard sayings’ (giving food and shelter to those in need, ‘turning the other cheek’ to personal injury and abuse, dedicated service of the poor and disadvantaged, giving all one has to follow Jesus) are additional examples. The moral and practical teaching of Jesus as received seems to be full of very high expectations about what human beings should be able to achieve in terms of trust, doing great marvels and seeking the good of neighbour as well as of the self. At the same time, there is little sense of negative emotions and constraining factors which actually make life the much more complicated, ambiguous and difficult process in terms of moral agency that is actually experienced by those agents. Jesus’ followers seem not so much to be invited to come to terms with themselves as to slough themselves off, leaving self behind to follow him (Mark 8.34b: ‘If any man [sic] wishes to come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me’). Theissen (1978, especially ch. 3) points out that it would be completely impossible for all individuals to abandon their humdrum everyday lives as the perfection and abandonment of some depends heavily on the majority to honour their everyday commitments and go on producing food and families to sustain the aspirations of the few (cf. Weber 1964, chs 4 and 5). There is always a cost and a down side to perfection. For some to be as omnipotent gods requires that others become as impotent worms. (iv)

The politics and social policy of chaos. Jesus’ social and political thinking seems to have been vague and without a specific programme. The proclamation of the kingdom of God appears to have had some kind of concrete salvific content, but just exactly what living in the kingdom might mean, what rules and conventions would govern it, and what its concrete value to its occupants might have been is left (deliberately?) obscure, perhaps because of the urgency of

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eschatological expectation. All is in the hands of God who will act when he wishes to accomplish what he wills. In the meanwhile, all earthly rulers and regimes should be seen as having only provisional and doubtful authority and Jesus’ followers need to keep themselves in a state of perpetual relativity and readiness so that they will welcome and participate in the inauguration of God’s sovereign rule on earth in the kingdom when it comes. In a turbulent world, nothing is permanent or certain except that there is a better world just around the corner. This leads to a radical devaluing of present human activity and of the significance of the social and political order. In its lack of specificity this teaching can only result in a polity of relativistic anarchy. There are those who will argue the benefits of anarchy, but others might suggest that lack of social order and rules provides no basis for legitimate social expectations and that it puts at risk any kind of social justice and endangers the rights of the poor and disadvantaged. (v)

The divisiveness of inclusion. One of the features that Sanders highlights in the ministry of Jesus is his inclusive attitude to people, especially sinners (1985, especially ch. 6). All the potential disciple had to do to be included in the fellowship of Jesus and of the coming Kingdom was to believe Jesus’ message: there was no need for ritual acts, cleansing or belief in dogma beyond this. In this way, Jesus appears to have opened up the possibility of universal inclusion in the kingdom of God. However, accompanying this message, as we have already seen, was a message that those who refused to be included by an act of acceptance and repentance would be judged and would receive and deserve punishment. Jesus, thus, clearly discerns between insiders and outsiders to the coming kingdom (an understandable and very human discrimination). In doing so, however, he sets up dynamics of inclusion and exclusion which were to be developed in rigid and pernicious ways later on. If it is so easy to be within the kingdom sharing in love and good fellowship, why would you want to be outside it? The die is cast in Jesus’ ministry for the creation of in-groups and out-groups and for the political process of inclusion and exclusion which has haunted Christianity at all times and in nearly all places ever since.

The elements I have selected to illustrate the negative or down side of Jesus’ ministry and teaching here are not the only ones which could have been chosen. Perhaps the clearest indication of all that Jesus’ life and ministry had a shadow side is the fact that it was accompanied by considerable conflict and eventually

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ended in his own violent death. You do not get crucified for being nice to little children, and the clear implication of this particular end is that the ‘innocent’ Jesus actually aroused considerable aggression in those around him, for reasons which are not easy to discern with certainty historically. Anger and power denied is anger and power repressed but not eliminated. The nature of human relations is such that these elements will out and it looks as if this is what happened in Jesus’ case. The force of the aggression towards him was provoked by his own actions 12 and he therefore had a part, possibly unconscious and complicit, in his own end. The shadow cannot be disposed of, even if it can be ignored or consciously disavowed.

The shadow in history The negative or shadow elements which appear to have originated in Jesus’ own life, ministry and teaching have, by a process of elective affinity, been adopted, adapted, developed and distorted in the life and teaching of the Christian church down the centuries. As a charismatic religious figure and master exorcist, perceived as putting the casting out of evil and demons near the centre of his activity, Jesus set the tone and example for much of the dark dualism which has so be-devilled the church’s 13 influence down the centuries. Brown attributes much of the early church’s success to its capacity to demonise the world and then be able to master the evil spirits: In the earlier centuries…the Christian communities grew up through a belief in human ‘vested’ agents of good, endowed with inherent powers, as ‘bearers of the Holy Spirit’, to combat suprahuman agents of evil… ‘Our struggle,’ wrote St Paul, ‘is not with flesh and blood, but against…the World-Rulers of the darkness of this existence, against spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly regions’ ….From the New Testament onwards, the Christian mission was a mission of ‘driving out’ demons. Martyrdom, and later asceticism, was a spiritual ‘prize fight’ with the demons… Full membership of the Christian Church, by baptism, was preceded by drastic exorcisms… The Church was the community for whom Satan had been bound: his limitless powers had been bridled to permit the triumph of the Gospel; more immediately, the practising Christian gained immunity from sorcery. (Brown 1972, pp.135–6)

The demonic and dualistic elements which originate in Jesus’ ministry have contributed to the church’s inability to integrate good and evil in experience. Even today, children are exorcised of evil spirits in infant baptism and engaged in a battle with unseen evil spirits. With this kind of background, it is not surprising that

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prejudice, hostility and rejection are hallmarks of many ecclesiastical responses, e.g., towards mentally ill people and gay and lesbian people, some of whom have the doubtful ‘privilege’ of experiencing exorcism at the hands of charismatic Christians. The gospel of deliverance has also delivered many non-white, non-Christians into hell over the centuries as the church has sought to convert and conquer those deemed to be in the thrall of Satan. This has been amplified by the message of fear which accompanies the gospel. Jesus’ extension of evil-doing from observable action to the realm of inner thought extends the realm of sin and punishment by conflating thought and deed so thoughts have the same significance as deeds. This extends the parameters of moral responsibility and guilt exponentially (cf. Matt. 5.22, 28). Essentially, no person living can ever be justified or content with their own inner being. The fear of punishment and damnation, of internal and external surveillance and policing, has formed an important mechanism of ecclesiastical social control over the years. Witness the many scenes of damnation on the walls of medieval churches and the strict methods of confession, penance and exclusion which dominated church life 14 over the centuries. It is perhaps only just now losing its power – and even now not from over those who feel most unsure and guilty anyway. Perfectionism and idealisation have had paradoxical effects within Christianity. Perfectionism has, on the one hand, led to some individuals denying their own negative sides to pursue a life of absolute ascetic sanctity (e.g. St Francis). On the other hand, its extremism and vagueness have encouraged many Christians to more or less give up on living any kind of life of moral seriousness. The idealisation of what it is to be human similarly has produced high aspiration and delusions of omnipotent sanctity amongst some while the many have felt so far away from the ideal that they have given up any attempt to try and approximate to it. Turning to the anarchic and relativistic social teaching of Jesus, this has led to people discounting the significance and importance of the present social order and meaningful, costly involvement in it, as well as the vital need for taking full human responsibility for that order. So, for example, liberation theologians continue to be regarded as unreliable bed-fellows in the search for social justice as they are likely to opt out at some point in the name of the kingdom which is still to come and cannot be equated with any particular concrete social programme, however beneficial. More immediately, many poor people over the centuries have had to endure the vagaries of charity and sporadic individual benevolence (sometimes munificent) instead of enjoying the right to the means to live in christian civilisations and societies. Finally, since at least the time of Augustine and the cry uttered over the unwilling Donatists, ‘Compel them to come in!’ the unifying, inclusive elements

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in Jesus’ teaching have continued to exact a toll of intolerance, violence and persecution across the face of the Western world: The potent idea of the one and the true, the truth of unity and the unity of truth, is a two-edged sword. Those who unite in truth and solidarity are divided from those who do not. Unity is a social wedge, cutting into the diversity of cultures and gods, creating division. It proclaims universal peace but that very proclamation creates conflict. (Martin 1980, p.17)

Unity and organic fusion, pursued over against the splitting of diversity, is bound to be a divisive and destructive force. It represents a distorted and immature attempt to try and attain interdependent, diverse integrity. These remarks are tentative and somewhat sketchy. They are open to criticism on many grounds, textual, historical and other. Not least of the criticisms which might be made is that the same comments could be made about any historical figure and what his or her followers do with their teachings and practices. This is, in fact, precisely the point. I do not want to argue that Jesus was all bad or that he was himself personally and directly causally responsible for absolutely everything that has been done in his name down the centuries; nor would I maintain that the religion founded in his name has necessarily got more shadow or nega15 tive aspects than any other religion. What I do want to suggest, however, is that Jesus cannot be absolutely separated from and exonerated of all continuity and responsibility for what Christianity has become over the years. Jesus was a human and a leader, like any other human leader. He cast a shadow. That shadow has partially, but significantly, shaped the religion in which his teaching and practices became incarnate. To acknowledge that Jesus casts a shadow is not to deny the positive and creative aspects of his life, ministry and teaching. Jesus’ apparent humane concern for women and the poor as well as his active compassion for the sick (particularly witnessed to in Luke’s gospel) have had considerable power in history and have exerted as it seems positive pressure on the course of the last two thousand years. (If christianity helped to demonise the mentally disordered, it also provided the hospital where the sick could be cared for (Dols 1984).) However, the positive, creative power of Jesus incarnate in the church exists only at the expense of a negative side which, in being ignored and denied, is almost bound to be pernicious and destructive. Discovering and owning aspects of the apparently negative, shadow side of Jesus’ life ministry and teaching is not merely an interesting academic exercise. It has important corollaries:

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(a)

Jesus and Christianity can be more closely integrated, for good and for ill.

(b)

Both Jesus and Christianity are more fully humanised – indeed found to be all too scandalously human with a shadow, aggressive, conflictual side like all other persons and institutions which have ever existed.

(c)

The benefit of humanisation and de-idealisation of Jesus and his teaching is that it puts the onus for acting morally and salvifically on human beings now (cf. Cupitt 1988; Harvey 1991, ch. 5; Shaw 1983, 1987). This should be empowering of contemporary humans. We must take the work of salvation very seriously and do the job ourselves, realising that our attempts to do this will cast a considerable shadow, just as Jesus’ own attempts at doing it did. This holds out the prospect of Christian maturity, wisdom and integration – as well as making the need for forgiveness absolutely central.

Conclusion: Who is Jesus for us today? Jesus preached the Kingdom of God and got what he deserved – the church, which immortalised, replicated and amplified many of his own teachings, practices and character traits, good and bad, attractive and unattractive, perhaps in many respects in an alarmingly accurate way. Historical scholarship and catholic theology would probably agree in saying that the human Jesus cannot now be rendered independently of the process of elective affinity whereby the community of faith founded round his life and death adopted and adapted his teaching. Effectively, there is now only the Jesus of and in the church. This is not necessarily a pleasant thought, for it denies us the pleasure of sacralising Jesus the individual man with the kind of ‘good fellow’ status which would make him more acceptable in the modern world and would exonerate him of any responsibility for what the church has done in his name. On the other hand, this Jesus ‘incarnated’ in the church, who is not protected from some responsibility for many of the evils which have been perpetrated in his name by Christians, at the same time becomes, at last and paradoxically, a real, credible human being who is allowed for once to have a shadow side and negative effects like the rest of us. Rescued from those who would perpetuate the man as having the quasi-messianic status of the prophet or the moral exemplar, the pale ‘sinless’ Galilean poor man is rendered as responsible and guilty (with, incidentally, some responsibility for the blood of millions murdered by his followers on his hands). A potent, spirit-filled figure stands before us, filled with daemonic power for good and for ill, chaotic and creative, integrative and disintegrative at

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the same time (cf. Isaiah 45.7). Looking upon the face of this Jesus in the life and practices of the church which desperately asserts its own goodness and purity 16 while often denying its real potential for evil is not a pretty sight. It does, however, offer a kind of real humanity to Jesus which his supposed defenders, following the early ideologues of the church, have all too readily, if unwittingly, denied in the interests of rendering him without shadow. Jesus must be redeemed from the pervasive but misguided tendency to see him as an unequivocally good man in the interests of seeing him as a real, powerful and confused human being like the rest of us. Maybe seeing him in this way at last his body can be perceived to have real blood and sinews. Possibly in this affirmation of reality lies potential for salvation and integration for the church, for humanity, and, not least, for the memory of the man Jesus himself. Jesus can grow up to be regarded as a recognisable human adult instead of an unnatural, irresponsible childlike visionary who is incredibly, not to say pathologically, innocent.

Notes 1. I suspect the quotation is an adaptation of A. Loisy’s dictum: ‘Jesus foretold the coming of the kingdom of God, but it was the Church that came.’ This is quoted in Rowland (1985, p.151). 2. Cf. for example Tolstoy (1940). The latest, albeit popular, manifestation of this is in Wilson (1992). Wilson draws heavily on the work of scholars such as Vermes and Sanders. For a brief introduction to attempts by nineteenth century theologians to discover the historical Jesus see Neil and Wright (1988). 3. Cf. for example Sanders (1985); Vermes (1976, 1993). 4. See further, for example, Rowland (1985). 5. ‘Elective affinity’ is a concept which I have adapted (and slightly distorted) from Weberian sociology to denote the process whereby ideas, teachings and practices initiated by a charismatic figure are adopted, preserved, adapted and modified over time by a particular social community. See further Parkin (1982); Scharf (1970, ch. 7). 6. See further for example Sanford (1987); Ulanov (1988). 7. ‘Jesus saw his exorcisms, as well as his healings as signs of the kingdom…’ (Stanton 1989, p.218). ‘Clearly, during the first century BC Jewish apocalypticists were intensifying and specifying the antagonism between God and his agents, on the one hand, and Satan and the powers of evil on the other. The miracles that are being described are not always directly effected by God, but are accomplished through his agents, whose exorcisms are seen as signs of the impending defeat of the God-opposing powers’ (Kee 1983, p.155; cf. Kee 1986, p.73). For more on the burgeoning of the belief in semi-independent evil spirits acting as agents to cause suffering, illness and sin in apocalyptic strands of Judaism contemporary with Jesus see Rowland (1985, p.34); Russell (1964, ch. 9, 1992, pp.109–15). In Russell (1963, pp.23, 112), it is argued that the doctrine of invasive, personalised demons and evil spirits in intertestamental times was developed under the influence of Zoroastrian thought emerging from PersoBabylonian culture.

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8. Jeffrey Russell sees Jesus and the Devil as constructing and complementing each other in the discourse of the New Testament. He writes: ‘The function of the Devil in the New Testament is as counterprinciple to Christ. The central message of the New Testament is salvation. What he saves us from is the power of the Devil. If the power of the Devil is dismissed, the Christ’s saving mission becomes meaningless’ (1977, p.229). 9. On this point see Smith (1985, p.43). Sanders (1985, pp.164–9) concurs with the idea that Jesus’ healings and exorcisms were used to attract attention. 10. For the difficulty in working out what the precise content of Jesus’ teaching, beliefs and expectations was see Rowland (1985, pp.133–54); Sanders (1985, ch. 8); Stanton (1989, ch. 12). 11. For discussions of this conflict see Rowland (1985, ch. 15); Sanders (1985, pt. 3); Stanton (1989, chs 15 and 16). 12. See further Harvey (1985). 13. For Jesus as a charismatic figure, probably a prophet, see Sanders (1985, pp.238–41). Sanders follows Hengel. 14. See further Delumeau (1990); Hepworth and Turner (1982). 15. See further Bowker (1987) for a consideration of the negative, destructive elements in all world religions. 16. See further Pattison (1990).

References Bowden, J. (1988) Jesus: The Unanswered Questions. London: SCM Press. Bowker, J. (1987) Licensed Insanities. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Brown, P. (1972) Religion and Society in the Age of Saint Augustine. London: Faber. Cupitt, D. (1988) The New Christian Ethics. London: SCM Press. Delumeau, J. (1990) Sin and Fear. New York: St Martin’s Press. Dols, M. (1984) ‘Insanity in Byzantine and Islamic medicine.’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers 38, 135–48. Harvey, A.E. (1990) Strenuous Commands. London: SCM Press. Harvey, N.P. (1985) Death’s Gift. London: Epworth. Harvey, N.P. (1991) The Morals of Jesus. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Hepworth, M. and Turner, B. (1982) Confession. London: Routledge. Houlden, L. (1992) Jesus: A Question of Identity. London: SPCK. Kee, H.C. (1983) Miracle in the Early Christian World. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kee, H.C. (1986) Medicine, Miracle and Magic in New Testament Times. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lane Fox, R. (1988) Pagans and Christians. London: Penguin. Martin, D. (1980) The Breaking of the Image. Oxford: Blackwell. Neil, S. and Wright, N.T. (1988) The Interpretation of the New Testament 1861–1986. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parkin, F. (1982) Max Weber. Chichester: Ellis-Horwood. Pattison, S. (1990) ‘To the Churches with Love from the Lighthouse.’ In J. Woodward (ed.) Embracing the Chaos. London: SPCK. Pfister, O. (1948) Christianity and Fear. London: George Allen and Unwin.

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Rowland, C. (1982) The Open Heaven. London: SPCK. Rowland, C. (1985) Christian Origins. London: SPCK. Russell, D.S. (1963) Between the Testaments. London: SCM Press. Russell, D.S. (1964) The Method and Message of Jewish Apocalyptic. London: SCM Press. Russell, D.S. (1992) Divine Disclosure. London: SCM Press. Russell, J. (1977) The Devil. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Sanders, E.P. (1985) Jesus and Judaism. London: SCM Press. Sanford, J. (1987) Evil: The Shadow Side of Reality. New York: Crossroad. Scharf, B.R. (1970) The Sociological Study of Religion. London: Hutchinson. Seale, C. and Pattison, S. (eds) (1994) Medical Knowledge: Doubt and Certainty. Buckingham: Open University Press. Shaw, G. (1983) The Cost of Authority. London: SCM Press. Shaw, G. (1987) God in Our Hands. London: SCM Press. Smith, M. (1985) Jesus the Magician. Wellingborough: Aquarian Press. Stanton, G.N. (1989) The Gospels and Jesus. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Theissen, G. (1978) Sociology of Early Palestinian Christianity. Philadelphia: Fortress. Tolstoy, L. (1940) A Confession, The Gospel in Brief, What I Believe. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ulanov, A. Belford (1988) The Wisdom of the Psyche. Cambridge MA: Cowley. Vermes, G. (1976) Jesus the Jew. London: Fontana. Vermes, G. (1993) The Religion of Jesus the Jew. London: SCM Press. Weber, M. (1964) The Sociology of Religion. Boston: Beacon Press. Wilson, A.N. (1992) Jesus. London: Sinclair-Stevenson.

PART 5

On Pastoral and Practical Theology

Introduction The final part of this book contains a group of essays on pastoral and practical theology as a discipline. These papers are deliberately placed at the end of the volume because they are likely to be of most interest to those involved in studying practical theology as such, either as students or as teachers. For them, and for other interested readers, they provide insight into, and infrastructure for, some of the previous essays that have dealt with issues rather than technical questions about the nature, character and methods of practical theology. Those who want to gain an overview of the field and general approaches in practical and pastoral theology should consult, e.g., Pattison (2000), Woodward and Pattison (2000). The first essay, ‘Pastoral Studies: Dust Bin or Discipline?’ is included mainly for historical interest; it contributes to understanding the evolution of practical and pastoral theology in Britain. Written in 1983, it is one of my earliest papers. I wrote it better to understand the discipline in which I had become engaged at a time when the literature on the subject was much sparser than it is now. Pastoral studies was the predecessor of what is now called practical theology. The first pastoral studies course in the UK was established in the theology department at Birmingham University in 1964. It was oriented towards improving mental and other kinds of health in church and society, and its first director, R.A. Lambourne, was a psychiatrist. Following Birmingham, a number of universities, for example Edinburgh and Cardiff, set up similar interdisciplinary postgraduate courses, mainly to train, or to provide continuing professional development for, clergy (Ballard 2000). Gradually, pastoral studies has disappeared as a main category for understanding this kind of activity, and practical theology has been adopted as the overarching disciplinary category for considering the dynamic relationships between theory, theology and practice. The downside of the transformation into practical theology has probably been a reduced emphasis on interdisciplinary, interprofessional and community-oriented thinking in the discipline. But practical theology is at least now fairly well accepted in the theological academy, whereas pastoral studies was regarded as perhaps too applied and 244

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non-theological in orientation by conventional theologians. Readers of the paper today might like to reflect upon whether the transition to consolidated practical theology has been a gain for applied theological activity and what the strengths and weaknesses of pastoral studies were. For my own part, I valued the open-ended, ill-defined nature of pastoral studies with its room for manoeuvre and different approaches. The second essay in this part, ‘The Use of Behavioural Sciences in Pastoral Studies’, was written not long after the previous one in 1986 and is closely related to it. It explores some of the issues that arise when theologians try to use the insights and methods derived from other disciplines. This is a necessary undertaking if practical theology is to gain all the information and understanding it needs to have valid understandings of the contemporary world. There are many opportunities and pitfalls in interdisciplinary work, not least the danger of ceasing to think about theology at all. However, the alternative of ignoring the behavioural sciences is equally unacceptable. I believe that the issues touched on here remain relevant to all theologians and scholars engaged in interdisciplinary activity. I have tried to bear in mind all the advice I gave to others in this paper throughout my professional career. For example, I am still trying to live up to the challenge of really understanding and engaging with non-theological disciplines in their own terms and I remain committed to occasionally making contributions in the academic world that have relevance outwith the sphere of theology as a test of whether or not I have really engaged succesfully with broader methods and questions. The final essay, ‘Practical Theology: Art or Science?’, is one of my most recent writings, hitherto unpublished. As pastoral studies has transmuted into practical theology and become socialised into the orthodox academy, arguably it has come under more pressure to behave and be concerned about issues and methods foisted upon it from outside. A symptom of this, and other pressures, is encapsulated in the tendency for more and more practical theology to focus upon disciplined empirical fieldwork. This is in many ways a welcome development; there would seem to be little virtue in a practical theology that avoids a detailed understanding of what actually happens in practice. However, as with the uncritical adoption of methods and insights from non-theological disciplines generally [6, 7], there are some dangers here. In particular, I worry that this kind of emphasis may collude with a loss of theological focus and interest in the sort of conceptual and imaginative work that practical theology might engage with. This might make practical theology more acceptable and intelligible within the contemporary ratio-technological context of the university. However, it could damage its capacity to do what it uniquely can do by way of helping people figure larger and more imaginative responses to the world. The importation of technique-led thinking, in other words, can affect the

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character and parameters of thought within a discipline in such a way that it is fundamentally changed. This essay then relates not only to its two immediate predecessors, but also to papers 5, 6 and 7. There I make a similar argument about the introduction of management assumptions and worldviews into religious organisations via the adoption of apparently ‘neutral’, value-free techniques. I hope this paper might usefully provoke discussion about future directions for the identity and practice of practical theology. If nothing else, I hope I have shown in all the papers in this book that practical theology is a pluriform and fascinating discipline. I hope it has a great and interesting future to come in which it will further develop and transmute. I have been very privileged to spend so much of my life within it hitherto.

References Ballard, P. (2000) ‘The Emergence of Pastoral and Practical Theology in Britain.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Practical and Pastoral Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. Pattison, S. (2000) A Critique of Pastoral Care. London: SCM Press. Woodward, J. and Pattison S. (2000) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell.

18

Pastoral Studies: Dust Bin or Discipline?

A few months ago, a document pointing out the importance of race in British society, and thus the importance of educating theological students about it, arrived on my desk as the director of pastoral studies at a theological college. Race, and its effect in society, it argued, was far too large an issue to be confined to a small corner of the pastoral studies syllabus alone. Indeed, the document pleaded that its subject matter should not become the exclusive province of the directors of pastoral studies in colleges. It was this fact, coupled with the realisation that in this case the plea had been entirely ignored by my colleagues, which first led me to consider whether pastoral studies is in fact a dust bin, a residual category or receptacle with no content or shape other than that which is derived from items which fall into it from time to time (perhaps rubbish bag would be a better metaphor, since even dust bins have the definition of hard sides, top and bottom), or a discipline, a distinctive branch of instruction with its own rules and standards of conduct. The term ‘pastoral studies’ has now been with us for over 20 years. Lecturers are appointed in universities to teach pastoral studies, diplomas are awarded in pastoral studies, all Anglican ordinands (and many others) are now required to take a course in pastoral studies and Contact has now formally designated itself as ‘the interdisciplinary journal of pastoral studies’. These features, combined with my own years working within the ambit of pastoral studies, led me to want to discover how far pastoral studies may be defined as a definite and coherent entity with its own distinctive methods, as opposed to being a pot-pourri of randomly assorted topics, disciplines and insights held together only by a term which is so nebulous as to be meaningless upon the most cursory inspection. This essay, therefore, sets out to outline the essential aspects and parameters of pastoral studies as a discipline. It is not intended to be definitive but rather to provoke thought and debate. It rests on the presuppositions that, if those engaged in pastoral studies are engaged in 247

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something distinctive, they should be able to explain to others what this ‘something’ is; that pastoral studies, if they are ‘studies’ and are to be taught in colleges and universities, should be able to make a rational case for themselves which can be tested at the academic ‘bar’; and that clarity about the nature of the activity upon which we are engaged will, as long as it is now allowed to become normative for all future developments, generally allow us to pursue that activity more effectively. An obvious, if difficult, place to start in outlining the distinctive nature of pastoral studies as a discipline is by asking what pastoral studies sets out to do. If a discipline is a specific training of some sort, what does pastoral studies train people to do? What do you get in terms of training from a course in pastoral studies, to put it in more blunt, concrete and specific terms? One suspects that many aspirants to pastoral studies hope chiefly to be trained in specific skills, in counselling, community work, or some other area. This is not surprising in view of the considerable emphasis in pastoral studies courses placed on placement work which may well be with counselling or community work agencies, to take but two examples. Pastoral skills may well be acquired and it is to be hoped that pastoral studies may help people to evaluate skills and recognise the appropriateness of acquiring particular skills. This is to be welcomed, but the pursuit of pastoral studies is not ultimately concerned with the gaining of skills or expertise of that sort. (Indeed, it would be irresponsible for those running pastoral studies courses to give the impression that new skills can be satisfactorily gained from what can be only a very brief contact with their practitioners. In the end, counselling must be taught by counsellors on counselling courses and other specialists must impart their knowledge through their own distinctive techniques.) Means must not be confused with ends in pastoral studies, and in the final analysis the aim of pastoral studies is to develop critical reflection on and knowledge of, environment, society, the person and theology in relation to the pastoral task. While this definition of the aim of pastoral studies is clumsily expressed and perhaps too broad to be totally satisfactory, it does seem to me to encompass that which is distinctive about the theory of the discipline as it presently manifests itself in courses and writings within this area. If the interim definition of the aim of pastoral studies (as seeking to develop critical reflection on, and knowledge of, environment, society, the person and theology in relation to the pastoral task) is accepted, it is then possible to go on to describe the distinctive method used by this discipline. Pastoral studies relies on a method which is both practically and theoretically based. As a discipline concerned with the pastoral task and critical reflection on environment, society, the person and theology it could have only limited value if there was no contact with actual pastoral practice. Thus an important aspect of method is the actual practice of the pastoral task or, in the case of pastoral studies students, some kind of supervised placement work where the experience of particular situations can raise

PASTORAL STUDIES: DUST BIN OR DISCIPLINE? / 249

matters which become the material for critical reflection on environment, society, the person, theology and the pastoral task. This type of involvement provides the raw material for what is known as ‘experiential learning’ and is itself a real source of data for pastoral studies. However, practical involvement is not enough. There is a need to gain insights and theories which can illuminate further and challenge that which is learned or observed in the ‘field’. These theoretical insights cannot be drawn from theology alone. With the decline of a ‘sacred universe’ in which theology could be regarded as a direct source of information about the world, it becomes necessary to use the methods and insights of other disciplines in order to effectively carry out the task of pastoral studies in seeking to critically reflect upon and understand environment, self and theology in relation to the pastoral task. Thus pastoral studies as a crucial part of its method ranges widely through disciplines such as psychology (especially of the humanistic variety), sociology, philosophy, social administration, social work, political theory and psychiatry, to name but a few obvious areas, in order to gain insights and greater understanding of reality as it bears upon the pastoral task. Clearly, while this inter-disciplinary aspect is a vital part of the method of pastoral studies, it is also one of the points at which the discipline is most open to the charge of being a dust bin containing, to pursue the metaphor ruthlessly, only a random selection of the detritus of other ‘proper’ disciplines. This charge does have some validity and will have to be dealt with at a later point. For the moment it is enough to recapitulate what has been learnt about the distinctive method of pastoral studies. The genius of this lies in its bipolar attention to the practical, experiential aspect of the pastoral task on the one hand and to theoretical study and insights which illuminate the former on the other. Although it sounds grandiose, it is accurate to call this a dialectical method for these two poles are indispensable to one another in the practice of pastoral studies as compared with pastoral activity without any theory, or study which is not in any way related to the practical experience emerging from the pastoral task. It should also be noted that, being a dialectical method, there is inevitably tension between the two idealised poles and that, equally inevitably, sometimes one pole will assume more importance or form a starting point, while at others the position will be reversed, Thus it is possible to start either with a theoretical or an experiential concern, or insight: but to be faithful to the method of pastoral studies, sooner or later the theoretical insight will have to be tested against experience while experience will seek to establish a theoretical grounding. I have suggested that the genius of the method of pastoral studies lies in its essentially bipolar or dialectical character. There is one other aspect of its method which should be considered before moving on to examine further questions which are of importance in tracing out the profile of this discipline. This is the aspect of commitment. Although I have not attempted to define the term ‘pastoral’ above, it may confidently be expected that most people will recognise

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that in this context it refers in general terms to an area of activity performed either by or within the Christian community or church. (It must be remembered here that other groups, e.g., educationalists, have adopted the word ‘pastoral’ for their own purposes, but I am not referring to secular pastoral studies in this paper.) If the setting of pastoral activity is accepted as lying within the ambit of the community of faith it seems fair to assume that pastoral studies will generally be undertaken from the standpoint of Christian faith or commitment. That is to say that it will tend to be a confessional discipline, not a discipline which is undertaken by those of any faith or none, perhaps for the sake of general interest or intellectual curiosity. This is not to say that the concern of pastoral studies is wholly, or even mostly, intra-ecclesiastical, nor to assert that there can never be circumstances in which it would be valuable for a sympathetic non-believer to become involved in this enterprise. It is simply to recognise that, in practice, the discipline is largely undertaken from a standpoint of Christian commitment to a far greater extent than, say, other theological disciplines. The commitment of faith is not the only type of commitment which is presupposed by pastoral studies however. There must also be a strong personal commitment on the part of each individual undertaking the discipline to allow their own experience to become a source of data for reflection and understanding. Pastoral studies is not a discipline which can be undertaken only at second hand in an armchair with a book in one’s hand. Having considered the matter of method in pastoral studies it is possible to go on to examine two important questions about the discipline. First, there is the question of how far pastoral studies may be regarded as an academic discipline, and then, secondly, there is the question of how far it is a theological discipline. Can pastoral studies properly be described as an academic discipline whose place can be defended in, say, a university curriculum? It is certainly not appropriate to define it in terms of being such a discipline in the sense of being ‘abstract, unpractical, cold or merely logical’ for, as has been seen, pastoral studies requires practical and experiential elements in order to take place at all. Similarly, it is not an academic discipline in the sense that it occurs only within the context of a specifically academic institution. It is vital for the method of pastoral studies that data should be derived from experience which can only be gained outwith the walls of universities and colleges, and, in any case, most of the practitioners of the discipline will spend the majority of their time outside academic institutions. Pastoral studies may however be defined as an academic discipline if other more basic features of academic disciplines are looked for in it. It does, for example, attempt to be rational in its assertions and in its examination of the factors which bear on the pastoral task. Insofar as it is possible, it attempts to systematise insights and to use the findings and insights of theology and other disciplines in a respectful and accurate manner. It strives to be rigorous in its description of reality

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and in its use of theoretical insights, avoiding convenient but deceptive synthesis which blurs the truth. Perhaps most important of all in attempting to assess how far pastoral studies is an academic discipline, it must be said that it is prepared to expose its findings in written form and develop a literature which allows other members of the academic community to read and understand what is going on and evaluate it by academic criteria. This last point implies that, in the last analysis, the findings of pastoral studies can be academically evaluated and assessed, a vital factor if pastoral studies is to lay claim to being an academic discipline. Of course it must be admitted that the above are ideal characteristics of the academic discipline of pastoral studies. In practice there is the great unevenness and unpredictability of approach which is to be expected of a discipline which is still in its infancy. There are still relatively few exponents and practitioners of the discipline and this is reflected in the comparative dearth of literature contributed to the subject in the form of books or articles. So to the question of how far pastoral studies is a specifically theological discipline. It is difficult to conceive of pastoral studies being possible without theology. The mainstream theological disciplines of biblical studies, systematic theology and philosophical theology are an important source of theories and insights for pastoral studies and the area of moral theology is plainly indispensable in a discipline where matters of understanding and evaluating the factors relating to the pastoral task are concerned. Again, there is much common ground and concern between pastoral studies and its cognate theological discipline pastoral, or practical, theology. To oversimplify, pastoral theology has sought to apply the insights and truths of doctrine to the guidance and governance of the christian community, and, latterly, within the Protestant tradition it has also tried to contribute insights deriving from pastoral practice to the corpus of theological knowledge. (This latter trait is expounded most fully by Hiltner (1958).) The dialectic thus engendered with its close attention to belief and its outworking, and vice versa, is one which must be of great importance to those working within the field of pastoral studies. A prominent place must be found within pastoral studies for formulating and testing theological insights which arise from theoretical insights or from practice. It would, however, be misleading to suggest that pastoral studies and pastoral theology are synonymous or attempt to cover the same ground precisely. In the final analysis the two disciplines are different. Pastoral theology, crudely speaking, seeks to offer insights into God and/or to apply theological insights to practice. Pastoral studies, on the other hand, seeks to develop critical reflection and knowledge of the environment, society, the person and theology in relation to the pastoral task. Further, pastoral studies uses the insights and methods of widely diverse disciplines and not just those of theology in achieving its aims. These factors suggest that theology is only one aspect of pastoral studies, even if an indispensable and pre-eminent aspect. It is surely

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correct to regard pastoral studies as a para-theological discipline which should retain strong links with the main theological disciplines, especially those concerned with moral and pastoral theology. The complexity and diversity of pastoral studies, its aims, methods and theoretical and experiential resources, demand that, for the sake of accuracy, it should not be regarded as a theological discipline simpliciter. Two important characteristics of the discipline of pastoral studies should be remarked upon before drawing to a conclusion. First, pastoral studies is an interrogative discipline. That is to say that, rather than providing a solid body of knowledge or ‘answers’ which have come to be regarded as incontrovertible, this discipline provides questions which need to be asked again and again of theory and practice. A second characteristic which is closely related to the first is that the practice of pastoral studies is an education into complexity not into simplicity. Instead of being confirmed in old ways of looking at things or finding an end to questions, the practitioner of pastoral studies is likely to find that more questions are acquired and that ancient monolithic certainties fragment and form new patterns upon inspection. Apart from being one of the most stimulating aspects of pastoral studies, these two characteristics can induce a frightening sense of vertigo on occasion. The scope of pastoral studies is vast. It must, inevitably, be as broad as the pastoral task itself if it is to achieve its aims. Thus the concerns of the discipline may range widely from the study of particular individuals to the composition and workings of whole communities or societies. The tools of the discipline, the insights and methods drawn from other disciplines in order to develop effective critical reflection and knowledge, are equally diverse and varied. Clearly there is much scope for dilettante-ish generalism, for shallow amateurism, for facile synthesis, for intellectual mediocrity and for plain confusion in trying to prosecute the discipline of pastoral studies. While it is a distinct discipline, with its own aims, methods and rules, it is not, and can never become, an exclusive and autonomous discipline, as it depends so heavily for its life-blood on other disciplines. It is not surprising, in the light of these observations, that pastoral studies often appears to be a residual category, a dust bin which has no shape of its own. While I have argued that I do not believe this to be the case in fact, part of the risk and challenge of this discipline is to trespass boldly in the gardens of others and where possible to share their flowers. Pastoral studies is yet young and a certain lack of definition becomes it at this age. Nonetheless, clarity about its aims, methods and tools may help us to have a certain confidence in the fact that we are practitioners of a discipline and not custodians of a dust bin.

Reference Hiltner, S. (1958) Preface to Pastoral Theology. Nashville: Abingdon.

19

The Use of Behavioural Sciences in Pastoral Studies

One of the most prominent features of pastoral studies has been its extensive use of many disciplines. This interdisciplinary element provides unfailing interest and satisfaction to those who are involved in the area. If we are to reflect satisfactorily and act appropriately in the face of pastoral needs in our own day and society it is clearly not just a matter of preference or interest but also of necessity. The pastoral task of ‘presenting all people perfect in Christ to God and defeating sin and sorrow’ can only be adequately discharged, and the contemporary situation of people and that which binds them be divined, by the use of the social and behavioural sciences. The ways of looking at persons, society and the world which they present are uniquely important for the pastorally concerned, both in theory and practice. Different ways of conceiving or diagnosing the human condition have radical implications for practice, for as a person sees and understands, so will the possible arenas of action change. So, for example, someone who thinks of illness primarily as a product of invasion of the individual by microbes will potentially act very differently from someone who sees it as having a great deal to do with personality or someone who sees it as being affected by social factors such as class position, the lack of good nutrition or poverty. The social sciences which are encountered by those learning, teaching and researching in pastoral 1 studies are therefore of the utmost significance (Dryden 1984, pp.341–63).

I. Some of the difficulties, dangers and limitations The past century has witnessed an explosion of knowledge in the human sciences, which now have their own distinctive corpus of assumptions, methods and insights. In the course of growth and development sub-specialisms have grown up so that even in one general area there may be a range of very particular interests which do not relate very closely to others within the discipline. For example, 253

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sociologists of religion and sociologists of health and illness or deviance, while drawing on a common pool of assumptions and methods, also have interests, methods, journals and associations which are peculiar to them. Ironically, it is the very richness and diversity of the human sciences which is the chief source of their usage being problematic. In a less diverse and variegated world it might be possible for teachers and researchers to approximate to the ideal of ‘the complete renaissance man’. This is simply not possible now.

1. Selection of human sciences The question thus arises: ‘Which disciplines should be selected as being most relevant to the concerns of pastoral studies?’ Clearly a range of answers at different levels is possible from the pragmatic (‘I have a degree in psychology and do not know very much about anything else’) to the ideological or theoretical (‘Jesus preached about a corporate kingdom of God therefore sociology is the main way to understand people from the point of view of pastoral studies’). Within pastoral studies there are those using insights drawn from most of the mainstream human sciences but so far little attempt has been made critically to assess the relative significance and importance of particular disciplines. Each social science has implicit views of the nature of being human. The adequacy and coherence of different disciplines ought to be evaluated. It may be that some social sciences provide clearer, more comprehensive or more theologically compatible accounts of the human condition than do others. If so, perhaps they should be preferred. Some recent American writers have asserted the importance of constructing practical theologies, which give normative indications as to the Christian perspective on, for example, marriage (cf. Browning 1976; also Browning 1983). Here I am suggesting that we need a practical theology of the various social sciences. This would, perhaps, allow greater precision and offer criteria for the selection of different disciplines in pastoral studies. There have also been some surprising omissions possibly as a result of the failure to provide any criteria for the selection and use of these disciplines. For example, there is an almost complete lack of interest in geography. Often features of place and population are of crucial importance in understanding pastoral situations, particularly in geographically-based ministries like those of the parochial clergy. Our inclusion of particular disciplines and exclusion of others need much more careful examination if we are not to be open to the charges of being cavalier and arbitrary in our choices.

2. Selection of aspects of the various human sciences Malcolm Jeeves, an academic psychologist, outlines the diversity within contemporary psychology and warns against treating it as a monolithic entity. He indicates that the assertion ‘psychology says’ is likely to denote a superficial

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acquaintance with the discipline (Jeeves 1984, p.16). The wide variety of different approaches to be found in any one behavioural science is further underlined in Windy Dryden’s (1984) account of individual therapies in Britain. Dryden identifies at least 12 types of psychotherapy each of which has its own undergirding theoretical framework and often a philosophy to match. Similarly, the divide between Marxist and functionalist sociologists is in every way as real as that between psychodynamically oriented psychologists who draw on the theories of Freud and behaviouristic psychologists who draw on those of Skinner. Pastoral studies must not only select particular disciplines but it must also discriminate between different aspects or schools within them.

3. The problem of relevance A teacher or researcher trying to understand unemployment and its implications may turn to the literature of economics, politics, psychology, sociology, anthropology, geography or other disciplines. The problem is that their time, energy, knowledge and expertise are likely to be limited. The question then arises as to where attention should be focussed. In the case of unemployment, for instance, it may be that ultimately the most illuminating picture is presented by, say, macroeconomic theory and that this is therefore the most relevant discipline. If the teacher has no knowledge of economics but is very interested and competent in the field of, say, counselling, there is a strong possibility that the situation will be considered from the perspective of the psychological effects that unemployment may have on the individual. Here again it is probable that particular types of psychological theory, e.g., those concerning loss, may be preferred as being more ‘relevant’ than others. Such a preference may be influenced by a person’s own strongly held and rationally supported convictions. It may also be influenced by less admirable factors like the availability and accessibility of the literature. It is important, therefore, for those involved in pastoral studies to be clear and overt about the limits of their own vision, competence and ideological preferences so that particular disciplines or aspects of disciplines are not exalted to a position of supreme relevance which they might not deserve. There is no absolute standard of relevance and there probably never can be, but some awareness of the problem is necessary if workers in the field are to avoid a totally unwarranted and largely subjective arbitrary approach. This is not simply a matter of academic hygiene and integrity but one of practical concern also. If, for example, unemployment is considered primarily in terms of the effects it has on the psyche of the individual a very different set of solutions to the situation will emerge from those which might emanate from the hypothetical macroeconomic viewpoint.

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4. Eclecticism Many of those working within pastoral studies boast a cheerfully eclectic approach. They draw insights, methods and skills from different sources, disciplines, and aspects of disciplines in order to attain understanding or effect change. Those whose reflection on eclecticism has gone no further than to acknowledge that they themselves adopt this approach might be sobered by Dryden’s (1984) identification of no fewer than 10 species of this activity within the theory and practice of individual therapy. One in particular should perhaps command attention, which Dryden denotes ‘haphazard eclecticism’. This is scathingly criticised because some therapists are ‘likely to choose their theories, models and techniques on the basis of subjective appeal; “I use whatever makes sense to me and whatever I feel comfortable with” is a frequent refrain’ (p.351). He further asserts: Haphazard eclectics have a very restricted view of psychotherapy, tend to overvalue the therapeutic potency of techniques, underplay the value of developing and maintaining a therapeutic alliance and do not have a thorough understanding of common therapeutic variables and their importance. (ibid.)

There is only a thin line between a search for valid and truthful perspectives in many different disciplines and being a thoroughgoing dilettante who has no understanding of the assumptions and limitations of the discipline from which a particular insight might come and with which it may be ineffably tainted. Social psychology, for example, may give valuable insights into ways in which churches 3 might grow and converts be made. Is it, however, possible to adopt these without also adopting assumptions about human beings which underlie behaviourism which might be theologically dubious? It is tempting and relatively easy to trawl through the human sciences and assemble a series of insights drawn from many disciplines which may then implicitly or explicitly be claimed to be of great significance and worth. The problem is that this can become an uncritical if heart-warming contrivance. The haphazard eclectic can easily create constellations of insights which purport to be interconnected and meaningful where no real connections exist.

5. Going native For some the danger is not that they fail adequately to understand particular human sciences but that they become so entranced by them they abandon their objective, or perhaps their distinctively theological perspective. In other words, they ‘go native’. This tendency has perhaps been most apparent in pastoral psychology and pastoral counselling, particularly in America. It is easy to find books

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and articles which seem to contain much psychology but little theological evaluation or insight. This is a criticism which could be levelled at some recent British contributions to the literature of pastoral care. Authors demonstrate a detailed expert knowledge of other subjects but any theology which might be there is really only implicit. Sadly, it would seem that some in the field are only at home in non-theological disciplines and have neither the desire nor perhaps the ability to offer any theological critique of those disciplines. There is some evidence that this danger is being increasingly recognised. Thomas Oden, having experienced (and indeed theologically assessed) many of the contemporary popular therapies based on humanistic psychology, has lately asserted the importance of reviving theological categories and insights in pastoral care rather than uncritically adopt4 ing those of psychology. This is a much needed corrective though it will be damaging if it results into a retreat into ‘traditional’ theology which ignores com5 pletely the human sciences.

6. Pastoral pragmatism Many within pastoral studies would not regard themselves as first and foremost scholars. In the main their studies in other disciplines are determined and called forth by the need to understand the world, or particular situations within it, so appropriate action can be taken to change or preserve it. They in some sense seek clear indications or ‘answers’. There is, therefore, a constant temptation to look for neatly packaged epigrams for the sake of pastoral utility. This is understandable but dangerous as it can lead to serious misrepresentation of reality. It is, for example, simple and memorable to adhere to the common-sensical assertion that ‘there is proportionately more mental illness in contemporary Western urbanised and industrialised society than there was before the industrial revolution’. It is indeed quite possible that this is true but in fact nobody knows whether it is or not as no measurements of mental illness in society before the industrial revolution were taken. Qualifications and hesitancies in the face of a complex reality make poor rallying cries for dynamic pastoral action, but it is worth reflecting that while the truth is seldom simple it is something about which those in pastoral studies should have a concern. Complexity should not always be sacrificed to convenience.

7. Anachronism This arises out of the contemporary explosion of knowledge. It is very difficult indeed to keep up to date and so there is a real danger of anachronism, i.e. relying on facts or opinions which have been superseded or found to be of doubtful value. Thinkers like Freud and Jung, for instance, continue to be of great interest to theologians while their influence has been of declining importance in

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psychology as a whole. At the same time other aspects of psychology have developed which have been almost ignored. Jeeves expresses perplexity over the fact that while psychoanalytic theory has been rejected by many academic psychologists ‘it continues to be accepted by the man in the street and by intelligent people in the arts’ (1984, p.18). While it must be the case that the majority opinion about, or the novelty value of, particular theories and researches should not be the sole criteria of their value, it is vital that pastoral studies should not unwittingly base itself on foundations rendered inadequate by new developments in a particular field.

8. Mediocrity The scope of the social sciences, the very partial knowledge of teachers and researchers, rapid developments in many disciplines, the variety of subjects which must be coped with, all leave pastoral studies open on many occasions to the charge of mediocrity. When thinking in this area seems no more than a free association of ideas drawn from dubious ‘pop’ psychology or dated paperback sociology and words like ‘God’ or ‘incarnation’ it is tempting to see the charge as justified. An interdisciplinary activity can be a stimulus to enormous practical and intellectual vigour and rigour in which different ways of seeing the world are brought alongside one another. It can also be an excuse for laziness and the manufacture of vague generalities. One measure of excellence in interdisciplinary endeavour would be that it would begin to formulate its own insights and interpretations which were of sufficient weight to command some attention and respect in other relevant disciplines. It would, therefore, perhaps be desirable to see those engaged in pastoral studies making worthwhile if modest contributions to disciplines like psychology, sociology, or social work. From a different context King provides a clear challenge: Masses of facts, derived from separate disciplines, and placed side by side, accomplish nothing. Some spark of new insight must place these data into meaningful relationship – and ‘insight’ is merely another word for ‘interpretation’. Progress comes when an investigator in one field perceives the relevance of data in another field. Furthermore he must have enough knowledge of both fields to make insight meaningful and appealing to others. (quoted in Woodward and Richards 1977, p.42)

II. Conclusion and recommendations In Middlemarch George Eliot presents the sad spectre of the Reverend Mr Casaubon, a desiccated scholar who spends a lifetime working on a ‘Key to all Mythologies’ which never in fact sees the light of day as its author must always

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research further before he can make his results public. Tragically, despite his enormous erudition and scholarship, Mr Casaubon’s work has been superseded by German scholars of whose labours he is unaware. It may be the reader is now beginning to view the enterprise of pastoral studies in a similarly tragic light. The enterprise is fraught with pitfalls and lifelong retreat to a large library seems to be called for. Fortunately, this is not an available option. The focus of pastoral studies is the contemporary world. We are therefore bound to utilise the human sciences as they presently stand whatever their state of knowledge or ignorance. There are, however, some steps which might be taken to minimise some of the dangers, difficulties and limitations described above. First, in teaching pastoral studies a multidisciplinary team should be involved or teachers should be careful to consult experts in particular disciplines as to the validity of what they are doing. It might be desirable for teachers of pastoral studies to have a mastery of at least one of the human sciences at a fairly advanced level. To that end perhaps those who have no training in such a discipline should be encouraged to take a further relevant degree. Secondly, when research is undertaken it should, perhaps, be a prerequisite that at least one supervisor be a recognised scholar in the human science most closely related to the topic. Thirdly, teachers might also ponder whether it is more useful to take a very general approach to many different ways of understanding the world or whether a more fruitful way would be to approach all topics from a very particular standpoint, e.g., that of psychoanalysis or Marxist social thought, so that a thorough grounding is given, a real dialogue commences and the limitations of a viewpoint are discerned. While it is undesirable and impossible entirely to abandon an eclectic practice it must not be ill-considered. It can be argued that exploring at least one discipline in depth or the thought of some great seminal thinkers might fruitfully counter this danger. Fourthly, a more concerted theological involvement is required and the temptation to ‘go native’ in disciplines which are not their own must be resisted. Above all, teachers and students should cultivate critical awareness and vigilance in their approach to the social sciences. If they do so the social sciences will remain a constant source of stimulus, interest and illumination rather than being an incentive to woolly thinking, confusion and compromise.

Notes 1.

2.

Dryden writes, ‘Therapists cannot help but be theoretical in that: a) they structure what they observe; and, b) this structuring is based on explicit or implicit assumptions which influence their actions to some degree’ (p.354). A choice exists, therefore, between having an explicit and properly understood theory or theories and unwittingly adopting implicit and perhaps confused theories. For a more popular treatment see Bolt and Myers (1974).

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3. 4.

5.

See for example Myers (1984). Cf. Oden (1984), especially ch. 1; also Oden (1983) ch. 1. An earlier and more profound critique of the adoption of ‘secular’ insights is found in R.A. Lambourne’s writings: see Wilson (1982). There are some interesting parallels between the uncritical use of the human sciences in pastoral studies and the attitude taken by so-called ‘fundamentalists’ to the Bible. Both cases tend to take assertions at their face value, out of context, and to ignore significant differences of world view and situation which might militate against an easy transfer of insights.

References Bolt, M. and Myers, D. (1974) The Human Connection. Sevenoaks: Hodder and Stoughton. Browning, D. (1976) The Moral Context of Pastoral Care. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Browning, D. (1983) Religious Ethics and Pastoral Care. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Browning, D. (ed.) (1983) Practical Theology: The Emerging Field in Theology, Church and World. San Francisco: Harper and Row. Dryden, W. (ed.) (1984) Individual Therapy in Britain. London: Harper and Row. Jeeves, M. (ed.) (1984) The Behavioural Sciences: A Christian perspective. Leicester: IVP. Myers, D.G. (1984) ‘Social Psychology and Christian Faith.’ In M. Jeeves (ed.) The Behavioural Sciences: A Christian perspective. Leicester: IVP. Oden, T. (1983) Pastoral Theology: Essentials of Ministry. San Francisco: Harper and Row. Oden, T. (1984) Care of Souls in the Classic Tradition. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Wilson, M. (ed.) (1982) Explorations in Health and Salvation. Birmingham: University of Birmingham Department of Theology. Woodward, J. and Richards, D. (1977) Health Care and Popular Medicine in Nineteenth Century England. London: Croom Helm.

20

Practical Theology: Art or Science?

Introduction The question ‘Is practical theology (PT) an art or a science?’ is foolish and misplaced. It rests upon the assumption that there is a direct opposition between art and science. There has been a rumbling debate for about the last 150 years as to whether art and science, artistic knowledge and scientific knowledge, are compatible, or whether one is better than the other. The distinctive characteristics for which each category is held to stand can be drawn thus: Science

Art

truth

beauty

reality

symbols

things and events

feelings and meanings

‘out there’

‘in here’

objective

subjective

explanantion

interpretation

proof

insight

determinism

freedom

(Brown 1989, p.26)

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Another important opposition in the present context is ‘empirical’ versus ‘reflective’. This polarisation is rightly questioned: [T]he debate between positivists and romantics is increasingly sterile. Adequate social theory must be both objectively and subjectively meaningful; it must yield understanding of persons’ consciousness and agency as well as explanations of social forces beyond their immediate control. (Brown 1989, p.27)

Further grounds for rejecting this outdated and unhelpful dualism are provided by thinkers like Midgley (2001). First, the division between two clearly separate realms of ‘art’ and ‘science’ was not inaugurated until the Renaissance and probably not made absolute until the early nineteenth century when it was reified in the debate between romantics and positivists. Second, and correlatively, ‘science’ has as its fundamental meaning the notion of knowledge. If any enquiry is methodical and disciplined, it can be described as scientific (Midgley 2001, p.9). Objectivity, a main characteristic of science, can equally be seen as relevant to arts and humanities disciplines if it is understood as the determination to be ‘fair, honest and methodical’ (Midgley 2001, p.124). One does not have to adopt Brown’s thoroughgoing ‘symbolic realism’, which regards both science and art as equal symbolic discourses, to begin to see the impossibility of polarising and compartmentalising art and science. These human endeavours intersect and interact at many different levels. Thus science is redolent with metaphors as well as facts. Indeed, it is controlled and governed by root metaphors (Brown 1989, pp.113–14). Facts themselves may be seen as constructs in different discourses (Brown 1989, p.35; Latour and Woolgar 1986). Scientific endeavour often enriches a sense of wonder and nurtures imagination (Midgley 2001, p.53). By the same token, artistic endeavour can enhance the discourse of science, warming up and regenerating the frozen metaphors that have come to be regarded as facts and creating new theories (Brown 1989, pp.87, 99). If the traditional dualism between art and science is an unhelpful, distorting myth, why ask if PT is an art or a science? The reason, obviously, is that there is more to be said. While rejecting any simplistic dualism between disciplinary approaches, it would be distorting to pretend that there is no difference between art and science as commonly understood. There are differences of focus and emphasis between scientific and humanistic disciplines. Furthermore, there is a difference of perception of value between scientific utterances and methods and those proceeding from arts and humanities discourses. Crudely, discourse which approximates to the scientific and technological is given greater value and importance than that which emanates from the arts. ‘Scientific’ explanations and ‘facts’ are privileged as objective, universal (in

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principle), public knowledge which explain the world around us and allow us to manipulate it better. Humanistic or artistic insights and understandings, however, may be taken as having no more than subjective and intrinsic significance. They may be relegated in importance to the realm of opinion, the private, the optional; in short, they can be dismissed as of little general significance except to those who ‘like that kind of thing’. Real ‘hard’ knowledge is made in the laboratory by experts who use the esoteric, privileged symbol systems of mathematics, measurement and scientific method; its effects will be concrete and objective. ‘Soft’ knowledge, based on more generally accessible common language that flows around everyday human experience in an undefined way with diffuse effects that are difficult to evaluate, tends then to be marginalised, even by those whose job it is to manufacture and analyse it. ‘Where science stops,’ it is said, ‘there art begins’. ‘Art’ is associated in popular conceptions with emotions and feelings, with the unique, particular, and unpredictable, with creativity and genius; ‘science,’ on the other hand, is thought of as the province of rationality, ordered and disciplined thought, clearly defined problems, and carefully tested solutions. (Brown 1989, p.3)

Midgley (1989, 2001) and others have extensively analysed the limits and distortions of ‘scientific’ endeavour and thought in society and academy. They have pointed up the dangers of ever greater specialisation, social detachment, moral indifference and atomistic thinking associated with scientific thought and endeavour. They argue that science and scientific knowledge are incomplete knowledge maps that need to be accompanied by others drawn, for example, from arts and humanities, in which subjectivity and insight have a place. In this essay, I do not intend to repeat this useful critique in general terms. Rather, I want to point up some of the potential attractions and dangers of scientism for a particular humanities discipline, PT. In particular, I want to question the turn to the empirical in terms of method in PT. This might, I think, helpfully be seen as a symptom of scientism within this discipline. While science and sciences are surprisingly diverse in methods and assumptions my focus here is not on science as such. Rather, I want to question the limits and effects of scientism (cf. Latour 1993; Midgley 1989, 2001). Scientism is not the actual particular practice or evaluation of science by those trained in its methods. Rather, it is Uncritical adherence to the positive legitimating myth that science is the most important, truthful and creative way of understanding and explaining reality so that all significant human knowledge and experience can best be judged by

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and/or conformed to the paradigms, methods and findings of ‘science’ understood in a diffuse, undefined way.

Scientism is a powerful and defining social and cultural myth/discourse against which all other myths, practices and discourses can be evaluated. The more phenomena or activities in any area of life or endeavour can be deemed to be ‘scientific’ in a diffuse, undefined way, the more social and intellectual legitimacy they are likely to have. There is an implicit reductionism here which implies that the less a discourse of activity is science-like, the less value and legitimacy it has. In terms of academic disciplines, then, bioscience is very valuable and legitimate. Economics and other social sciences (insofar as they employ mathematics and computers) have some legitimacy. English literature, which has little place for hard evidence and is basically storytelling or analysing storytelling, has doubtful real legitimacy. It is retained in the academy because punters like it and it allows the development of transferable skills like creative writing (a saleable, therefore measurable, commodity), not because it is perceived to be intellectually or socially essential. Broadly, the impetus of scientism is towards the maxim, ‘If you can’t count it, it does not count’. In everyday life, this manifests itself in the academy by an emphasis on empirical work and statistics. Because of the creeping effects of scientism in society and academy there is a danger that humanities disciplines like PT will be distorted in their scope and concerns. It will be argued that scientistic thinking, and practices such as privileging empirical methods, are gradually restructuring arts and humanities disciplines in general and PT in particular as they seep in from the social ‘sciences’. Notwithstanding Lynch’s (1999) well-supported contention that there has hitherto been little empirical research in PT, particularly in regard to the perceptions of the recipients of pastoral care and counselling, it is likely that this situation will rapidly change. Lynch’s article is a harbinger of what is to come. I will briefly explore the reasons for this. I will then look at the intellectual and practical value of some aspects of scientific thought and method for PT as it is mediated to that discipline via social science. Thereafter, I will outline some possible advantages, together with dangers and losses that may flow from this. Finally, I will argue that PT cannot really defend itself against a paradigm takeover by quasi-scientific methods and priorities unless is clarifies its own identity and purpose. Only by clarifying its own character and mission can PT evolve criteria for the inclusion or exclusion of certain methods and assumptions.

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The influence of scientism a) The sociocultural context What are taken to be the insights, disciplines and methods of science are mainly mediated to arts and humanities disciplines via the so-called social sciences. There are clearly humanistic social scientists in disciplines such as sociology and psychology who are as much interested in subjective and symbolic meanings as in the objective study of behaviour and mass observation (cf. for example Berger 1997; Fevre 2000; Frank 1995; Gergen 1991; Goffman 1971; Karp 1996; McLeod 1997). However, it is probably true to say that the heartland of these disciplines, certainly in terms of funded research, is occupied with the more objective, statistics-friendly end of things. The reasons for this are not hard to find. If my understanding of scientism is correct, we are very impressed with science and its real achievements as they have ramified themselves into technology (Midgley 2001, p.59). Because of our awe of science and its real achievements, we have tended to exalt the general virtues of science and all that goes with it, often without understanding how it works, its limits, or its methods. In particular, we relate all our notions of the meaning and value of knowledge to their proximity to science. We have a tendency ‘to treat science as co-extensive with light, and everything outside science as darkness’ (Midgley 1989, p.188). Thus we are impressed with notions of statistics, objectivity, empiricism etc. Maybe, indeed, the less we understand, the more we are impressed, thus colluding with scientistic mystification and mystique. Whatever the reasons for the dominance of scientific or quasi-scientific reasoning as mediated through the inhabited myth of scientism, there can be little doubt that science and technology and things which seem closely related to them in character or function have a privileged value and place. Stivers, indeed, argues that we live in a milieu of technology in which technology has taken on the symbolic power and role of magic and imitates it: ‘All attempts to measure goals and performance, all attempts to objectify decision-making and to predict the future are magical, imitation technologies applied to humans’ (Stivers 2001, p.108). He goes on: In the posthistoric period both society and technology are experienced as sacred, but now society is read through technology. The paramount political and moral problems are being transformed into technological problems to be solved by technical experts, eg, the medicalization of moral issues. Technology is both power and reality today. (Stivers 2001, p.39)

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Stivers believes that the rise of technology as an all-encompassing magical symbol system pervades all parts of life and has supplanted language and discourse in culture. This has downgraded language, privileging images and statistics: Historically, most information was transmitted through language; today, however, much of it is in the form of visual images and statistics. (Stivers 2001, pp.43–44)

b) The academic context If culture generally is impressed and preoccupied with technology and the ideology of scientism, the academy is perhaps the place where these trends have their cutting edge. Here, the rise of technological thinking has led learning and teaching away from a focus on language, books and conversation towards ‘images, noise and abstract information’ (Stivers 2001, p.47). Stivers notes that ‘serious cultural pursuits such as conversation, reading, writing, and thinking are the first activities to be abandoned when time appears to be shrinking’ (Stivers 2001, p.46). The consequences for the humanities are serious: The humanities were at one time a preparation for reflective participation as a citizen and for intellectual labour. A facility with language and an ability to interpret texts were indispensable. Not so today. The public, business, and parents demand technicians; and we give our customers what they want. (Stivers 2001, p.208)

Stivers concludes: We have unintentionally created a technological and magical world in which there is no room for reflection, normative reason, and moral judgement… We are training students to be unreflective technicians and magicians. (Stivers 2001, pp.208–209)

I will now take a closer, more specific look at the drivers pushing academic arts and humanities disciplines away from traditional subject-centred preoccupations into a more technological or scientistic direction. First, the British government has an overwhelming concern for the economy and needs of business in supporting a complex society based on technological knowledge and expertise. It has reconstrued education mainly as a means of preparing people for employment, an intention made explicit in the name of the department responsible, The Department for Education and Skills. Thus, an undergirding technological, scientistic mindset is present in governmental policy-making and resource distribution. This manifests itself in the need for all activities in teaching and learning to be as far possible overtly useful, functional,

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measurable, transferable into business etc. This rationalising, functional and componential ‘McDonaldising’ mindset has often been discerned and described. Ritzer (1996) identifies efficiency, calculability, prediction and control as the main features of an ever-rationalising society. It is the ground bass of thinking in a publicly supported higher education system where the main stakeholder is the state. The privileging of the ideology of technologisation, utility, functionality and scientism in central government has a magnetising effect on all other subordinate structures and arrangements. Thus it tends to be thought that what works in science and technology must be desirable throughout the academy. In terms of structures, the arts and humanities have been increasingly encouraged to organise themselves and their expectations along the lines of scientific and technological disciplines. There is now an Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) which will operate like the other (scientifically based) research councils. It will use its financial weight to shape, centralise and determine the future of research. Almost certainly, it will move it more in a corporate utilitarian direction rather than leaving it up to individual academics to muddle through with personal, curiosity-led scholarship unsupported by external funds. The AHRC has increasingly introduced specific practices from the arenas of science and social science which reinforce the scientific/technological model of research. Bidding along the lines of gaining funding for science is replacing block grants. Four-year PhDs are now required by the AHRC from humanities scholars as they are for scientists and technologists. Similarly, common training programmes for postgraduate students in all arts disciplines are being called for, and an elite of universities is being formed where these programmes are available. These training programmes are required to contain a good deal about employability and transferable skills so that arts postgraduates conceive of themselves primarily as preparing for employment rather than for scholarship as an end in itself. The institutional penalty for failing to conform to demands for four-year completion rates and common training programmes will be loss of money from the AHRC and other central sources. These initiatives and practices are neither good nor bad necessarily; however, they begin to structure the mindset of humanities scholars in an instrumental, functional, utilitarian way. This may narrow their range of interests, practices and thoughts, diverting them from the pursuit of wisdom and intrinsic interest and value towards a much more ‘relevant’, well funded and socially rather than academically or subject-determined agenda (cf. Pattison 1997, pp.157–66). A correlative of functionalism, social usefulness, the need for adequate funding, transferability of knowledge and skills and so forth is that humanities disciplines must be able to deliver useful, well specified research within a clear timescale. The Research Assessment Exercise (RAE) (again, mostly designed with

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science and technology in mind) now imposes a five-year horizon on humanities research; this is reinforced by short-term research funding. All of which makes humanities research a good deal tidier and more academically conformist than it used to be. Whether the products, rather than the productivity, of humanities research have been improved is a different matter. This context favours short-term, limited, overtly useful and clearly bounded research along the same kinds of timescales and expectations that science and social science might expect. It opens the way to the introduction of scientific or quasi-scientific empirical methods into the humanities. If science and social science are the paradigms for value and success in the modern academy, why not adopt their methods, which are likely better to fit the general context, parameters and expectations of university and government anyway? The financial and academic success of disciplines like psychology, dominated by experimental and other empirical methods, leads many to be receptive to the notion of doing empirical, rather than conceptual, research. There lies respectability, value and remuneration. Those who cannot move in the direction of science and scientific methods are likely to find themselves intellectually and politically marginalised in an academy that is increasingly dominated and incentivised by the myths and methods of scientism. Which brings us then specifically to that sub-specialism of the arts discipline theology – PT.

c) The disciplinary context of PT Over the last century and more, Western theology has turned to the human and seen its task increasingly as understanding the creators of the ideas and discourse of theology rather than God in Godself. Theology is now often understood to be human discourse bound up with the quest for humanisation. Thus the object of theological understanding has become increasingly bound up with understanding human beings in all their aspects: social, psychological, cultural, political etc. Modern theology in general has acknowledged that it cannot know all that it needs to know about the world and people from within its own discipline, texts and resources. It has become keen to use the insights of the social sciences to analyse the human situation. This tendency is clearest in theologies overtly concerned with promoting human well-being in the contemporary world, e.g., liberation theology, black theology. Here, a hermeneutic of suspicion analysing social context and the human roots and biases using social scientific tools and methods is required as a first step in theological method. It is also favoured in PT where the study of the human and what pertains to human well-being is central (Pattison 1994). Contemporary PT has been shaped by post-war concerns and trends towards humanisation, social usefulness, promoting health and social welfare, engage-

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ment with non-theological disciplines and structures, interdisciplinary thought and action (Ballard 2000). This has predisposed the discipline towards a very positive engagement with various social sciences. In the first instance, PT enjoyed a love affair with humanistic psychology and counselling. Latterly, partly under the aegis of action-centred, social, transformational theologies such as liberation theology, it has become interested in less individualistic social sciences such as sociology, anthropology, politics, economics and social policy. Initially, practical theologians were probably more interested in engaging in critical use of, and dialogue with, the findings of social science disciplines. Now, however, there is an increasing attraction towards actually using the methods of these disciplines to conduct, for example, action research, congregational studies, social and psychological profiles of individuals and groups. Some studies that might be deemed to fall within the ambit of PT are now conducted wholly or partly outside departments of religious studies; they may be supervised by social scientists with little or no theological input. There is a strong and increasingly apparent elective affinity between PT and both the theoretical and empirical aspects of social sciences (Pattison 1986) [19]. Sometimes this affinity may turn into a wholesale capitulation to social science as theologians ‘go native’ in these other disciplines. However, to put it more positively, it can be argued that without extensive use of the insights and methods of the social sciences it is difficult to see how PT could really do its work. The point I am making here is that, in a broad social and academic context that favours scientism and technologism and the discourses and methods thereof, PT itself has something of a predisposition towards the use and incorporation of social scientific perspectives and methods. This is in many ways advantageous both intellectually and practically to PT. It looks less remote and disconnected than other parts of theology. It can, perhaps, appear to have more of the same structure and concerns of other academic disciplines with a bias towards utility. Soon, I want to go on to look at some of the real advantages for embracing social science and aspiring to become mainly a social science in terms of theory and method. However, I also want to argue that the understandable and in many ways welcome impetus in this direction also has possible dangers and disadvantages. These, too, will need to be critically assessed in due course as we move towards answering the question: Should PT aspire to be an art or a (social) science?

The sweets of social scientific empiricism in PT There are all manner of attractions and advantages that might accompany the move towards more social scientific empiricism in PT. Here are just a few of the benefits that have occurred to me in reflecting upon my own research experience and learning.

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Credibility and respectability I have only done small amounts of empirical research. However, I have been amazed at the respect and awe in which this kind of work as a genre is held, even when undertaken in a low-key way by an amateur like me. A study (however brief and cursory), backed up by interviews (however few) and especially statistics (however basic) seems to be taken by fellow academics and wider audiences as having much more credibility and value than a series of mature judgments that might be arrived at by lengthy complex secondary analysis of data from a variety of different sources. The empirical researcher seems to be the cultural hero of the modern academic world – ‘get up from your desk and walk’ seems to be the watchword! It is no wonder that students at all levels seem to be so keen to administer inappropriate questionnaires. At all points in the academy the empiricist is top dog. Here there seems to be good circumstantial evidence of the dominance of scientism and technologism as a value-determining mindset. For the most part, people seem less interested in the value and robustness of methods, bias etc. and simply keen to accord respect to what is presented as evidence and conclusions. Issues such as replicability (essential, as I understand it, to scientific method) are seldom raised. Some social scientists of my acquaintance freely admit that often the findings of students doing grounded and other kinds of applied research are at best good yarns. They reveal nothing of reality ‘out there’ but are rather imaginative over-interpretations of thin self-confirmatory evidence emerging from limited and poorly constructed data-gathering techniques (cf. Gergen 1991, 1994).

Funding A corollary of the academic respectability and hegemony of empirical research of all kinds is that it is better funded than conceptual research. It is much easier to get funding from government and other sources if one proposes to find out about something ‘out there’ that may appear to have some real practical utility or policy implication rather than seeking funding for conceptual and theoretical research at a high level of abstraction. Finding things ‘in’ by reading and reflection rather than finding them ‘out’ by empirical work is cheap and ill-regarded. Blessed is the theologian who is able to conduct empirical research and get funding for this work. She will not find her academic managers ungrateful on the day of promotion. Here again, then, we see the rationalising, utilitarian, scientistic agenda of society and academy reaching deep into the everyday practices and concerns of academics and tempting them in particular ways rather than others.

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Timing and structure A real advantage of doing empirical research is that, because its methods and formats of analysis and presentation are likely to be fairly standardised, it is much easier to work to a kind of vaguely experimental template of, for example, research question, method of investigation, account of investigation, results, analysis and conclusion. It is not hard using a format such as this to predict how long a study is going to take and when its outcomes can be delivered. This reduces considerably the uncertainty and unpredictability which can plague research and produce frustration in both researchers and their sponsors. It is helpful in an environment of rationalisation, calculation, predictability and control which manifests itself in the academy in the form of limited periods to conduct research for higher degrees and funded projects that are supposed to last for only a few months or years. The very positive upside of students and researchers doing closely timed empirical projects is that they have the satisfaction of seeing their work completed and can experience a sense of achievement. The less positive side however is that difficult conceptual mountains that are difficult to weigh up and measure in terms of methods and time needed to execute them are left to one side. While once the academy was replete with non-publishing conceptual workers and research students who saw research as long-term ‘knitting’, the temptation now is not to embark upon any project unless the resource implications, including time, are clearly visible from the start. Combining with other factors, this inevitably means that much empirical research is low risk, particularly in terms of concepts. Thus necessary speculative work of a high-risk nature may be inadvertently ignored.

Human fellowship and sociability A real joy of doing empirical social scientific research is that it often directly involves other people as colleagues, facilitators and subjects. The direct study of humans with other humans is a terrific incentive to researchers whose alternative is solitary life in quiet rooms wrestling with the ghosts of other researchers trapped between the pages of books. It is so much easier to want to do one’s research if one knows that other people are involved and have expectations of the researcher. Often, empirical projects lend themselves precisely to the pleasures of interviews, observations, and other social activities which are pleasurable in themselves. If one then finds out a bit more about how other people ‘tick’ this is a bonus. Pity the poor conceptual scholar who has no colleagues doing the same work and no-one who is expecting to see or help her unless asked. Empirical research is inherently more social and sociable. It allows for more human contact and that is of value in itself. Furthermore, how can one claim to be involved in a

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practical discipline that puts human life, well-being and experience at the centre if one does not actively and regularly work with other humans? There is an academic contradiction here which is difficult to justify.

Creating an evidence base An equally challenging academic contradiction is found when practical theologians hold forth on the nature of things, and how they might be, without any apparent curiosity as to how things actually are. One of the besetting sins of theology in general and practical theology in particular is that it has relied upon free-floating, unsystematic anecdotal evidence to support its assertions. At worst, it has simply ignored evidence altogether. The advantage of empirical work and research is that it begins to describe the nature of people and situations as they are. This limits and counterbalances informal intuitions which can be held as strongly as they are unsupported. There is no case for remaining wilfully ignorant of the nature of situations and persons and then claiming to have wisdom to offer them: The lack of empirical research into pastoral care and counselling represents an important ground for concern. …pastoral practice is based on implicit or explicit claims for its effectiveness, yet these claims become dubious if they are not supported by any rigorous empirical evidence. …an integral element for a discipline of pastoral practice which is responsible and reflexive is the structured study of that practice in real-life settings. …the potential value of empirical research for helping pastoral practitioners both to think about the effects of their practice and to present themselves to other disciplines and funding agencies remains largely unexploited in Britain as well as in the Western literature on pastoral practice in general. (Lynch 1999, p.24)

While knowing how things and people are (description) cannot be the only grounds for creating norms and ideas for who they should be (prescription), good, full descriptions are an essential part of effective discernment. This kind of knowledge also provides a good base for the kind of transformational action to which PT may be committed. In short, providing an insightful, critically assembled evidence base which contributes to the grounds upon which PT can conduct reflection and determine action is a prerequisite if this discipline is to engage effectively with its context and not be simply thin, opinionated nonsense on stilts. The danger here is that evidence may become an end in itself, but I will deal with this point later.

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Gaining new and transferable skills In my experience, research students and workers enjoy acquiring the skills and methods required to do empirical research, especially when this involves having to do genuinely interdisciplinary work perhaps outside, as well as within, the sphere of theology. They perceive these to provide them with useful critical techniques that they can then transfer to other aspects of existence within and outside religious communities and the academy. They feel like proper researchers who can go and discover things rather than having to rely on the findings of others. This is a kind of emancipation that is similarly enjoyed in another part of the theological domain by textual scholars when they acquire new languages. While the critical intellectual skills or reading, writing and conceptualisation may be no less easy to acquire, it may be that these are less recognisably new acquisitions. They therefore do not excite the same interest and respect as empirical skills amongst neophytes to research. It is proper that people should acquire new skills in research. Amongst these should be those of empirical research, where appropriate. The challenge to conceptual researchers, then, is to make it clearer what the value of their skills and methods are, not to complain that empiricism is ruling the roost.

Assured originality One of the criteria for a successful PhD or any other research project is that it in some way contributes to knowledge, however understood. If one undertakes conceptual work using the findings and thinking of others, there may be some doubt as to how much ‘originality’ there is in a piece. However, if one undertakes an empirical study, as long as no-one has studied that particular issue or group of people with exactly the same method and processes, originality of knowledge is assured. In a context in which risk avoidance is sought after and people (both students and the academics who supervise them) want to be clear that the expenditure of resources of time and money are going to bring about a guaranteed successful outcome, it is clearly desirable for studies to adopt methods and subject areas where originality can be underwritten in this kind of way.

The appearance of rational activity In the rationalising context of calculability, measurability, control and efficiency (Ritzer 1996), the pursuit of empirical research seems attractive because it allows researchers to present themselves as doing measurable things such as conducting X number of interviews, analysing Y number of questionnaires, observing Z groups. This kind of commodification of research activity sounds more convincing and professional than saying that ‘I stayed in the bath for 20 minutes longer

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than I should have done last night because I was thinking through an interesting idea that I heard on the radio’, or ‘I have not done any writing this week because one of my key concepts collapsed in front of my eyes, so I am now reconceptualising the whole of the project’. To be seen to be doing something very definite and measurable commends research in the modern academy. Vaguer kinds of activity which are less well specified in terms of potentially observable behaviour may be more problematic. They are also very difficult to present and account for in a research report or thesis, while empirical field research is comparatively easy to present and write up.

Making research possible I must tread warily and respectfully here. First, I should say that I fully recognise that there are some social scientists the great value of whose empirical work is matched equally by a theoretical and conceptual grasp and imagination which is awesome. I am thinking here of sociologists like Erving Goffman and George Brown. However, it seems to me that often at less exalted levels of the social science disciplines there is relatively little curiosity about theory, epistemology, ontology etc. Jobbing social scientists will often simply pragmatically take a method or concept off the shelf, devise a study which can make use of it and then report the results which may or may not be profound or significant. In the context of an academy which prizes pragmatic utility and the pursuit of externally provided funds for externally defined problems or issues, this kind of approach seems relatively unproblematic. By the same token, it seems safest and most likely that students will complete satisfactory theses on time if they are invited to turn the handle on some well oiled machine rather than their being required to construct their own instrument from first principles and then being asked to perform competently upon it, as they might have to do if they pursued conceptual work. Conceptual work seems much more difficult for average research students to do well than empirical work where the road is well mapped, the methods are well honed, and useful results are more or less guaranteed. Part of the reason for this is that critical insight, the product of conceptual research, takes a long time to emerge and does not appear to order. If it is misconceived or poorly presented, it is worthless. In a context where more students want to do research and there is some dilution of intellectual training in those who come forward to do it, particularly in applied disciplines like PT, there is every reason for steering people in the direction of the empirical where success in a given period of time is much more likely. I am all in favour of more people doing all kinds of research in PT, which is desperately short of intellectual capital and scrutiny. Furthermore, I am committed to people gaining the research qualifications for which they are registered in a

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period which they and their sponsors will recognise as appropriate. But given those two commitments, it is inexorable that most students of average research ability should be steered towards the empirical, for practical as much as intellectual reasons. Once they are firmly ensconced and trained in empirical methods, there is every likelihood, given the other contextual factors that we have already identified as being at work, e.g. funding, respect etc., that they will remain committed to this way of working. I have tried to argue that a variety of factors of different types, outside as well as within the realm of PT, make it easy and in many ways desirable for this discipline to ‘go empirical’. There is every good reason, pragmatic and intellectual, for this practically based, applied field to seek to use and learn more from empirical methods in the social sciences. If practical theologians wish to understand the human condition and potential, they cannot withdraw from the domain of the social sciences and there is still much more to learn from these. Indeed, one recent critic suggests that practical theologians still do not ingest enough of the insights and methods of social sciences (Henderson 2003). No good case can be made for the wholesale dismissal of empirical work using social science methods in PT unless the discipline wants to assume a Luddite and unworldly stance, cut off from one of the main fountainheads of human knowledge and investigation. That said, however, it can be asked whether anything might be imperilled or lost within PT by the steady encroachment and increasing hegemony of social science thinking and methods.

What losses and threats might emerge if PT ‘goes empirical’? In the last section I considered a variety of types of factors, intellectual and social, that make it tempting to allow an empirical paradigm to have increasing sway in determining the nature and methods of PT. Now I want to look at the possible negative consequences and problems that might emerge if this paradigm imperialism occurs. I am indebted to Midgley’s work on the nature and purpose of knowledge and wisdom and the damaging consequences of scientism on philosophy in particular for many of the points I will make here (Midgley 1989, 2001). Midgley argues that both science and arts and humanities disciplines provide useful, valid explanatory maps and knowledge that assist human beings in living in the world and determining what directions they want to take. However, the exultation and hegemony of the scientific paradigm is in danger of supplanting all others, to the long-term detriment both of non-scientific disciplines and to the human race as a whole.

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The fetishism of facts The scientific, empirical paradigm is much given to the acquisition of data. In modern society we collect all manner of facts. Indeed, we seem to have more facts than we can handle (Midgley 1989). Like misers collecting gold, however, we seem to have no real idea about what to do with them. Arguably, what we require now are more connections between and insights into the significance of facts, not the pursuit of more data. Facts are humanly constructed and only have value and make sense within the context of particular worldviews and value systems. However, there seems to be a clear tacit commitment to the principle that, if enough of them are appropriately assembled, facts will somehow ‘speak for themselves’. The pursuit of facts via various kinds of data collection thus becomes an end in itself. Unfortunately, this quest easily relegates other kinds of knowledge such as interpretation, wisdom and insight to the margins. If one cannot count something or provide some kind of generalisable measure for it, it does not count; it forms part of the realm of ‘opinion’ or ‘the anecdotal’ which does not much signify. Thus, subjectivity, meanings, intuitions, insights and experiences which matter a great deal to individuals and communities (including scientists) are displaced in a reductionistic move designed to flatten out the world and make all matters of importance commensurable within a single system of understanding and measurement. The fall of the single sparrow may be of immense importance to God or to a child, but it cannot matter to those who are imprisoned within the quest for that which is statistically significant. Thus, whole swathes of humanly significant experience and insight are negated. If PT follows the empirical paradigm, it may find itself ignoring much that is humanly significant, including intrinsic perceptions from a subjective, ‘inside’ perspective, in the interests of trying to become externally ‘objective’. In this connection, it is worth noting Midgley’s plea that objectivity should be understood as being fair, honest and methodical (Midgley 2001, p.124). These features might properly characterise all kinds of explanations and heuristic activity, from both internal and external standpoints, not just causal explanations undertaken in the course of using a version of the scientific paradigm.

Knowledge supplants judgement It is often argued in moral philosophy that there should be an absolute distinction between facts (what is) and values (what ought to be). In a world in which many facts can be assembled about almost any topic, there is a temptation to prescind from thinking about the ultimate teleologies and worldviews that structure and give meaning to corporate and individual existence (including scientific existence) and to resort instead to a fundamentalistic hope that knowledge itself will prescribe what ought to be the case. When this is accompanied by pluralism,

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confusion and fearfulness about making decisions in complex disputed situations, as is often the case with significant issues in modern human social life, it is tempting to supplant argument, dispute and discernment with factually based knowledge in an attempt to engender evidence-based practice. The casualty here is the truth that complex situations often do require considerable scrutiny from different directions using different kinds of explanations, many of which may appear to conflict diametrically, and all of which will ultimately require some kind of judgement for which the judges will be held responsible. In the case of PT, much empirical work has been done by Leslie Francis, amongst others, on character and personality types in ministry (e.g., Francis and Robbins 2004). Francis has found that many ordained ministers are not best suited by personality to the roles that they have to perform. An implication might be taken to be that the churches should either change the jobs they require their clergy to do or amend their criteria of selection. This might be a sensible, indeed merciful line to pursue. However, here as elsewhere, the facts do not speak for themselves. Just because certain things may happen to be the case does not mean that other kinds of considerations should be excluded. Thus it is important in thinking about ministers and their roles not merely to think about organisational and personal well-being, but also to think about theology, specifically here the theology of ministry and vocation. It may be that theological considerations need to be taken as seriously as ‘factual’ ones here. It is certainly not appropriate that psychology and organisational behaviour should be regarded as the only explanatory frameworks to be used in determining clerical recruitment. However, to maintain the importance of the theological here, including any wisdom that it might provide, might be hard work in the face of overwhelming facts gathered from psychological research. Thus theological knowledge, insight and understanding are likely to function over time as epiphenomena, even in organisations that see themselves as taking theology seriously.

Narrowness and specialisation The hegemony of ‘scientific’ knowledge and its ways of thinking encourages narrowness and specialisation so that individuals and disciplinary groups know more and more about less and less. The trend is towards greater specialisation, with specialists content to plough deep, narrow furrows rather than lifting their eyes to wider horizons. This kind of narrowing, which is pervasive but not inevitable in humanities disciplines, has considerable dangers for theology generally and PT in particular. If the some of the main concerns of this discipline should be taking a wide view of the world and engaging with big questions such as the meaning and purpose of existence, the possibilities of human development,

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teleologies, worldviews etc., narrowing into a small, specialist agenda will tend to betray its significance and purpose. There has been a disastrous narrowing of philosophy modelling itself on science (Midgley 1989). Philosophy in many of its twentieth-century forms such as logical positivism reckoned to attend in an expert way only to narrow and technical questions and terms. It prescinded from investigating larger and more general human questions that urgently needed its attentions and wilfully marginalised itself into an esoteric, fragmented technical cul de sac (cf. Rorty 1980). While this may have helped to avoid accusations of grandiose speculation and intellectual dominance, it also evacuated the discipline of any universal human interest and wisdom. If PT becomes too narrowly preoccupied with empirically understanding small parts of the ecclesiastical and theological firmament, we may have succeeded in making our activity more ‘doable’, finite and explicit. However, we may lose the very elements which make our discipline of the greatest value to humanity, e.g., understanding and interpreting that which is of ultimate significance for existence, but which cannot easily be treated of in propositional as opposed to metaphorical and creative terms. An agricultural analogy which might be illuminating is the contrast between organic and industrial farming. While industrial agriculture is intensive, focussed and specialised, producing standardised predictable products for a well defined market, there is also a place for non-standardised produce grown in a more diverse ecology, more slowly and less predictably. I would argue that producing worthwhile and ‘tasty’ theology should be more like organic rather than industrial farming. But it will be costly to follow this more general and less clearly defined route to knowledge, both humanly and probably financially.

Defensive thinking and researching versus speculative, risky, non-standard work Midgley (1989, 2001) believes that the amassing of facts, narrowness, and some of the other dangers that empiricism and scientism pose for academic disciplines, are partly due to innate defensiveness. Scientistic thinking is risk-averse; it declines to engage with large questions and with issues that are not susceptible to some kind of standard solution. Hence, much empirical scientific research and especially social scientific research that is carried out is repetitive and unadventurous. It adds little to the total of human understanding or wisdom and wastes much time for researchers and subjects alike. If PT follows the example of cultivating defensiveness and avoiding speculative risky work, it will be much diminished. Part of the job of theology is precisely to think broadly and to think differently, to ask ultimate questions

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about reality and life. Part of the reason that theology is not much regarded in or outside the academy is precisely because it has often failed to engage with the questions that really bother people; questions which may not be susceptible to a single or easy answer, or even any kind of answer at all, but which are infinitely worth considering. It is because theology has failed to continue to ask large questions about the meaning of life that is has become neither good, imaginative art nor careful, evidence-based science. The last thing that PT in its concern for universal human flourishing needs is a further narrowing of its thinking, questions and research methods. In a time of conceptual crisis, PT should be at the forefront of new understandings of what it is or might be to be human. Empiricism, neat and tidy in method and questions, threatens to draw this discipline into a narrowing of its concerns so that practical theologians become as straitened in their concerns as any other academic discipline.

Loss of narrative-based research and concern about worldviews and discourse There is an interesting divide in medicine at the moment between those who advocate evidence-based practice based on scientific knowledge and evidence which is true of populations as a whole, and those who advocate for narrative-based practice which attends in a case-based way to the specifics of individuals, their contexts and stories (Greenhalgh and Hurwitz 1998). The temptation for the evidence advocates is to establish practice only in accordance with what is generally true at a statistical level, then to ignore individuals’ subjective perceptions of their own needs. While these two ways of looking at providing for health needs are not always incompatible they exist in a good deal of tension. Witness the subjective perception of parents based on anecdotal and informal evidence that MMR vaccine may not be good for their child while the scientifically aware doctors are equally clear that all infants should be vaccinated to provide cohort immunity (Pattison 2001). While pastoral care and practical theology are still a long way from becoming narrowly evidence-based, the tendency towards empiricism, measuring the effects of religious interventions etc., is already present. To the extent that this prevents wasted effort and misperception, it is to be welcomed. But to the extent that this way of thinking may distract PT from engaging with religious narratives, personal narratives and the business of thinking about and interpreting meanings, it does provide some dangers. One of the reasons that it is very difficult to have proper moral conversations may be because we have given up on developing shared discourse and stories. We therefore cannot discuss important issues of teleology, the nature of well-being, human purpose and common action-guiding worldviews. Instead, everything fragments into statistics and images which support rational instrumentality which prescinds from teleology, on the one hand,

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and anecdotes and private experience which support individualistic consumer choice on the other. Perhaps this is such a deep cultural problem that PT cannot be expected to avoid, let alone resolve, it. However, a discipline emerging from a religious tradition that depends on communal and individual stories and which sets interpretation at its centre should not surrender easily to rational instrumentalism based on so-called ‘hard’ evidence. Equally, the quest to discern and criticise action-guiding worldviews, as well as to imagine possibilities, should not be lightly forsaken. Every human endeavour depends upon undergirding, taken-for-granted worldviews, including science (Browning 1987). It is important that PT should give primacy to the importance of this inescapable dimension of existence if possibilities are to be kept alive and dreams are to be nurtured. Otherwise, we are stuck with simply managing the present as a problem of technique without having the possibility of imagining something more, or something better. One of the problems with theology in general is that is has become very bad at using words, concepts and metaphors interestingly and well in such a way that it ‘cuts reality at its joints’ (Pattison 2000). The move towards the empirical may further deepen this incapacity, imprisoning people in a world at the ‘end of history’ in which there is no room for the importance of life-giving meanings which open up new possibilities. Bean-counting should not be substituted for understanding and working with living meanings and life-giving theological insights into the nature of existence.

The loss of subjectivity, insight, wisdom, intuition and the intrinsically valuable and interesting Many of the social sciences were established and have flourished because of the need to govern and control societies and communities (Rose 1989). They are thus often overtly instrumental in their concerns. Their findings add a degree of authority and objectivity to political and other organisational activities. In her various works on science and the arts, Midgley calls for more recognition of the need to take subjectivity, insight and intuition seriously. These ways of understanding are not more important than evidence gained objectively. Rather, they provide equally important evidence about the nature of reality. While science may be good for understanding simple systems, where complex, multi-factorial systems come into play, as they do all the time with human beings as individuals and societies, the scientific paradigm is of limited use (cf. Smith 1998). Equally, there is need to cultivate wisdom and deep understanding of the things that matter to people. It is also important to value that which is of intrinsic worth – music, poetry, good philosophy – but which cannot easily be measured or controlled.

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Stivers (2001) argues that good work in the humanities is always basically of intrinsic, rather than extrinsic, or instrumental value. Midgley (1989, p.137) puts it more strikingly when she points out that great philosophy ‘sings’. It provides a deepening of perception and experience which is of immense but unquantifiable value. If PT gets taken up with instrumental rationality and manipulation based on a fundamentally empiricist method and ‘objective’ approach to life to demonstrate its usefulness, it may lose its capacity to nurture depth and wisdom. It will never sing profound songs that nurture insight and understanding (though it might manage the odd shrill, repetitive ditty). It will become a second-rate kind of social science rather than a first-rate theology that feeds human needs for insight and understanding. PT should be a species of Geisteswissenschaft, a science of the spirit and the soul, attending to insight and understanding not the simple acquisition of facts (Kitwood 1990). Without a fundamental commitment to the deep study of human meanings, purposes and worldviews, PT may well not be worth attending to at all. Better good social science which often contains much perceptive wisdom than bad PT that apes it inadequately. Of course, the commitment to depth of understanding and insight in theory and practice will not lead to rapid results or direct usefulness. But if this commitment is not made, it is difficult to see why PT should continue to exist at all, particularly as a theological discipline. This brings us, in conclusion, directly to some consideration of the nature and identity of PT and its purpose and value.

Establishing identity and role for PT It is likely that PT will continue to become more empirically influenced in its concerns, methods and findings. The progress in this direction is seems inexorable; in many ways it is also desirable. It is important not to be Luddite or alarmist. While there may be a kind of slippery slope to empiricism, the move towards it is not inevitable and need not be mindless. Slopes can be skilfully and usefully negotiated and one does not have to end up at the bottom just because one has started at the top. We need the methods and findings of empiricism in many ways – we can’t know too much about human beings. Christian theology emanates from a humanistic religion focussed on the central doctrine of God becoming human. Nothing human is alien to Christian theology. So it is desirable that all possible sources for understanding the human condition are drawn upon. These must include insights and methods drawn from the social sciences. However, these methods and insights must be used and contextualised within an overall theological search for meaning and value, and not become ends in themselves. Insofar as adopting them structures the fundamental worldview, character and purpose of PT, this may be harmful (cf. Pattison 1997). In many

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ways, it is the scientistic worldview and values embodied within empirical methods that are more problematic than the methods themselves. My problem is not with the benefits, evidence, knowledge and understanding that social scientific methods might bring to PT. Rather, I am concerned that these may supplant other functions and roles that PT should adopt, narrowing its concerns and thus losing its distinctive contribution and identity. Dilution by paradigm imperialism from the social sciences is most likely to occur if PT has a weak sense of its own purpose and mission, as often appears the case. If PT develops a reasonably clear normative vision of its own place and role in the academic and ecclesiastical firmament it can keep empiricism in perspective and make use of its methods and insights rather than surrendering to them. So now a few words about what a normative vision of PT might be. Before turning to the specific nature of theology, I want to assert the fundamental importance of PT conceiving of itself as a humane and humanist discipline. While I reject the absolute distinction between art and science, if forced to make an option for being empirically and technologically based or hanging on to a notion of itself as a discipline of interpretation, wisdom and understanding, PT must cleave to, and develop, the latter. Tom Kitwood, a great humanist who left theology to pursue the hard science of psychology, asserted that his adoptive discipline needed to ground itself as an art rather than a science or technology: Psychology…cannot remain a poor relation of natural science or a ward of prestigious technology, but has to take its ground as an art, informed by a critical discourse about action and experience, grounded as far as possible on empirical data. …[I]t is fundamentally a Geisteswissenschaft, a human science, a science of meaning. (Kitwood 1990, p.64)

As a preliminary move, PT needs constantly to remind itself that it should think of itself as a Geisteswissenschaft, a disciplined knowledge and understanding of the human spirit. As long as Geist survives, there will be a need for those who seriously want to understand and explore it. Turning to theology proper, perhaps the best place to start is with the ‘father’ of the discipline, St Paul, and one of the central tenets of Christian theology, the cross: The doctrine of the cross is sheer folly to those on the way to ruin… Jews call for miracles, Greeks look for wisdom; but we proclaim Christ – yes, Christ nailed to the cross; and though this is a stumbling-block to Jews and folly to Greeks, yet to those who have heard his call, Jews and Greeks alike, he is the power of God and

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the wisdom of God. Divine folly is wiser than the wisdom of men, and divine weakness stronger than men’s strength. (1 Cor. 1.18, 22–5, NEB)

It is important to return to Paul, the cross, and the great inversion implied in the incarnation because in academic theology we are constantly in danger of forgetting that the foundations of our subject matter and its raison d’être are a-rational, deviant and evangelical. Although we use the tools of critical reason and scholarship to understand religious faith and practice and its significance, we are explorers within a faith tradition; some of our most distinguished and creative predecessors have been labelled as mad! This basic a-rationality, even folly or madness, means that theology should probably never feel comfortable in the academy, nor should the academy feel comfortable accommodating it. As the distinguished theologian Roland Walls said to a colleague of mine, as they were walking along: ‘Of course, you know, theology is all nonsense.’ He went on to add: ‘But it’s only a little nonsense, so that’s all right.’ He then promptly fell into a ditch! Walls ceased to be a professional theological teacher because he felt that people knew less about God and the mystery of life when they had studied theology than they knew before. I fear that many kinds of theology are still having this reductive effect on practitioners and students. In this sense, academic theology proves itself anti-evangelical. I would prefer to see the purpose and role of theology, including PT, as being imaginatively to combine elements of faith and tradition with facts or data in order to evoke a humanising response (cf. Ashton 1991, pp.433–4). Ultimately, the value of Christian theology per theology is that it casts a strong and, in many ways, strange light from the insider perspective of faith on the taken for granted and acceptable, providing a bigger vision and value-filled worldview of what might be possible in creation. Christianity, together with the theology that helps it to understand itself and the world, is potent, exotic stuff. It should never be tamed or limited by a particular kind of rationality or the methods and expectations of the academy. Perhaps, then, it is appropriate that PT should remain on the margins of theology, itself a marginalized minority discipline within the modern academy. PT should define itself as a confessional science of the human spirit. It should combine faith with facts to evoke a humanising response. Within this overall self-understanding PT should self-consciously aim to be a practically engaged, actively humanising discipline, both humane in its concerns (which might include laughter and tears, care and all the complex matters of the heart and spirit) and civilising in its effects. Following the paradigm of ratio-instrumental utility, there may be a temptation for PT to be over-engaged in problem

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solving and manipulation and I am generally arguing here for more priority and value to be given to understanding and the importance of the intrinsic. However, PT is not just understanding for understanding’s sake. To be educated and understand more is to change self and others, as many adult learners witness. In this respect, PT like medicine and other disciplines with an applied aspect should embrace its capacity to change as well as to understand the world. The importance of overall visions and worldviews in determining human behaviour and priorities should not be underestimated. Humanising and civilising may be somewhat diffuse, oblique activities, but they are vitally important if the horizons of human possibility and action are to be kept open. PT should seek to be transformational. Following on from this, PT should perhaps see one of its main functions as being to explore, enrich and nurture imagination, and thus perhaps to engender, at least some of the time, joy and delight. It is interesting that recent theologians have returned to the importance of imagination for religion, with one writer claiming that ‘religion is an activity of the human imagination’ which forms ‘the point of contact between divine revelation and human experience’ (Green 1998, pp.39, 40. Cf. Brown 1999; Brueggemann 1993). It is also heartening to see practical theologians beginning to experiment overtly with nurturing imagination and the aesthetic dimension as a way of enriching both theory and practice (Tomlinson 2001). Hopefully, this will produce the sort of intrinsic effects and satisfactions that Mary Warnock identifies in discussing Coleridge and imagination: Shaping imagination is identified here with ‘joy’ [by Coleridge]. … Joy suggests an inexplicable and mysterious delight, an excitement and satisfaction, and a conviction that the experience is worth having for itself, not for any consequences that it may bring. To ‘enjoy’ is to delight in something for itself. Joy is therefore a central concept both for aesthetic theory, and for any investigation of the intrinsic satisfactions of understanding. (Warnock 1994, pp.33–4)

For many in the contemporary world, like the poet Wallace Stevens (1965, p.142), imagination is the ‘necessary angel’ which transforms and transfigures experience and existence. Things may have come to a sad pass when theology in general and PT in particular is not a normally a place where one might hope to hear the necessary angel host sing. Closely related to the nurture of imagination and the valuing of the intrinsic which brings joy in understanding is the need for PT to recognise the importance of love, awe, wonder and fascination in seeking knowledge and understanding. The will to

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knowledge, even in science, is often not driven by the need for control or power, but drawn by an antecedent fascination and attentive gaze which involves contemplation and love leading to wonder (Midgley 1989, pp.41–2; cf. Murdoch 1985). Much scientific analysis itself increases these qualities and phenomena which we might want to dub ‘spiritual’. When Newton analysed the rainbow into its component parts, some saw it as an unweaving of mystery and value; for others, it was an enhancement of their appreciation of those things (Midgley 2001, pp.53–4). PT should endeavour to nurture human wisdom, insight and understanding. Facts and evidence are important, but they are not in short supply. If anything, it is meaning which needs attention. ‘When knowledge is…equated with information, understanding is pushed into the background and the notion of wisdom is quite forgotten’ (Midgley 1991, p.45). Midgley goes on, ‘If thinking [and growing – SP] is our professional concern, then wisdom and wonder are our business; information storage…is just an incidental convenience’ (Midgley 1991, p.253). As humanistic scientists, it must be the concern of practical theologians to try to cleave to the big picture and to nurture meaningful connections. The distinctive criterion of our disciplinary success will be success in creating the ‘white heat of considerable new insight’ (Midgley 1991, p.178). This suggests giving considerable importance in our endeavours to the things that really matter to people and focussing upon the inhabited worldviews with their constitutive narratives and meanings that are used to structure life and work. A number of thinkers in counselling who have in the past devoted a good deal of time to empirical work and measurement are now turning much more centrally to meanings and narratives in their work (McLeod 1997; cf. Pattison and Lynch 2002). It is entirely to be welcomed that PT is now also taking a similar direction, particularly under the aegis of feminist and womanist theorists (Stoyle 2001; Walton 1999, 2001). It would be good to see PT taking more interest in words and metaphors that can cut reality at its joints. One of the problems with theology in general is that it has become so poor at interpreting and using words, both analytically and creatively. In this sense, we fully participate in the abandonment of meaningful linguistic discourse in the world to which Stivers (2001) points. All of which implies certain things about the method and mode of PT endeavour. Contemplation is in fact ‘a genuinely central element in human existence’ (Midgley 1989, p.150). Contemplation, rumination, reverie, hovering attention – and perhaps even hovering inattention – need to be valued more highly as main constitutive methods in our discipline. It should not need scientists to remind us that a mixture of the empirical and the reflective is probably the optimum way of trying to engage in creative and wise activity. In a way, we need to internalise the dictum, ‘Don’t just do something, stand there’! Contemplative attention in the quest for insight

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and wisdom will not produce many, or rapid results. However, this is the price that must be paid if we are to be true to our distinctive vocation: Wisdom which is loved and truly valued is seen to be something difficult, which it will take time to search for. Accordingly, when philosophy is being properly used, the bystanders will have to curb their impatience, much like hasty customers who cannot see why the skilled mechanic insists on doing things so slowly. (Midgley 1989, p.96)

Despite the urgency of the problems and situations which face PT and the morally concerned activism which often characterises its practitioners, there may be something to be said for a clear option for slow thinking which involves whole persons for protracted lengths of time. I am reminded of the first experiential theologians encountering God and themselves in the desert. ‘Go, sit in your cell,’ said Abbot Moses in Scete, ‘and your cell will teach you everything’ (Merton 1974, p.30). If I fail to find time to think and reflect, I am unlikely to produce much that is of real value to others. The quest for PT that goes beyond transitory relevance is perhaps idealistic, but the alternative is just to be facile and shrill. Productive, but not generative. Knowledgeable but not wise. We need perhaps to remember that the proverbial contribution to knowledge required in the PhD (an ironically named qualification if ever there was one!) is not necessarily a contribution to understanding or wisdom. Which brings me to the need for PT to be creative and illuminative, not just analytic, active and useful. At its best, PT might amongst other things provide space where people as individuals and communities reflect and grow in relation to ideas and experiences that they can savour. Midgley writes: When we read the great philosophers and historians, they speak to us, not as anonymous robots, but as whole people, each in their own distinctive voices. If we listen seriously to them at all, we hear a person speaking, not just a flow of ticker-tape information emitted by a knowledge-machine. In fact, the great philosophers all sing. (Midgley 1991, p.137, emphasis original)

I find it difficult to think of contemporary practical theologians whose work really ‘sings’. Equally, I find it difficult to think of much work that has the sort of effect on people’s worldviews and action that some poets do: ‘Of a poet of genius [Coleridge] says “You feel him to be a poet inasmuch as for a time he has made you one, an active creative being”’ (Warnock 1994, p.43). While I do not want to fall into the trap of wholly aestheticising PT, I could wish for myself and others that

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our discipline was slightly more apt in helping people to become active, creative beings in its concerns, methods, conclusions and ways of presenting itself. I have strayed some way from my speculative account of the incipient dangers of empiricism and scientism invading PT and a very long way from my original question: Is PT, or should it be, an art or a science? I have used the latter part of the paper to argue that, while PT should certainly welcome and use the insights and methods of empirical disciplines, it needs also to develop its own identity and purpose if it is to avoid a takeover that is likely to make it neither good creative art nor good analytic science. PT needs to remember itself as a humanistic discipline, indeed a confessional theological discipline, whose main concern should be wisdom, insight, understanding and broad vision not the acquisition of facts or the cultivation of an ever-smaller area of esoteric specialisation. This is a counter-cultural, even quixotic perspective in modern society and the contemporary academy. If Stivers (2001) is right about the dominance of technologisation and the decline of discourse, then the battle is probably already lost and I am a dinosaur awaiting extinction. Thankfully, however, I am not the only theologian arguing for a bigger view of the academy and its role in individual and social life. In his address to Cardiff University on accepting an honorary fellowship in 2002, Rowan Williams challenged the university thus: ‘A university, when it is working well, serves not only the solving of problems, it serves vision and it serves hope; it serves, in short, how we define what it is to be human.’ He went on to call for ‘institutions that will serve vision, imagination and hope’ (Williams 2003). If this call to imaginative exploration of all that it is to be human is taken to be the calling of a university as a whole, in all its disciplines, it would be no less than tragic if theology in general and PT in particular were not to be part of that exploration because of an unthinking surrender to paradigm imperialism. PT is both art and science. But if being a science means narrowing and bean-counting, then PT must assert its vocation to be a humane art, a discourse of depth and expansion in the service of that which lies both within and beyond our imaginings. In skilfully performing its own distinctive role it may act as a ‘necessary angel’ not only to the community of faith from which it emanates, but also in the wider academic and social communities from which it should never seek to separate itself. It may thus contribute ‘fragments’ of wisdom to those who do not really recognise their need for them but whose lives will be steadily impoverished without them (cf. Forrester 1997, ch. 8; MacIntyre 1981, pp.104–5).

Bibliography Ashton, J. (1991) Understanding the Fourth Gospel. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ballard, P. (2000) ‘The Emergence of Pastoral and Practical Theology in Britain.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Berger, P. (1997) Redeeming Laughter: The Comic Dimension of Human Experience. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Brown, D. (1999) Tradition and Imagination: Revelation and Change. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brown, R. (1989) A Poetic for Sociology: Towards a Logic of Discovery for the Human Sciences. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Browning, D. (1987) Religious Thought and the Modern Psychologies. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Brueggemann, W. (1993) The Bible and the Postmodern Imagination. London: SCM Press. Fevre, R. (2000) The Demoralization of Western Culture. London: Continuum. Forrester, D. (1997) Christian Justice and Public Policy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Francis, L. and Robbins, M. (2004) Personality and the Practice of Ministry. Cambridge: Grove Books. Frank, A. (1995) The Wounded Storyteller. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Gergen, K. (1991) The Saturated Self. New York: Basic Books. Gergen, K. (1994) Realities and Relationships. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Goffman, E. (1971) The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Green, G. (1998) Imagining God: Theology and the Religious Imagination. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Greenhalgh, T. and Hurwitz B. (eds) (1998) Narrative Based Medicine: Dialogue and Discourse in Clinical Practice. London: BMJ. Henderson, J. (2003) ‘What is wrong with pastoral theology?’ British Journal of Theological Education 13, 2, 107–17. Karp, D. (1996) Speaking of Sadness. Oxford: Oxford University Press Kitwood, T. (1990) Concern for Others: A New Psychology of Conscience and Morality. London: Routledge Latour, B and Woolgar, S. (1986) Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Latour, B. (1993) We Have Never Been Modern. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lynch, G. (1999) ‘Exploring the client’s view: An agenda for empirical research in pastoral care and counselling.’ Contact 128, 22–8. MacIntyre, A. (1981) After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. London: Duckworth. McLeod, J. (1997) Narrative and Psychotherapy. London: Sage. Merton, T. (1974) The Wisdom of the Desert. London: Sheldon Press. Midgley, M. (1989) Wisdom, Information and Wonder. London: Routledge. Midgley, M. (2001) Science and Poetry. London: Routledge. Murdoch, I. (1985) The Sovereignty of Good. London: ARK. Pattison, S. (1986) ‘The Use of the Behavioural Sciences in Pastoral Studies.’ In P. Ballard (ed.) The Foundations of Pastoral Studies and Pastoral Theology. Cardiff: HOLI. Pattison, S. (1994) Pastoral Care and Liberation Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pattison, S. (1997) The Faith of the Managers: When Management Becomes Religion. London: Cassell. Pattison, S. (2000) A Critique of Pastoral Care. Third edn. London: SCM Press. Pattison, S. (2001) ‘Dealing with uncertainty.’ British Medical Journal 323, 7317, 840 Pattison, S. and Lynch, G. (2002) ‘Counselling goes to church: aspects of the pastoral in John McLeod’s narrative constructionist counselling and psychotherapy.’ Contact 137, 14–24. Ritzer, G. (1996) The McDonaldization of Society. Rev. edn. London: Sage. Rorty, R. (1980) Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Rose, N. (1989) Governing the Soul: The Shaping of the Private Self. London: Routledge. Smith, M. (1998) Social Science in Question. London: Sage. Stevens, W. (1965) Selected Poems. London: Faber and Faber. Stivers, R. (2001) Technology as Magic: The Triumph of the Irrational. New York: Continuum. Stoyle, J. (2001) ‘Did a woman tell this story? Using revisioning as a method of theological reflection.’ Contact 135, 22–8 Tomlinson, A. (2001) Training God’s Spies. Edinburgh: Contact Pastoral. Walton, H. (1999) ‘Passion and pain: conceiving theology out of infertility.’ Contact 130, 3–9. Walton, H. (2001) ‘The wisdom of Sheba: constructing feminist practical theology.’ Contact 135, 3–12. Warnock, M. (1994) Imagination and Time. Oxford: Blackwell. Williams, R. (2003) ‘Vision, imagination and the University.’ Cardiff Higher Education Chaplaincy Newsletter 4, 2002, 1–2.

Stephen Pattison: Principal Publications 1980–2005 Sole authored publications Works included in the present volume have the number of their position after the main details, viz [1]. (1980) ‘Images of inadequacy: some theoretical models of hospital chaplaincy.’ Contact 69, 6–15. (1982) ‘Pastoral studies: dust bin or discipline?’ Contact 80, 22–6 [18]. (1983) ‘Medico-religious dialogue and co-operation: an epilogue?’ Contact 84, 8–17. (1984) ‘Health and healing.’ Community 38, 8. (1985) ‘A Quiet Revolution: Pastoral Studies 1964–1985.’ In F. Young and G. Wakefield (eds) Second City Soundings. Birmingham: Methodist Church. (1986a) ‘Mentally ill people: a challenge to the churches.’ Modern Churchperson 29, 1, 28–38. (1986b) ‘Here today, gone tomorrow: the plight of theology in English universities.’ Church Times, 28 November, 11, 13, 16. (1986c) ‘Pastoral care and worship.’ In J.G. Davies (ed.) A New Dictionary of Liturgy and Worship. London: SCM Press. (1986d) ‘The Use of the Behavioural Sciences in Pastoral Studies.’ In P. Ballard (ed.) The Foundations of Pastoral Studies and Practical Theology. Cardiff: HOLI [19]. (1986e) ‘Research, Resources and Threats.’ In P. Ballard (ed.) The Foundations of Pastoral Studies and Practical Theology. Cardiff: HOLI. (1987a) (ed.) Mental Handicap, Theology and Pastoral Care. Birmingham: University of Birmingham Department of Theology. (1987b) ‘The judgment of AIDS.’ Contact 94, 26–32. (1987c) ‘Community care of the mentally ill and handicapped: vision and reality.’ Religion and Medicine 3, 281–5. (1987d) ‘Political Theology and Pastoral Care.’ In A.V. Campbell (ed.) A Dictionary of Pastoral Care. London: SPCK. (1987e) ‘Systems Pastoral Care.’ In A.V. Campbell (ed.) A Dictionary of Pastoral Care. London: SPCK. (1988) A Critique of Pastoral Care. London: SCM Press. (1989a) Alive and Kicking: Towards a Practical Theology of Illness and Healing. London: SCM Press. (1989b) ‘Some straw for the bricks: a basic introduction to theological reflection.’ Contact 99, 2–9. Reprinted in J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds.) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell, 1999. (1990a) ‘Healing: a flight from definition.’ Contact 101, 7–11 [9]. (1990b) ‘To the Churches with Love from the Lighthouse.’ In J. Woodward (ed.) Embracing the Chaos. London: SPCK [11]. (1991a) ‘All change in the NHS.’ Contact 104, 3–5. (1991b) ‘A change for the better?’ Contact 104, 27–9.

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(1991c) ‘Seeing justice done.’ Counselling 2, 95–7. (1991d) ‘Masters of change.’ Health Service Journal 101, 5276, 23. (1991e) ‘A decade of managerialism?’ Crucible July–September, 143. (1992a) ‘Mystical management: a religious critique of general management in the public sector.’ Modern Churchperson 33, 3, 17–27. Reprinted in R. Gill (ed.) Theology and Sociology. London: Cassell, 1996. (1992b) ‘A response to Grace Jantzen, “Connection or competition: identity and personhood in feminist ethics”.’ Studies in Christian Ethics 5, 1, 21–5. (1992c) ‘Glossing over the facts.’ Health Service Journal 102, 5319, 23. (1993a) A Critique of Pastoral Care. Second rev. edn. London: SCM Press. (1993b) ‘Theories of Pastoral Care.’ In A. McGrath (ed.) The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Modern Christian Thought. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. (1994a) Pastoral Care and Liberation Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (1994b) ‘Re-review article of J. Hick, Death and Eternal Life.’ Modern Believing 35, 2, 31–5. (1994c) ‘The value of ethics.’ Local Government Studies 20, 4, 547–53 [3]. (1994d) ‘Making Cities Human: The Role of Pastoral Theology.’ Christians in Public Life Position Paper B14. (1995a) ‘The shadow side of Jesus in scripture and church.’ Studies in Christian Ethics 8, 2, 54–67 [17]. (1995b) ‘The Emperor’s new verbs.’ Local Government Studies 21, 4, 539–45. (1995c) ‘Can we speak of God in the secular academy?’ In F. Young (ed.) Dare We Speak of God in Public? London: Cassell [15]. (1995d) ‘Review article of J. Nelson and S. Longfellow, eds, Sexuality and the Sacred.’ Reviews in Religion and Theology 1, 17–23. (1995e) ‘Why we are not all disabled.’ All People: Disability and Today’s Church 70, 5. (1996a) ‘Change management in the British National Health Service: a worm’s eye critique.’ Health Care Analysis 4, 3, 252–8. (1996b) ‘Should pastoral care have aims and objectives?’ Contact 120, 26–34. (1996c) ‘On managing hypothesis 1.’ Local Government Studies 22, 4, 139–45. (1997a) The Faith of the Managers: When Management Becomes Religion. London: Cassell. (1997b) Pastoral Care and Liberation Theology. London: SPCK. (1998a) ‘Frustrated with sex: some observations on Christian approaches to sex and sexuality.’ Modern Believing 39, 3, 5–12 [12]. (1998b) ‘Suffer little children: the challenge of child abuse and neglect to theology.’ Journal of Theology and Sexuality 9, 36–58 [13]. (1998c) ‘Questioning values.’ Health Care Analysis 6, 352–9 [1]. (1999) ‘Are professional codes ethical?’ Counselling 10, 5, 374–80 [3]. (2000a) Shame: Theory, Therapy, Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (2000b) A Critique of Pastoral Care. Third edn. London: SCM Press. (2000c) ‘Some Objections to Aims and Objectives.’ In G. Evans and M. Percy (eds) Managing the Church? Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press [7]. (2000d) ‘Michael Wilson: pioneering pastoral theologian.’ Contact 131, 3–11. (2000e) ‘Faithful management or managing the faithful?’ Foundations 3, 1, 6–9 [6].

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(2000f) ‘Recognising Leaders’ Hidden Beliefs.’ In R. Banks and K. Powell (eds) Faith in Leadership. San Franciso: Jossey Bass [5]. (2000g) ‘The trouble with values.’ Journal of Healthcare Chaplaincy 3, 2, 3–10 [2]. (2000h) ‘Public theology: a polemical epilogue.’ Political Theology 2, 57–75 [16]. (2000i) ‘Organisational spirituality: an exploration.’ Modern Believing 41, 2, 12–20 [8]. (2000j) ‘Why are you afraid? Reflections on institutional change.’ College of Health Care Chaplains’ Study Conference Proceedings, 3rd–6th July 2000. (2000k) ‘Health and Healing.’ In A. Hastings (ed.) The Oxford Companion to Christian Thought. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (2000l) ‘Management and Practical Theology.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. (2001a) ‘Hazard lights.’ Health Service Journal 111, 5711, 27. (2001b) ‘Dumbing Down the Spirit.’ In H. Orchard (ed.) Spirituality in Health Care Communities. London: Jessica Kingsley [10]. (2001c) ‘User Involvement and Participation in the NHS.’ In T. Heller, R. Muston, M. Siddel and C. Lloyd (eds) Working for Health. London: Sage. (2001d) ‘Dealing with uncertainty.’ British Medical Journal 323, 7317, 840. (2001e) ‘Are nursing codes of practice ethical?’ Nursing Ethics 8, 1, 5–18. (2001f) ‘Mend the gap: Christianity and the emotions.’ Contact 134, 3–9 [14]. (2002) ‘Political Context of Pastoral Care.’ In W. Carr et al. (eds) The New Dictionary of Pastoral Studies. London: SPCK. (2003) ‘Medical humanities: a vision and some cautionary notes.’ Medical Humanites 29, 1, 33–36. (2004) ‘Understanding Values.’ In S. Pattison and R. Pill (eds) Values in Practice. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. (2005) ‘Using theology and religious studies.’ Discourse 4, 2, 136–50.

Jointly authored publications (by year of publication) Pattison, S. and Armitage, P. (1986) ‘An ethical analysis of the policies of British community and hospital care for mentally ill people.’ Journal of Medical Ethics 12, 136–40, 142. Pattison, S., Bellamy, P., Easter, B. and Wilson, M. (1988) ‘James Mathers: a critical assessment.’ Contact 97, 29–32. Pattison, S., Bellamy, P. and Easter, B. (1989) ‘Evaluating pastoral studies placements.’ Contact 99, 9–14. Armitage, P. and Pattison, S. (1990) ‘Hospital or Community Care of Severely Mentally Disabled People: An Ethical Analysis.’ In M. Featherstone (ed.) The Future of Adult Life: First International Conference Proceedings 5, 133–8. Pattison, S. and Player, D. (1990) ‘Health Education: The Political Tensions.’ In S. Doxiadis (ed.) Ethical Issues in Health Education. Chichester: John Wiley and Sons. Pattison, S. and Player, D. (1991) ‘Poor could do better: what the NHS reforms will do for inequalities in health.’ Contact 104, 17–20. Heller, T., Bailey, L. and Pattison, S. (eds) (1992) Preventing Cancers. Buckingham: Open University Press. Heller, T., Baines, S. and Pattison, S. (1993) ‘Reducing the risk of cancers.’ European Journal of Cancer 29A, 11, 1643–7.

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Pattison, S. with Woodward, J. (1994) A Vision of Pastoral Theology. Edinburgh: Contact Pastoral Monographs. Reprinted in S. Pattison, A Critique of Pastoral Care. Third edn. London: SCM Press, 2000. Seale, C. and Pattison, S. (eds) (1994) Medical Knowledge: Doubt and Certainty. Buckingham: Open University Press. Heller, T., Gomm, R., Reynolds, J., Muston, R. and Pattison, S. (eds) (1996) Mental Health Matters. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Paton, R. and Pattison, S. (1996) ‘The religious dimensions of management beliefs.’ Iconoclastic Papers 1, 1. Pattison, S., Malby, B. and Manning, S. (1998) ‘What are we here for?’ Health Service Journal 108, 5595, 26–8. Malby, B. and Pattison, S. (1999) Living Values in the NHS. London: King’s Fund. Pattison, S., Dickenson, D., Parker, M. and Heller, T. (1999) ‘Do case studies mislead about the nature of reality?’ Journal of Medical Ethics 25, 42–6 Pattison, S., Manning, S. and Malby, B. (1999) ‘I want to tell you a story.’ Health Service Journal 109, 5643, 22–4. Pattison, S. and Woodward, J. (2000a) ‘An Introduction to Pastoral and Practical Theology.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. Pattison, S. and Woodward, J. (2000b) ‘Evaluation in Pastoral Theology and Pastoral Care.’ In J. Woodward and S. Pattison (eds) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. Woodward, J. and Pattison, S. (eds) (2000) The Blackwell Reader in Pastoral and Practical Theology. Oxford: Blackwell. Heller, T., Heller, R., Pattison, S. and Fletcher, R. (2001) ‘Treating the patient or the population?’ Western Journal of Medicine 175, 35–7, 104–7. Pattison, S. and Heller, T. (2001) ‘Swimming in the Sea of Ethics and Values.’ In T. Heller, R. Muston, M. Siddel and C. Lloyd (eds) Working for Health. London: Sage. Pattison, S. and Swinton, J. (2001) ‘Come all ye faithful.’ Health Service Journal 111, 5786, 24–5. Seale, C., Davey, B. and Pattison, S. (eds) (2001) Medical Knowledge: Doubt and Certainty. Rev. edn. Buckingham: Open University Press. Ballard, P. and Pattison, S. (2002) ‘Ambiguity and opportunity: appraising practical theology.’ Contact 139, 15–23. Crosby, K., Pattison, S. and Skilton, A. (2002) ‘Supporting questioning in theology and religious studies.’ PRS-LTSN Journal 2, 58–89. Pattison, S. and Lynch, G. (2002) ‘Counselling goes to church: aspects of the “pastoral” in John McLeod’s narrative constructionist counselling and psychotherapy.’ Contact 137, 14–24. Ballard, P. and Pattison, S. (2003) ‘Practical theological education: a profile.’ British Journal of Theological Education 13, 2, 97–105. Heller, R., Heller, T. and Pattison, S. (2003) ‘Putting the public back into public health.’ Public Health 117, 62–71. Pattison, S., Thompson, J. and Green, J. (2003) ‘Theological reflection for the real world: time to think again.’ British Journal of Theological Education 13, 2, 119–31. Pattison, S. and Pill, R. (eds) (2004a) Values in Professional Practice: Lessons for Health, Social Care and Other Professionals. Oxford: Radcliffe Press.

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Pattison, S. and Pill, R. (2004b) ‘Introduction.’ In S. Pattison and R. Pill (eds) Values in Professional Practice. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. Pattison, S. and Pill, R. (2004c) ‘Professions and Values: A Dynamic Relationship.’ In S. Pattison and R. Pill (eds) Values in Practice. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. Pill, R., Wainwright, P., McNamee, M. and Pattison, S. (2004) ‘Understanding Professions and Professionals in the Context of Values.’ In S. Pattison and R. Pill (eds) Values in Professional Practice. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. Wainwright, P. and Pattison, S. (2004) ‘What Can we Expect of Professional Codes of Conduct, Practice and Ethics?’ In S. Pattison and R. Pill (eds) Values in Professional Practice. Oxford: Radcliffe Press. Cameron, H. and Pattison, S. (2005) ‘Organisational Studies Strand.’ In H. Cameron, P. Richter, D. Davies and F. Ward (eds) Studying Local Churches: A Handbook. London: SCM Press. Lynch, G. and Pattison, S. (2005) ‘Exploring positive learning experiences in the context of practical theological education.’ Teaching Theology and Religion 8, 3, 144–54. Pattison, S. and Lynch, G. (2005) ‘Pastoral and Practical Theology.’ In D. Ford and R. Muers (eds) The Modern Theologians. Oxford: Blackwell. Thompson, J. and Pattison, S. (2005) ‘Reflecting on reflection: problems and prospects for theological reflection.’ Contact 146, 8–15.

Subject Index abuse 45, 49, 123, 164–84, 213 apocalyptic 15, 173, 182, 183, 187–88, 203, 240 Aquinas, St Thomas 120 Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) 267 asceticism 75 Augustine, St 15, 179, 180, 181, 187, 237 Barth, Karl 149, 219, 227 Beelzebub 231 belief see faith Bible 15, 152, 160, 167, 260 Blair, Tony 40 British Association for Counselling (BAC) 47, 48, 51–55 British Association of Social Workers (BASW) 47, 50, 51, 58 Brown, George 274 Calvinist 114 Campbell, Alastair 16, 18 Canterbury, Archbishop of 83, 181 capitalism 85, 87, 90, 97, 114, 117, 202, 217 Care and Resources for People Affected by HIV/AIDS 147 chaplain 14, 17, 20, 27, 40, 41, 121, 132, 133, 136, 138, 139, 140, 142 charisma 75, 134, 141, 229, 234, 236, 239, 241 children 164–84 church 69, 85, 87–88, 104–08, 120, 122, 128, 146–54, 156, 158, 161–2, 165, 172, 173, 179, 199, 207, 213, 221, 229, 230, 231, 236, 237, 239, 240, 250 Anglican 14, 17, 20, 83, 145, 156, 247 clergy 155, 166, 181, 277 codes of ethics and practice 47–59, 61, 63, 64 Coleridge, Samuel 284, 286

College of Occupational Therapists (COT) 47 Cotter, Jim 162 counselling 11, 47–59, 124, 133, 175, 248, 255, 256, 269, 272, 285 creation 101, 103, 135, 146, 190 customer 76, 77, 85, 88, 97, 102 Davies, Laura 61 death 128, 129, 130, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153, 169, 180 Department for Education and Skills (DfES) 267 Derrida, Jacques 200, 219 doctor see medicine Drucker, Peter 73 dualism 79, 85, 99, 150, 151, 152, 153, 232, 236, 262 DuPree Foundation 69 Dyke, Greg 40 Dyson, Tony 20 Eliot, George 258 embodiment 157, 159, 168, 171, 187, 189, 190 emotion 123, 147, 153, 159, 165, 168, 178, 185–92, 226, 234 empiricism 220, 262, 264, 265, 270–79, 281, 286, 287 Epicureanism 137 equality 48 eschatology 77, 103, 173, 235 ethics 16, 26–8, 47–59, 60–65, 78, 136, 154, 155–63, 166, 233–34 evil 115, 153, 175, 183, 231, 232, 236, 239, 240 fact 124, 258, 262, 263, 276, 277, 285 faith 72, 73, 75–79, 80–81, 138, 140, 165, 180, 197, 201, 203, 204, 208, 209, 214, 217, 218, 219, 220, 222, 227, 233, 239, 250, 251, 283 Faith in the City 226 Feuerbach, Ludwig 39 forgiveness 173, 174, 180 Foucault, Michel 200, 219 Francis, St 120, 237 295

Freud, Sigmund 198, 257 God 13–14, 18, 85, 103, 120, 124–28, 134, 138, 150, 166, 167, 171, 172, 176, 177, 181, 189, 204, 213, 215, 221, 235, 253, 254, 258, 268, 276, 287 Goffman, Erving 274 Graham, Elaine 117 Habermas, Jürgen 200 Handy, Charles 116 healing 120, 123, 125–31, 135, 194, 222, 232 health 14, 17, 20, 26, 201, 221 Hitler, Adolf 42, 136 HIV/AIDS 122, 144–54, 161, 162 Holy Spirit 132, 133, 134, 135, 138, 140, 141, 142, 148, 236 homosexuality 122, 152, 156, 159, 213, 237 hope 103, 176, 209, 233, 287 ideal 32, 48, 49, 166, 196, 220, 229, 232, 233, 234, 237, 239, 249, 273 illness 14, 17, 20, 128, 129, 194, 240 imagination 70, 88, 105, 221, 222, 223, 225, 226, 232, 245, 270, 274, 283, 284, 285, 287 inequality 18, 20, 45 injustice 18 Institute of Measurement and Control 90 interdisciplinarity 16, 17, 18, 28, 200, 214, 244, 245, 249, 252, 253–60, 262 Jenkins, David 209 Jesus Christ 13, 102, 134, 140, 157, 167, 168, 172, 178, 179, 180, 186, 196, 227, 229–42, 253, 254 Jung, Carl 257 justice 48, 49, 61, 102, 141, 145, 154, 237 Kierkegaard, Søren 73

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Kingdom of God 86, 88, 102, 106, 107, 122, 234, 235, 239, 240 King’s Fund 27 Kinsey Institute New Report on Sex 159 leadership 71–82, 87 Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement (LGCM) 156 magic 265, 266 management 32, 60–65, 68, 71–82, 83–89, 205, 207, 227, 246 ‘gurus’ 71, 76, 83 as religion 69, 71–82, 83–89 Managerial and Organisational Disciplines for the Enhancement of Ministry (MODEM) 83 marriage 156, 157, 158, 161, 254 Marx, Karl 198 measurement 70, 76, 77, 86, 90, 92, 98, 107, 205, 263, 276 medicine 11, 21, 233 metaphor 75, 104, 116, 117, 170, 203, 204, 205, 208, 221, 222, 225, 226, 249, 278, 280 ministry 91, 92, 145, 172, 196, 231, 236, 238 mission 71, 79, 85, 92, 94, 96, 207, 264, 282 Montaigne, Michel de 63 moral reasoning 27 morality 32, 48, 136, 138, 229 Moses 197, 200 Moses, Abbot 287 myth 104, 105, 111, 113, 115, 117, 203, 208, 210, 214, 221, 263, 264, 265 National Health Service (NHS) 20, 27, 40, 43-46, 68, 70, 72, 110–18, 141, 209 National Vocational Qualification (NVQ ) 98, 106 Niebuhr, Reinhold 200, 218, 227 Niebuhr, Richard 218 Nietzsche, Friedrich 198 Newton, Isaac 285

nursing 21, 26, 51, 54, 55, 136 objectives 76, 90–109 organisation 69, 70, 74, 78, 94–100, 103, 110–18, 121, 203, 204, 280 passion see emotion pastoral care 16, 69, 91, 92, 93, 95, 99, 100–08, 133, 140, 154, 272, 279 pastoral studies 16-17, 244, 245, 247–52, 253–60 pastoral theology 16, 198, 251, 252 Patient’s Charter 136 Paul, St 134, 282 Pfister, Oscar 230 Plato 61 politics 19, 26, 61, 96 power 17, 45, 79, 87, 108, 110–11, 117, 150, 152, 167, 170, 173, 177, 194, 207, 265 practical theology definition of 12–13, 197 nature of 16, 195–98, 202, 210, 244–46, 261–90 prejudice 32, 41, 120, 151, 152, 153 professional 16, 19, 26, 28, 47–59, 61, 92, 107, 114–15, 121, 133, 137, 194, 203 prophet 104, 134, 140, 204, 229, 239, 241 Pruyser, Paul 206 psychiatry 14, 20, 202, 244 public 19, 57, 60, 61, 62, 65, 71, 78, 114, 116, 121, 195, 205, 207, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228 Quakerism 13–14, 145, 166 Radical Orthodoxy 219–20 rationality 48, 49, 69, 91, 99, 101, 106, 107, 135, 149, 171, 188, 206, 214, 267, 274, 280, 281, 283 reflection 17, 144, 146, 160, 248, 249, 251, 262, 272 religion, definition of 84, 202 repentance 78, 166

responsibility 50, 58, 61, 76, 78, 173, 229, 239 resurrection 102, 134, 149, 152, 169, 179, 180, 190 ritual 80, 113–14, 116, 141 Rogers, Carl 124 salvation 114, 123, 169, 176, 178, 231, 233, 234, 239 Satan 236, 237, 240 Schillebeeckx, Edward 212 Schweitzer, Albert 230 science 261, 261–63, 265, 267, 268, 270, 276, 277, 280, 282, 285, 287, 288 scientism 263–72, 278, 282, 287 sexuality 22, 122, 123, 151, 153, 155–63, 187–88, 216 sin 101, 154, 179, 190, 225, 229, 240 skills 97, 195, 198, 205, 248, 264, 267, 268, 273 spirit 86, 88, 99, 101, 108, 110–18, 121, 148, 207, 232, 240, 281, 284 spirituality 70, 73, 110–18, 132–43, 146, 147, 148 Stoicism 137, 141 story 38, 44, 104, 105, 115–16, 146, 169, 217, 279, 280 story-telling 45, 264 Student Christian Movement (SCM) 15 Swinton, John 21–22 symbol 103–5, 111, 116, 117, 165, 179, 203, 204, 205, 208, 214, 221, 222, 225, 262, 263 Thatcher, Margaret 203 theology 1, 15, 18, 76, 123, 124, 126, 144, 151, 165–70, 175, 177–80, 194–95, 197–211, 212–28, 245, 249–52, 256, 257, 268, 269, 277–81, 283, 287 feminist 15, 170, 180, 182, 214 liberal 15, 155–56, 160, 195, 210, 227

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liberation 13, 15, 17, 19, 145, 170, 216, 237, 269 public 212–28 Tillich, Paul 218, 227 Tolstoy, Leo 229 Transactional Analysis (TA) 175 United Kingdom Central Council for Nursing, Midwifery and Health Visiting (UKCC) 47, 50, 51, 53 Universal Declaration of Human Rights 58 values 19, 26–28, 29–39, 40–46, 50, 63, 65, 68, 74, 78, 84, 157, 203, 246, 277 definition of 30–33, 41 nature of 34–35 Vermes, Geza 229 vision 71, 79, 85, 94, 96, 221, 282, 284, 288 Warnock, Mary 62 Weil, Simone 120 ‘Wesleyan Quadrilateral’ 160 whistleblowing 54, 56 Williams, Harry 167 Williams, Rowan 287 wisdom 50, 206, 227, 276, 278, 281, 285, 286, 288 worldview 11, 20, 71, 75–79, 87, 106, 205, 227, 277, 278, 280, 282, 284, 286, 287

Author Index Aaron, H. 29, 31, 41 Alves, R. 157, 158, 171, 217 Alvesson, M. 81, 96, 97 Ambler, R. 202 Aquinas, St Thomas 120, 188 Ashton, J. 283, 285 Augustine, St 15, 83, 169, 179, 180, 181, 183, 187, 188 Ballard, P. 10, 244, 269 Barnett, R. 98 Beasley, R. 159 Beatty, J. 73 Beauchamp, T. 49 Beck, U. 101, 189 Bendelow, G. 185 Bennie, R. 212 Berger, B. 101 Berger, P. 101, 109, 114, 265 Berwick, D. 58 Bettelheim, B. 182 Blumenthal, D. 180, 181 Board, R. de 117 Bolt, M. 259 Bondi, R. 123, 124, 222 Boswell, J. 160 Bowden, J. 231, 232 Bowker, J. 241 Bradley, I. 183 Brenner, P. 105 Bringle, M. 185 Brock, R. Nakashima 182, 190 Broucek, F. 182 Brown, D. 284 Brown, P. 162, 187, 236 Brown, R. 261, 262, 263 Browning, D. 11, 84, 254, 280 Brueggemann, W. 104, 105, 182, 183, 221, 284 Bruce, S. 42 Bynum, C. Walker 187 Campbell, A. 16, 65, 93, 185 Campbell, J. 210 Capps, D. 126, 165, 180, 181, 182, 187 Carlson Brown, J. 172, 180 Carroll, R. 160 Chancer, L. 182 Childress, J. 49 Clebsch, W. 93, 107 Cleverly, G. 80, 117 Clinebell, H. 93

Conger, J. 42, 117 Cobb, M. 42, 133, 136 Cooter, R. 84, 202 Countryman, W. 160, 187 Cox, M. 221 Crace, J. 204 Crainer, S. 75 Crawford, J. 181 Cupitt, D. 149, 150, 239

Gorringe, T. 179 Green, G. 284 Greenhalgh, T. 279 Gregory of Nyssa, St 187 Greven, P. 173, 182 Grint, K. 80 Gudorf, C. 169 Gunn, L. 96 Gunton, C. 225

Danziger, K. 186 Darwin, C. 185 Davenport-Hines, 162 Davidson, R. 185 Davie, G. 42 D’Costa, G. 140 Delumeau, J. 241 Dillistone, F. 104 Dittes, J. 187 Dols, M. 238 Douglas, M. 130, 148, 162 Draper, P. 133 Drucker, P. 73, 77, 91 Dryden, W. 253, 255, 256, 259 Dunn, J. 134 Dussel, E. 153 Dyke, G. 40

Handy, C. 76, 77, 98, 116, 117 Hardy, D. 142 Harre, R. 185 Hart, E. 205 Harvey, A. 233, 241 Harvey, N. 233, 239, 241 Haughton, R. 185 Hegeman, E. 185 Henderson, J. 275 Hepworth M. 241 Hill, M. 74 Hiltner, S. 196, 251 Hirschorn, L. 117 Hochschild, A. 97, 185 Houlden, L. 230 Huczynski, A. 71, 90 Hunsinger, D. van Deusen 170 Hunt, G. 54, 99 Hunter, D. 44 Hurwitz, B. 279

Ecclestone, A. 177 Edgar, A. 56 Ekman, P. 185 Erikson, E. 226 Etzioni, A. 35 Fenn, R. 117, 182 Fevre, R. 265 Fineman, S. 117, 185 Ford, D. 142, 218 Forrester, D. 140, 202, 210, 217, 218, 223, 287 Foucault, M. 97, 200, 219 Francis, L. 277 Frank, A. 217, 265 Frend, W. 15 Freud, S. 186, 198, 223, 230, 255, 257 Gaarder, J. 188 Gabriel, Y. 104, 105, 113 Game, A. 227 Geertz, C. 84, 202 Gergen, K. 265, 270 Giddens, A. 159 Gill, R. 40 Goffman, E. 99, 151, 265 Goleman, D. 185

298

Jackall, R. 97 Jaekle, C. 93, 107 James, S. 186 Jantzen, G. 221, 222 Jeeves, M. 254, 255, 258 Jenkins, D. 203, 209, 226 Johnstone, L. 182 Jones, J. 182, 205 Kane, M. 162 Karp, D. 137, 265 Karpman, S. 175 Kee, H. 240 Kellner, H. 101 King, U. 117 Kitwood, T. 281, 282 Klein, R. 117 Knox, R. 188 Koehn, D. 54 Kohut, H. 182 Lane Fox, R. 232 Lartey, E. 117 Latour, B. 262, 263 Lehmann, P. 210 Lewis, I. 128, 130

AUTHOR INDEX / 299

Lindblom, J. 134 Lipsedge, M. 202 Littlewood, R. 202 Loades, A. 165, 181 Locke, R. 71, 72, 90, 96 Lodge, D. 199, 200, 203 Longfellow, S. 162 Lupton, D. 189 Lynch, G. 12, 264, 272, 285 Lyth, I. Menzies 117 MacIntyre, A. 38, 287 Mackie, J. 42 Macmurray, J. 189 Malby, B. 27, 44, 45 Malina, B. 162 Malone, C. 181 Maloney, H. 205 Mangham, I. 79 Markham, I. 137 Martin, D. 238 Marx, K. 19, 198 May, R. 104 McCarthy, M. 42 McDonald, J. 181 McFague, S. 189, 190 McLeod, J. 117, 265, 285 McSherry, W. 133 Meeks, W. 186 Merton, T. 286 Mestrovic, S. 185 Metcalfe, A. 227 Midgley, M. 188, 262, 263, 265, 275, 276, 278, 280, 281, 285, 286 Milbank, J. 219 Miles, M. 187 Miller, A. 170, 171, 173, 174, 180–82 Miller, D. 61 Moltmann, J. 87, 189, 212, 220 Moore, L. 87, 88 Moore, S. 190 Morgan, C. 102, 103 Morgan, G. 117 Motion, A. 181 Mumby, D. 105 Murdoch, I. 285 Murgatroyd, S. 102, 103 Myers, D. 259, 260 Neil, S. 240 Nelson, J. 87, 154, 160, 162, 189 New, B. 42 Nineham, D. 186 Nussbaum, M. 137, 186

Oakley, J. 189 Obholzer, A. 117 Oden, T. 257, 260 O’Hagan, K. 181 Orbach, S. 185, 189 Orchard, H. 139 Osborn, L. 181 Parker, R. 172, 180, 181 Parkes, P. 175 Parkin, F. 240 Parkinson, P. 181 Parrott, G. 185 Paton, R. 38, 72 Pattison, G. 215 Patton, J. 206, 210 Perkins, J. 186, 187 Peters, T. 63, 71, 75, 76, 90, 203 Pfister, O. 170, 230, 233 Phillips, A. 226 Phillips, J. 120 Phillips, S. 105 Pill, R. 16, 19, 21, 28 Pohier, J. 153 Poling, J. 165, 180, 181 Pollitt C. 91 Powell, M. 44 Putnam, L. 105 Ralston Saul, J. 91, 96, 98 Reinisch, J. 159 Richards, D. 258 Richards, V. 181 Ricoeur, P. 183 Ritzer, G. 90, 99, 267, 273 Robbins, M. 277 Roberts, V. 117 Robinson, J. 72 Robshaw, V. 42, 133, 136 Rorty, R. 278 Rose, N. 97, 280 Ross, L. 133 Rowe, D. 130, 153 Rowland, C. 232, 233, 240, 241 Rubin, J. 183 Ruether, R. Radford 153 Russell, D. 232, 240 Russell, J. 241 Sacksteder, J. 182 Sanders, E. 229, 232, 235, 240, 241 Sanford, J. 153, 240 Sartre, J.-P. 189 Saunders, C. 153 Saussy, C. 181

Sawyer, L. 55 Scharf, B. 240 Schimmel, S. 186, 225 Schleiermacher, F. 16 Schön, D. 210 Seale, C. 233 Seedhouse, D. 44 Segundo, J. 153 Selby, P. 117, 162, 176 Shaw, G. 150, 239 Sheldrake, P. 141, 155, 159, 185 Shengold, L. 181 Shields, D. 151, 152, 153 Singer, P. 48 Smith, M. 241 Smith, M.J. 280 Solomon, R. 97 Speck, P. 117, 130, 132 Spilka, B. 205 Spong, J. 153, 160, 162 Stanton, G. 240, 241 Steward, R. 159 Stivers, R. 265, 266, 281, 285, 287 Stocker, M. 185 Stout, J. 138, 162 Stowers, S. 186 Stoyle, J. 285 Strong, P. 72 Symington, N. 182 Taylor, J. 135 Taylor, M. 153 Theilgaard, A. 221 Theissen, G. 233, 234 Timmins, N. 117 Tolstoy, L. 229, 240 Tomlinson, A. 284 Tracy, D. 200, 215 Trible, P. 182 Tschudin, V. 33, 35, 39, 41 Turner, B. 241 Ulanov, A. Bedford 153, 240 Vermes, G. 229, 240 Wainwright, P. 28, Wakefield, G. 136 Walker, A. 181 Walker, M. 173, 180, 181, 182 Wall, A. 60 Walsh, J. Paton 179 Walton, H. 285 Warnock, M. 62, 284, 286 Waterman, R. 63, 71, 203

300 / THE CHALLENGE OF PRACTICAL THEOLOGY

Watts, F. 185, 188 Weber, M. 114, 134, 181, 234 Weil, S. 120 West, A. 182, 183, 190, 217 Whipp, M. 115 Whitehead, E. 185 Whitehead, J. 185 Williams, R. 287 Williams, S. 185 Willmott, H. 81, 96, 97 Wilson, A. 240 Wilson, M. 260 Wink, W. 99, 111, 117, 135, 207 Winnicott, D. 181 Witherington, B. 134 Woodward, J. 258, 260 Woodward, J. W. 12, 132, 144, 196, 221, 244, 258 Woolgar, S. 262 Wright, N. 240 Wurmser, L. 183