Bidding For The Soul Of Christian Britain

Ethics and identity, as liberals and nationalists respectively stress, miss the vastness of the human soul

The Desert Amma Syncletica of Alexandria

The battle is on. Christian nationalism vs Christian humanism. Advocates on both sides are active. Whose bid for the soul of Britain will prove stronger?

Personally, I find both sides wanting. The nationalists have an exaggerating and reactionary streak, though as Giles Fraser demonstrated in his recent radio series, they are reaching people in dire straits who wouldn’t think to turn to the mainstream. Conversely, the champions of Christian humanism project a self-righteous air from their camp on the moral high ground, though they are also clearly closer to the cosmopolitan tenor of the gospel. But there is a third way, for both, so far as I have seen, miss a fundamental element.

That crucial thread goes to the heart of what Jacob Needleman called “lost Christianity”, though that essence can still be found in the dense weave of Christianities that reach across the centuries. So first come back, to the story of Amma Syncletica, one of the early church’s desert saints. Her life is illustrative.

Syncletica lived during the fourth century AD, the period in which Latin Christianity became Christendom. Born into the Roman elite, she possessed social status and the means to capitalise on it: beauty, fortune and renown. She seemed destined to contribute to the establishment of the new religion by spreading the benefits of Christianity, which since the third century persecutions of Emperor Valerian had focused on the welfare offered by networks of believers to inhabitants of the troubled empire: social goods for freedom of worship was the request - an apologetic that has had a long run.

Syncletica's parents were supportive, too, moving the family from Macedonia to Alexandria to live in a place where the faith was thriving.

Only, things started to go wrong, at least from the civics point of view. Syncletica discovered prayer. She refused to be married. Then, when her parents died, she liquidated her estate, cut off her hair, and took up residence in a stone cell accompanied by her blind sister on the outskirts of the Egyptian metropolis. The social self died, but what would be born in its stead?

She became expert in a form of Christian humanism that doesn’t teach ethics or offer identity, but instead invites transformation. The internal landscape matters more than external disputes, she realised, because the real battle for humanity is fought in the soul. The mind must be guided like a ship through a storm, she advised (her family fortune might have depended on seafaring). Civic stability rests not on functioning institutions or moral laws, which are all too readily shaken by disruptions and war, but instead must be anchored in clear perceptions and stable minds that, developed through personal struggle, can tolerate social struggle.

She demonstrated this wisdom in her new life by turning inward, There, she taught, the individual finds access to a realm of divine spirit. This kingdom of God is not dependent upon gender or class or opportunities, but is rather graced by a wholly unexpected freedom. Each person must be born three times, she told those who began to seek her counsel. The first birth is from the womb, the second is from baptism, and the third is into the Christian inheritance, which is life in all its fullness.

Discovering Christianity is like lighting a fire, she continued, kindling an eternal presence. At first, there is smoke. Eyes water, people choke. But given time, the weeping gives way to warmth, excitement to sight. Carefully tend to your flickering thoughts, she told her admirers. A radiance will become established within.

Syncletica was not alone. Alongside numerous other desert sages, a new understanding of what it means to be human was formed. Their way of life enabled them to discern a path without the social pressures faced by the early bishops, who were preoccupied with integrating into the imperial legal apparatus as magistrates and the like - where moreover they found success. The bishops turned churches into sanctuaries, built hospitals for the broken, and facilitated the distribution of bread.

But the voices in the wilderness recognised something else: championing the common good is not enough. The spiritual landscape matters. Neglect that, neglect the calling to be in the world but not of it. Hence, the humanism that emerged from the desert was based not on extending pre-Christian moral imperatives, but transmitting a radically innovative psychological dynamic. The pioneers at the margins bridged the material and divine worlds by realising a unity in their lives and bodies.

They were accused of “navel-gazing” as they sat on the sand, to use the phrase coined back then by their manic peers. But they had an energising message: “God became man so that man might become god.” The phrase rang like a bell across the early Christian centuries, though in churches today you might never hear it said.

Being in the world but not of it is tricky. Wrestling with that double aspect has shaped the Christian centuries since, the worldly pole tending to dominate because it is tractable and preachable, though it often lacks edge, which is why spiritual movements regularly counter with the other-worldly: a perpetual tussle between prophets and priests, sometimes engaged within the same person. I suspect that the dynamic explains the appeal of Christianities that transmit the more today, given the anecdotal evidence that culturally “weird” versions of faith are drawing a few, as New Atheism has flared and fizzled. Theosis is the promise of Orthodox churches and being born again is sought amongst charismatics, plus there is the promise of the mystics: “fourfold vision”, to cite William Blake.

Of course, the liberal Christian humanism hoping to make moral inroads now, with a stress on justice, neighbour-love and human brokenness, is clearly not bad. But it is too small, too flat for the human soul, failing to satisfy her excessive desire for God. “Be ye perfect,” Jesus invited, not be a little bit better. Further, for too long, church moralising has instilled guilt in congregations, associating Jesus with good behaviour and constraint.

So contemporary theologians might learn from the desert mothers and fathers, for the point is not to imitate this reduced Jesus but find out more of what it means for Christ to be born in you. Those tired of a secular worldview might respond to this transcendent horizon; it offers participation in the life of God. Ethical service follows, yes, but sprung as a fruit, not forced as a root. Parables like the Good Samaritan speak not of a man who responded dutifully but convey the actions of someone who was free. Principles like kenosis convey not exemplary behaviour but soul-filling letting go.

When you first turn inward, chaos is the norm, Syncletica stressed. The temptation to revert is strong, with an ever clearer set of ethics or ever more strident promise of identity. But these are external proxies for the transformative gospel. Choose meekness, Syncletica said, which is the virtue of not needing to cling or control. “You will find that your heart which is a rock changed into a spring of water.” The source of life was there all along.