Comments keep coming in about scripture, puzzling over the way religious people attend to archaic texts.  Here Frank Moloney adds to Melanie Landau’s reflection on reading scripture, from the perspective of someone who has spent seventy years (almost) reading and reflecting on the scriptures of his tradition:

I am very sensitive to the problem that many people have with reading Scripture.  On the one hand there are many who regard it as pre-scientific, or even just silly: full of the world of a God who speaks to human beings, manipulates human history, works miracles, and even an incarnate Son of God who, though crucified, is reported as rising from the dead.  How can such texts, especially such narrative texts (“stories”) claim to be in some way normative for anyone today?

On the other hand, there are many for whom the Bible is normative.  They read texts, both the stories and the more didactic material, as if they were either 21st century texts reporting things exactly as they happened, or as if they are to be accepted as literal eye-witness reports, which thus cannot be challenged.  To such readers, no critical question can or should be raised.

Most people fall in between, and simply do not bother with the Sacred Scriptures of the Hebrew Bible and Christian Bible.  They are vaguely aware of some of the great stories (often through artistic representation), but would never take a word from Scripture as relevant to their lives.

This is a pity, because the Scriptures had their birth in “real life,” and need to be read in the light of our “real lives” in order to be better understood.  None of the biblical authors thought of themselves as writing texts that would become normative for millennia.  The authors of the first five books of the Bible (and there are several, as the books are made up of a number of traditions, assembled into their present form at a much later date) wanted to explain why there was so much evil and suffering about.  Was God responsible?  Does God exist?  They wanted to know where the people of Israel came from, how they should live together.  They wanted to know more about their choice to belong to only one God.  So they thought about these things, prayed about them, told stories about them as they sat by the fire at night … and gradually their experiences began to surface in traditions that meant everything to them.  These traditions remained alive, and were eventually shaped into the book of the Hebrew Scriptures.

It is respect for their questions and their experiences that must lead us beyond (and especially behind) a literal reading of a text that necessarily reflects its time and place.  The questions that were asked then are asked by believers – and even non-believers – now.  Across the centuries, we can sense the experience that we share with them, as they tell their stories, and reflect theologically upon those stories, as they tell of the prophets calling them back to their original faithfulness and so on.

But unless we respect where these experiences came from, and how they were shaped, then however we read (or do not read) Scripture, we miss the point.  The biblical Word of God does not plummet into life and society with a “once and for all” response.  It asks us to enter into a world where the presence of God has been felt, and asks if we share that experience.

The same must also be said for the Christian Testament.  Gospels were written decades after the life, teaching, death and resurrection of Jesus.  It is the experience of this tiny group of crazy people who believed that Jesus was alive and among them, that they were energised by his Spirit as they tried to live, love, die and rise as he did, that is found in those pages.  That is why the four Gospels are such different “stories.”  They reflect different experiences of the one determining event: the person of Jesus.

Unfortunately, fundamentalist biblical readers are the people most recognised in the broader discussion.  They are courageous and they speak out.  They are also members of powerful churches.  Indeed, most church institutions are uncomfortable with the type of approach to the Scriptures that I have sketched: an approach that allows the Bible to reflect human experiences matching our own, “sets people free” from the institutions’ use of them for their own doctrinal and legal purposes.

It is important to remember that the experience of believing individuals and communities produced the Bible.  Those individuals and communities both created the Bible, and – as institutions – keep it alive in their lives and liturgies.  However, the Bible strikes back.  Read properly, respecting where, why and how it was written, it is a problem for institutions.  All human institutions want to control the Word.  But the word bites back, and acts as a thorn in the side of any institution that wishes to be an end in itself.

In the end, this is the dangerous edge of a correct use of Scripture: it asks us to be what we claim to be.  This is also a reason why many reject the Bible: it asks the questions they cannot – or do not wish to – answer.

Frank Moloney STL (PSU) SSL (PBI) DPhil (Oxon) STD Honoris Causa (St Mary’s Seminary and University, Baltimore, USA) FAHA has served as a member of the International Theological Commission to the Vatican.

I’ve now caught up with a few convention participants. In conversation people’s ‘arguments for atheism’ are the rational ones, usually of the “no evidence therefore no God” variety. But there are recurring themes which focus not on the rational but the moral: religion might be wrong, but worse, it’s morally bad. Discrimination, abuse, discrimination, corruption, discrimination. This is a deep and powerful undercurrent, heard on stage and off.  “The problem of evil” is the way we philosophize it but it manifests itself in people’s stories of hurt, abuse and pain at the hands of religious leaders and institutions. Details are not necessary but the message is clear: abuse or perceived abuse closes doors to conversation.

Chris Mulherin has degrees in Engineering, Philosophy and Theology and is currently writing a doctorate on scientific and religious knowledge. He is an Anglican minister and lives in Melbourne.

I’m so looking forward to The Rise of Atheism. But it’s with trepidation and a wry smile, because I’m going to the convention as an under-cover heretic. Yes, I’m one of those true believers in science who has the temerity to believe also in God.

Will they guess my secret? So far so good: I still receive friendly emails from the convention organisers thanking me for my support. I’m told that just by being there I will have contributed to a more reasoning society. And the latest letter finishes with a benediction, “this is a wondrous time to be alive.” Amen to that.

But seriously: why would an infidel throw himself to the lions when he could be going to church this Sunday?

I am professionally interested in things of faith and belief. I have spent some years in Christian work, other years teaching engineering, and still others in the philosophy of science. Currently I am writing a doctorate on science, faith and reason.

So I’m going to the conference with four questions in mind:

1. Is the ‘new atheism’ a religion? Richard Dawkins’ rhetoric reverberates with fundamentalism, and ‘intolerance of religion’ is his credo. Will I hear reason or rhetoric? Will I hear war mongering or peace talk? And how representative are the ‘four horseman’ of this crusade—Dawkins, Dennett, Harris and Hitchens?

2. What is the new atheist’s psyche? Why are people at the conference? Are they predominantly agnostic or crusading apologists? Are they looking for answers or entertainment? Are they angry anti-religionists, reluctant non-believers or the mild mannered suburbanites riding next to me on the bus this morning?

3. Is conversation possible? Or is conversion the only option? Will there be a spirit of self-critical dialogue? Will I hear speakers who are capable of recognising that all world-views, including atheism, have serious challenges to their beliefs?

4. Where will it all end? I’m no prophet, but I will be checking the new atheism for its use-by date. There is no shortage of thoughtful atheists who are reluctant to weigh in with this branch of their faith. Will the new atheism become the new world religion or will it temper itself and blend into the diverse planetary mix of worldviews?

In short: will I hear a message of hope for human well-being or will I hear echoes of the worst excesses of my own Christian heritage?

Let the games begin!

Chris Mulherin has degrees in Engineering, Philosophy and Theology and is currently writing a doctorate on scientific and religious knowledge. He is an Anglican minister and lives in Melbourne.

Here’s a reflection for the Convention from fellow blogger Ben Myers (more about Ben at the foot of this post).

In the modern period, atheism has played an important role in Christian thinking. The philosopher Hegel was a Lutheran churchgoer who proclaimed the “death of God”. Kierkegaard was a devout Christian, yet he railed against religious certainty and claimed that “it is faith which has brought doubt into the world.”

In the 20th century, the great Protestant theologian Karl Barth would begin his courses not with the Bible but with Feuerbach – that brilliant atheist who argued that “God” is a fantastically large projection of ourselves. Far from trying to refute this argument, Barth insisted that it is the beginning of wisdom, the true point of departure for all Christian thought.

Even more pointedly, a contemporary theologian like Jürgen Moltmann can insist that “only a Christian can be a good atheist!” That may be overstating the matter, but it is nevertheless true that Christians have always had a vested interest in thinking critically and subversively about the very idea of God and the uses to which it is put. This is why in the work of great religious thinkers – Kierkegaard or Milton or Dostoevsky – one can scarcely tell at times whether they are advocating belief in God or the most devastating atheism. The line between the two is often blurred.

When I wrote my Honours thesis on Samuel Beckett, it seemed clear to me that atheism is serious business: intellectually demanding, morally exacting, an exciting and profoundly human wrestling with the deep questions of existence. Beckett’s writing is driven by an honesty almost without parallel in modern literature, a willingness to think unflinchingly about what it means to be human in a world without God.

But as someone who has long admired the great atheist traditions of the West, I can’t help feeling a little dissatisfied with today’s new wave of atheism. Its most striking characteristic is its breezy confidence, a remarkable intellectual certainty that in turn gives rise to proselytising fervour. In the face of these recent developments, the Global Atheist Convention represents a signal opportunity.

The real test of the Convention will be its willingness to resist easy certainties, its capacity to accommodate vigorous difference and debate (I nearly said to accommodate doubt). I’ve attended many theology conferences, and most of the time you’d be hard pressed to find two people in the room who actually agree with each other. Unquestioning agreement and lack of argumentativeness are always sure signs that a tradition has stagnated. The purpose of a conference or convention is not to celebrate our sameness, but to join together in a shared project of intellectual inquisitiveness and exploration. The Atheist Convention will be a worthwhile event if it creates a space for this kind of inquisitiveness, if divergent views are seen not as departures from the party line but as opportunities for argument and discussion, if the mood is one of questioning and exploration rather than certainty and collective self-affirmation.

Above all, the Convention will be a success if it cultivates serious reflection and resists the cheap allure of slogans and marketing gimmickry. I wonder what Samuel Beckett would have thought of an atheism so easy and so confident that it can fit on the front of a T-shirt or the side of a bus. Atheism as a lifestyle choice – an atheism you can believe in. Frankly, I suspect Beckett would sooner have believed in God.

Benjamin Myers is Lecturer in Systematic Theology at Charles Sturt University’s School of Theology in Sydney. He has published widely on literature, theology and politics, and he also blogs at Faith and Theology (http://faith-theology.blogspot.com)