Trust

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  TrustingThere is a paradox with respect to this character trait and that is that, even though images have such a dominant role in my life and even though my eye guides me far more than any other organ, during the sexual act it is as if I am blind. You could say that within the continuum of the world of sex, I move like a cell within its tissue. The nocturnal outings, and the fact of being surrounded, carried and penetrated by shadows suit me well. Better still, I can follow my partner blindly. I put myself in his hands, abandoning my free will; his presence stops anything nasty happening to me. When I was with Éric we could drive for ages towards some destination unknown to me I could end up in open country or level-3 in an underground car park, I never asked any questions. When all was said and done whatever happened was less strange than nothing happening at all. I have bad memories of the basement of a Moroccan restaurant, near the place Maubert, not an area we often went to. There were couches and low tables under the vault where it was chilly. We had dined there alone, me with my breasts bared and my skirt hitched right up. Each time the waiter or the man that I thought was the owner brought dishes over, Éric would push my top a bit further aside and run his hand insistently under my skirt. I remember less about the heavy and not altogether friendly way these two men looked at me, than I do about the way they touched me, quickly, sporadically, on my companion’s tacit invitation. It was I who brought the waiting to an end by burying Éric’s organ in my mouth. Surely my intention was to escape from the less than friendly attentions of the staff? We left the restaurant without finishing our meal. Were the usual customers not there? Did Éric know the place well, and hadn’t he overestimated the welcome we might be granted? I felt more apprehensive than if I had been in some incongruous place and a herd of strangers had set upon me with their dicks hanging out. With Éric I always knew that anyone we met, in whatever circumstances, could, on some imperceptible sign from him, open my thighs and slip in his member. I didn’t think there could be any exceptions to this, as if Éric has been a sort of universal ferryman, not to take me across to some promised land, but in order to let people penetrate me, one after another. Hence my uneasiness that evening.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  In the undefined places where I met people whose diverse social backgrounds were levelled by a sexual egalitarianism, I was never confronted with any threats or violence, I was even gratified with a degree of attention that I didn’t always find in a classic two-person relationship… As for any fear of the police, there was no such thing. On the one hand, I have a childlike trust in the ability of the man I am with, to ensure our safety – and, in fact, there was never a single incident. On the other, even though I feel overcome with shame when a conductor asks me rather rudely for a ticket I have temporarily lost, I would only have been put out if I had been caught in the act exhibiting myself on the public highway. The body discovered by the representative of the law would have been no more or less than the body penetrated by the stranger in the Bois, not so much an inhabited body as a shell from which I had withdrawn. This reckless lack of concern is also at the root of the determination and perseverance I can display during the act, and – indeed – other activities, and which is not unrelated to the dissociation that I have just mentioned: either the conscience is annihilated by that determination and can no longer view the act with any distance, or, quite the opposite, when the body is surrendered to automatic functions, the conscience escapes and loses any association with that act. At times like that, no external factor can disturb my body or my partner’s, because nothing exists outside the space they occupy. And how small that space is! You rarely fuck expansively in a public place. You tend instead to burrow into each other.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  There is another attitude that stands out in those who are successful in facilitating learning. I have observed this attitude; I have experienced it. Yet, it is hard to know what term to put to it, so I shall use several. I think of this attitude as a prizing of each learner, a prizing of his or her feelings, opinions, and person. It is a caring for the learner, but a nonpossessive caring. It is an acceptance of this other individual as a separate person, a respect for the other as having worth in his or her own right. It is a basic trust—a belief that this other person is somehow fundamentally trustworthy. Whether we call it “prizing,” “acceptance,” “trust,” or some other term, it shows up in a variety of observable ways. The facilitator who has a considerable degree of this attitude can be fully acceptant of the fear and hesitation of the students as they approach new problems as well as acceptant of the pupils’ satisfaction in achievement. Such a teacher can accept the students’ occasional apathy, their erratic desires to explore byroads of knowledge, as well as their disciplined efforts to achieve major goals. He or she can accept personal feelings that both disturb and promote learning— rivalry with a sibling, hatred of authority, concern about personal adequacy. What I am describing is a prizing of the learners as imperfect human beings with many feelings, many potentialities. The facilitator’s prizing or acceptance of the learners is an operational expression of his or her essential confidence and trust in the capacity of the human organism. Empathic Understanding A further element that establishes a climate for self-initiated, experiential learning is empathic understanding. When the teacher has the ability to understand each student’s reactions from the inside, has a sensitive awareness of how the process of education and learning seems to the student, then, again, the likelihood that significant learning will take place is increased. This kind of understanding is sharply different from the usual evaluative understanding, which follows the pattern of, “I understand what is wrong with you.” When there is a sensitive empathy, however, the reaction in the learner follows something of this pattern: “At last someone understands how it feels and seems to be me, without wanting to analyze or judge me. Now I can blossom and grow and learn.” This attitude of standing in the students’ shoes, of viewing the world through their eyes, is almost unheard of in the classroom. But when the teacher responds in a way that makes the students feel understood—not judged or evaluated—this has a tremendous impact. Perception of These Attitudes

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  The only way to learn consciously to suspend judgments is through practice in a nonthreatening environment. Just like children, when we fear being judged or ridiculed—by ourselves or others—we become immobilized or take refuge in rigid beliefs and habits. But any observer who suspends judgment, even for a moment, immediately becomes more open-minded and relaxed. How can you develop this skill? The first step is to begin acknowledging what triggers your critical responses. Then you must decide whether to repeat those responses or to try setting them aside. All that matters now is that you become aware of when you’re making judgments—especially if they occur automatically and are therefore invisible. Some people have a mistaken notion that suspending judgments means adopting an amoral stance toward sexuality or negating the importance of one’s values. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, only through a courageous examination of the difficult truths of erotic life does it become possible to establish a meaningful ethical system to guide our actions. TRUSTING YOURSELFFew of us have been taught that we can be trusted in the erotic realm—quite the opposite. As youngsters most of us were encouraged by a variety of subliminal and explicit messages to be wary of our eroticism as it was developing. Understandably, adults who have learned these lessons well often feel squeamish about examining the content and meaning of their turn-ons. It’s not surprising or unusual to harbor a semiconscious concern that you might uncover things about yourself that you would be better off not knowing. You can imagine how such an attitude restricts your vision. But if your childhood training has made you uneasy about eroticism, denying that attitude will only make matters worse. The best thing you can do is to acknowledge your feelings, no matter how illogical it may seem, and avoid putting yourself down for them. Discomfort with one’s sexuality takes years to build up and can’t be changed overnight. Your journey of erotic self-discovery will be infinitely easier and more rewarding if you can find and nurture even a small spark of faith in yourself. As you come to realize that eros is fueled by the energy of life itself—and thus contains a deep-rooted urge toward growth and self-affirmation—the legacy of mistrust can be gradually overcome. Keep in mind that those who establish a comfortable acceptance of their erotic urges are the least likely to inflict harm upon themselves or others. USING A GENTLE APPROACHAlthough many have tried to command the inner secrets of their erotic life to reveal themselves, no one has succeeded. Your erotic mind, fearing condemnation or rejection, has become adept at concealing itself. Because few of us are free to express our unfolding eroticism openly, hiding the truth—even from yourself—begins as an act of primitive self-preservation.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  statement such as “In the last few minutes I’ve noticed that several people have spoken, yet none have been responded to,” or “Right now I feel irritated; I sense it in others too, but I don’t know what to do about it,” all help to bring attention to the present. We pay attention to details, the obvious. It is as though we hold a multifaceted mirror up to the group and say, “Look, this is how we are at this moment.” It is not necessary to suggest solutions. The group wisdom will handle that aspect. We also hear the small voices, the differing opinions, the hesitant feelings, thus conveying to eight hundred people that each person present is worth listening to. Each person is validated in his or her own worth, an exciting new realization for many. When the whole community focuses its attention on the totality of its present situation—both personal and group—no matter how seemingly disorganized the group is, it somehow invents the next step, based on the information of which it is now aware. Another attitude we have which has influenced our work is that outcome, personal or group, does not have a high priority for us. We are focused —“creatively invested” is a better term—in facilitating a certain process over which we have no fundamental control. We know from experience that in this process, certain classes of outcomes may in general be expected, but we also know there will be outcomes we could never have predicted. These may result in changes in individual participants, in the whole group, and in ourselves as well. Another way of saying all this is that for the staff, the evolution of a life- affirming process is the outcome. Our philosophy was part of everything we did. In a facilitative climate, persons can be trusted. Initiate a process in which they are trusted as they are, and worthwhile results will emerge. This philosophy was expressed in the trusting attitudes that staff members took toward themselves and toward one another. It was also clear in their relationships with the audience. It was not preached, but it was experienced at a deep level. We have faith that the process will become life-affirming, but this does not lead us to take a passive stance in the proceedings. As individuals and as a team, we are aware of our own power and choose to use it by becoming involved in the process each in our own way. We participate not by attempting to control the outcome but by actively responding as whole beings with thoughts, feelings, hunches, and values as each moment unfolds. We are very much present as persons. There were some very uncomfortable moments for us at the beginning of the sessions. We sometimes found ourselves the target of a confused, disappointed, and angry group of about eight hundred people. A vivid picture of the difficulties and rewards of facilitating the group process is contained in the following

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  A DIRECTIONAL PROCESS IN LIFE Practice, theory, and research make it clear that the person-centered approach rests on a basic trust in human beings, and in all organisms. There is evidence from many disciplines to support an even broader statement. We can say that there is in every organism, at whatever level, an underlying flow of movement toward constructive fulfillment of its inherent possibilities. In human beings, too, there is a natural tendency toward a more complex and complete development. The term that has most often been used for this is the “actualizing tendency,” and it is present in all living organisms. Whether we are speaking of a flower or an oak tree, of an earthworm or a beautiful bird, of an ape or a person, we will do well, I believe, to recognize that life is an active process, not a passive one. Whether the stimulus arises from within or without, whether the environment is favorable or unfavorable, the behaviors of an organism can be counted on to be in the direction of maintaining, enhancing, and reproducing itself. This is the very nature of the process we call life. This tendency is operative at all times. Indeed, only the presence or absence of this total directional process enables us to tell whether a given organism is alive or dead. The actualizing tendency can, of course, be thwarted or warped, but it cannot be destroyed without destroying the organism. I remember that in my boyhood, the bin in which we stored our winter’s supply of potatoes was in the basement, several feet below a small window. The conditions were unfavorable, but the potatoes would begin to sprout—pale white sprouts, so unlike the healthy green shoots they sent up when planted in the soil in the spring. But these sad, spindly sprouts would grow 2 or 3 feet in length as they reached toward the distant light of the window. The sprouts were, in their bizarre, futile growth, a sort of desperate expression of the directional tendency I have been describing. They would never become plants, never mature, never fulfill their real potential. But under the most adverse circumstances, they were striving to become. Life would not give up, even if it could not flourish. In dealing with clients whose lives have been terribly warped, in working with men and women on the back wards of state hospitals, I often think of those potato sprouts. So unfavorable have been the conditions in which these people have developed that their lives often seem abnormal, twisted, scarcely human. Yet, the directional tendency in them can be trusted. The clue to understanding their behavior is that they are striving, in the only ways that they perceive as available to them, to move toward growth, toward becoming. To healthy persons, the results may seem bizarre and futile, but they are life’s desperate attempt to become itself. This potent constructive tendency is an underlying basis of the person-centered approach. Some Confirming Examples of the Directional Process

• From Cultish (2021)

  Jones was Father and Dad to her. He called her his “little Angela Davis.” Talk about love-bombing: For the teenager, whose identity was still forming, a comparison to the radical activist and role model strengthened her trust in Jones. Every time he used the nickname, it reinforced that commitment. “Ever the savvy showman, Jones successfully manipulated the revolutionary aspirations of young African Americans reeling from the fading promise of the Black Power movement,” wrote Sikivu Hutchinson, feminist author of White Nights, Black Paradise. Naturally, Leslie wanted to believe she was the next Angela Davis. She was understandably motivated to think she could offer her community that kind of hope. In this way, it wasn’t Jones’s looks, family optics, or even his ideas that hooked people; it was his way with words. “The way that he spoke—he was a great orator,” said Leslie. “It moved you, it inspired you. . . . I was just enthralled.” Jones didn’t convince all the people Leslie loved—bright, family- oriented folks who objectively had nothing in common with the guy—to follow him to the ends of the earth using some form of cryptic mind magic. “It was with language,” another Jonestown survivor told me fervently. “That’s how he gained and kept control.” Boasting the intonation and passion of a Baptist preacher, the complex theorizings of an Aristotelian philosopher, the folksy wit of a countryside fabler, and the ferocious zeal of a demented tyrant, Jim Jones was a linguistic chameleon who possessed a monster arsenal of shrewd rhetorical strategies, which he wielded to attract and condition followers of all stripes. This is what the most cunning cultish leaders do: Instead of sticking to one unchanging lexis to represent a unified doctrine, they customize their language according to the individual in front of them. Known for quotes like “Socialism is older than the Bible by far” and “A capitalist mentality [is] the lowest vibration at which one could operate in this already dense plane of existence,” Jones’s Frankensteinian oratory often referenced political theory and metaphysics in the same breath. “His vocabulary could change quickly from being rather backwoods and homey to being quite intellectual,” recalled Garry Lambrev, a poet and Peoples Temple vet from back in its Redwood Valley days. “He had an enormous vocabulary. He read an unbelievable amount. I don’t know where he found the time.” A quick-changing vocabulary used for social capital: A linguist might tell you Jones was a sly practitioner of code-switching, or fluidly alternating between multiple language varieties. Among the nondiabolical, code-switching is an efficient (and usually unconscious) way of using every linguistic resource at your disposal to handle a verbal exchange most effectively.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  One striking example is that the workshop community has an almost telepathic knowledge of where the staff is, in its own process. One year, in meetings of the staff, we discussed in depth the sexual overtones and sexual behaviors which appear to be a part of workshops, and we openly shared these same sexual aspects in ourselves. In the workshop that followed, this topic, without any suggestion from the staff, was for the first time openly talked about and considered. As one staff member put it, “The mystery that remains for me is the uncanny way the community seemed to live out the ideas we generated in our staff meetings (right down to the psychic happenings).” One final statement about the way we function: We are a thoroughly open staff, with no leader and no hierarchical organization. Leadership and responsibility are shared. We have become a very close team, living our relationship in the most person-centered manner we know. My Own Learnings I have found this way of being with a staff a most nourishing experience. It has, first, enabled me to take risks I would never have dared to take alone. I know that if I behave in stupid ways in a large workshop group, or try something new that fails, the staff still believes in me and accepts me. This situation enables me to dare to do the new and the impossible. This way of being with the staff has also helped me to feel that I have no special responsibility for the workshop, that that responsibility is completely shared. No longer does my gut tighten up when I sense something going “wrong” in a group. I can relax and simply be whatever I am at the moment. My trust in the collective wisdom of the staff has now become a deep trust in the collective wisdom of the whole workshop community. Finally, I have felt tremendously released by having a human environment where I can completely let go. In the three or four days of staff meetings prior to a workshop, I pour out my problems, my predicaments, my feelings. I can moan and groan. I can brag and rejoice. I can be utterly baffled and hopeless. I can be full of creative ideas. I can be critical of others in the group. I can be close and loving. This goes for each of us: we share as deeply as we are able. This process is restorative, therapeutic; it gives an incredible security. During the workshop, this kind of sharing continues in our staff meetings and makes it possible for us also to share deeply with the larger community. We give one another helpful feedback. We astonish one another with our creativity and ingeniousness. We anger one another by the way we have handled relationships and situations. We are sometimes critical of one another, and at other times, proud. We learn from

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  continuing relationship where I can provide a climate of real warmth and understanding. “I am going to venture to put the same kind of trust in a staff group, endeavoring to build an atmosphere in which each is responsible for the actions of the group as a whole, and where the group has a responsibility to each individual. Authority has been given to me, and I am going to give it completely to the group. “I am going to experiment with putting trust in students, in class groups, to choose their own directions and to evaluate their progress in terms of their own choosing.” Chicago was a time of great learning for me. I had ample opportunity to test out the hypotheses I have just stated. I greatly expanded the empirical testing of our therapeutic hypotheses, which we had begun earlier. By 1957 I had developed a rigorous theory of therapy and the therapeutic relationship. I had set forth the “necessary and sufficient conditions of therapeutic personality change” (Rogers, 1957), all of them personal attitudes, not professional training. This was a rather presumptuous paper, but it presented hypotheses to be tested and sparked much research over the next fifteen years, which has in general been confirming. It was a period when, at the urging of my students, I became acquainted with Martin Buber (first in his writings and then personally) and with Sóren Kierkegaard. I felt greatly supported in my new approach, which I found to my surprise was a home-grown brand of existential philosophy. Finally, it was a period of great learning in my personal life. A badly bungled therapeutic relationship—really nontherapeutic—thrust me into a deep internal personal crisis, and finally into therapy with one of my colleagues. I now learned just what it was like to experience on one day a tremendous surge of fresh insight, only to seem to lose it all the next in a wave of despair. But as I slowly came out of this, I at last learned what many people, fortunately, learn first. I learned that not only could I trust clients and staff and students, but I could also trust myself. Slowly I learned to trust the feelings, the ideas, the purposes that continually emerge in me. It was not an easy learning, but a most valuable and continuing one. I found myself becoming much freer, more real, more deeply understanding, not only in my relationships with my clients but also with others. All of these learnings I have mentioned carried over increasingly in my relationships with groups—first the workshops we started in Chicago as early as 1946, then in groups with which I have been so much involved in recent years. They have all been encounter groups, long before the term was coined.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  THE FUNDAMENTALS OF A CENTER FOR PERSON-CENTERED LEARNING The first fundamental is essentially a precondition. The others listed are features that may be experienced or observed in such a school, college, or graduate school where humanistic education has taken root. 1. Precondition. The leaders, or persons who are perceived as authority figures in the situation, are sufficiently secure within themselves and in their relationship to others that they experience an essential trust in the capacity of others to think for themselves, to learn for themselves. If this precondition exists, then the following aspects become possible and tend to be implemented. 2. The facilitative persons share with the others—students, and possibly also parents or community members—the responsibility for the learning process. Curricular planning, the mode of administration and operation, the funding, and the policy-making are all the responsibility of the particular group involved. Thus, a class may be responsible for its own curriculum, but the total group may be responsible for overall policy. In any case, responsibility is shared. 3. The facilitators provide learning resources—from within themselves and their own experience, from books or other materials, or from community experiences. The learners are encouraged to add resources of which they have knowledge or in which they have experience. The facilitators open doors to resources outside the experience of the group. 4. The students develop their own programs of learning, individually or in cooperation with others. Exploring their own interests, facing this wealth of resources, they each make choices as to their own learning directions, and they carry the responsibility for the consequences of those choices. 5. A facilitative learning climate is provided. In meetings of the class or of the school as a whole, an atmosphere of realness, of caring, and of understanding listening is evident. This climate may spring initially from the person who is the perceived leader. As the learning process continues, it is more and more often provided by the learners for one another.

• From The Historical Jesus (Great Courses) (2000)

  2 . The law says not to take your neighbor’s wife; if you really love your neighbor, though, you won’t even desire to take her. 3. The law says to make the punishment of someone who has offended you commensurate with the offense (“an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”); if you really love your neighbor, though, you will not demand a punishment at all or even take offense when he harms you (“turn the other cheek”). B. This love of others should extend to everyone, even in the most extreme situations. 1. Rather than seek restitution for what has been taken from you or destroyed by another (as set forth in the law), you should forgive what others owe you — so that God will forgive what you owe him (Mark 11:25; Luke 11:4). 2 . You should not condemn even the genuine shortcomings of others — lest God judge the genuine shortcomings that are yours: “judge not so that you will not be judged” (Luke 6:37). 3. You are to love even those who are your sworn enemies, who are out to hurt and kill you (Luke 6:27; Matt. 5:43-44). C. In particular, Jesus was concerned that his followers love those who were underprivileged and oppressed— the impoverished, the mentally diseased, the terminally ill, the outcast, the imprisoned. These people would inherit the kingdom when it arrived. D. This command to love one’s neighbor had its corollary in the command to love God above all else. 1. The reason people could put the kingdom of God above all else- including food and clothing — is because God would provide all these things (Matt. 6:25-33). ©2000 The Teaching Company Limited Partnership 17 2 . People can trust God as a parent to give his children what they need. All a person must do is ask (Matt. 7:7-1 1; Luke 11:9-1 1). 3. To those who trust God (that is, have “faith”) all things are possible (Mark 9:23, 1 1 :23; Matt. 17:20), because God cares for his children and will give them whatever they ask — especially his kingdom, which is soon to come. IV. In conclusion, the more clearly ethical teachings of Jesus— some of the greatest ethical instructions ever heard in the history of our form of civilization — are not to be removed from their apocalyptic context. A. Jesus gave these teachings as interpretations of the Jewish law, especially Deut. 6:4 and Lev. 19: 1 8. 1. Jesus, in other words, did not see himself as inventing a new system of ethics, but as explaining the Law of Moses in view of his own apocalyptic context. 2. Those who committed themselves completely to God and their fellow humans in love would survive the coming onslaught. Essential Reading: Ehrman, Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet, chap. 10. Sanders, The Historical Figure of Jesus, chaps. 11-13. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Suggested Reading: Allison, Jesus of Nazareth. Chilton and Evans, Authenticating the Words of Jesus. Questions to Consider:

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  As we have seen, the type of dialogue invented by Socrates was quite different. Like all Athenians, Socrates had taken part in these debates, and he did not like them. 1 If he were one of those “clever and disputatious debaters,” he told the ambitious young aristocrat Meno, he would simply state his opinion and ask Meno to refute it. But this was not appropriate in a dialogue between people who “are friends, as you and I are, and want to discuss with each other.” In true dialogue, participants “must answer in a manner more gentle and more proper to discussion.” 2 The Socratic dialogue was a spiritual exercise designed to produce a profound psychological change in the participants, and because its purpose was that each person should understand the depth of his ignorance, there was no way that anybody could win. Plato described the dialogue as a communal meditation that was hard work, requiring “a great expense of time and trouble,” but like his master, he insisted that it be conducted in a kindly, compassionate manner. It would not bring transcendent insight unless “questions and answers are exchanged in good faith and without malice.” 3 Nobody must be pushed into a position about which he felt uncomfortable. Each participant should make a “place for the other” in his mind, listening intently and sympathetically to the ideas of his partners in dialogue and allowing them to unsettle his own convictions. In return, they would permit their minds to be informed and changed by his contribution. Both the Buddha and Confucius seem to have conducted discussion in a similar manner. Confucius always developed his insights in conversation with other people, because in his view we needed this friendly interaction to achieve maturity. In Chinese script, ren had two elements: the simple ideogram of a human being and two horizontal strokes indicating human relations. Ren can, therefore, be translated as “cohumanity.” 4 But this cooperation required ren’s “softness” and “pliability,” and Confucius would probably have appreciated the ritual of the Socratic dialogue, which demanded that participants “yield” to one another instead of holding rigidly to their own opinions. In the Analects, we see him mildly scolding his pupils, pushing them to the limit of their ability but never bullying them. Easygoing, affable, and calm, Confucius listened to them carefully and was always ready to concede their point of view. He was no sage, he would protest; his only talent was an “unwearying effort to learn and unflagging patience in teaching others.” 5 The Buddha too taught his monks to converse kindly and courteously with one another.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  The New Testament presents Christianity primarily as a trustworthy way of thinking and living; the Creeds subsequently expressed this more formally, focusing on the content of belief, rather than how it is to be lived out, and the difference that this makes. The Creeds are thus not so much a demand to believe as a description of what other Christians have found, an affirmation of its capacity to satisfy and sustain, and an invitation to explore, discover and inhabit this new world. To believe in God is to place trust in God and take up the responsibilities and expectations that come with this relationship. Thinking of Creeds in this way allows us to see them as expressing frameworks of exploration and discovery. There is a constant and creative interplay between faith understood as a response to a vision of God on the one hand, and as a formally stated belief about God on the other. Rather than presenting us with a set of verbal formulae as ‘givens’, the Creeds point to a rich landscape that we can explore, identifying its landmarks that deserve our attention. They are like guidebooks, telling us what to look out for – and thus countering our natural tendency to limit ourselves to the familiar by pointing out what we have yet to discover. While it is important to have verbal articulations of faith, these can too easily be misunderstood as defining the essence of faith when they are signposts to its core vision, which cannot be adequately expressed in words. For William James, religion is about ‘felt knowledge’ – an experience that isn’t a thought, but feels as if it is. If the Christian faith can be compared to a landscape, then its best guides are those who live there, having internalised its contours and incorporated them into their lives. There is a necessary and proper synergy between the statements of the Creeds and the personal experiences of Christians. The Creeds map the landscape of faith; yet individual Christian believers are best placed to explain and unpack its features, and the difference that this makes to their lives. The primary witnesses to the vitality of faith are ordinary Christians, who can connect the landmarks of faith with their personal journeys of discovery and living out their faith, and explain how these credal statements affect the way they live not merely how they think. Let me gather together these reflections, and show how they help us give a Christian answer to the question, ‘What does it mean to believe in God?’ Is it like believing in an extra moon orbiting the planet Uranus – a factual statement about something just being there? No.

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  Suddenly it transpires, though, that the stranger is Yahweh : But Yahweh asked Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh and say, ‘Am I really going to have a child now that I am old?’ Is anything too wonderful for Yahweh: At the same time next year, I shall visit you again, and Sarah will have a son.” 8 Yet when the strangers leave, “Abraham remained standing before Yahweh.” 9 Instead of thinking that the plight of these passing travelers has nothing to do with him, Abraham has “made place for the other” in his life. He has thrown down the precautionary barriers we erect to protect ourselves from harm and entered a sacred dimension of experience. In Hebrew, the world for “holiness” is qaddosh , which literally means “separate, other.” This myth suggests that if instead of excluding the stranger we welcome him, overcoming our inertia, reluctance, fear, or initial repugnance, we will have intimations of the transcendent Otherness that some call “God.” There is a similar moment in the New Testament in Saint Luke’s gospel. It is three days after Jesus’s crucifixion, and two of his disciples are walking together from Jerusalem to nearby Emmaus. 10 They are naturally in great distress. On the road, they fall in with another traveler, who asks them why they are so troubled. Instead of telling him to mind his own business, they share with him the terrible story of Jesus’s execution, explaining that they had believed he was the Messiah. The disciples are taking a risk, because the stranger could easily have ridiculed them. But they have the courage to open their hearts to him, expose their raw vulnerability, and confide their most intimate hopes to somebody they have never met before. Their trust is rewarded. Instead of jeering at them, the stranger is able to comfort them. Starting with Moses, he begins to expound the “full message of the prophets,” arguing that the Messiah was destined to suffer before entering his glory. In fact, there is nothing in either the Torah or the prophetic writings to suggest any such thing. The stranger has embarked on some highly inventive rabbinic midrash, and the disciples could have rebuked him for taking too many liberties with the original texts and dismissed his exegesis as nonsense. But again, they are ready to listen to his insights; they allow him to change their minds about their own faith, which is enhanced by this input.

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  Language is based on trust. We have to assume, at least initially, that our interlocutor is speaking the truth and telling us something of value. Logicians have argued that the truth of an individual sentence can be assessed only by considering the whole context. It cannot be seen in isolation but is part of a “conceptual scheme,” a fabric of interwoven sentences. We cannot understand the ideas expressed unless we are familiar with this conceptual scheme in its entirety.10 Thus the sentence “the law is an ass” is explicable only in a particular framework. Linguists point out that in day-to-day communication, when we hear a statement that at first seems odd or false, we automatically try to find a context in which it makes sense, because we want to understand what is being said to us. The same mechanism is at work when we try to translate a text written in a foreign language. Linguists have called this epistemological law the “principle of charity”; it requires that when we are confronted with discourse that is strange to us, we seek an “interpretation which, in the light of what it knows of the facts, will maximise truth among the sentences of the corpus.”11 In other words, when making an effort to understand something strange and alien to you, it is important to assume that the speaker shares the same human nature as yourself and that, even though your belief systems may differ, you both have the same idea of what constitutes truth. As Donald Davidson (1917–2003), professor of philosophy at the University of California, Berkeley, explains, “Making sense of the utterances and behaviour of others, even their most aberrant behaviour, requires us to find a great deal of truth and reason in them.”12 If we cannot do that, we will dismiss the speaker as irrational, nonsensical, and basically inhuman. “Charity,” Davidson continues, “is forced on us, whether we like it or not; if we want to understand others, we must count them right in most matters.”13 This is how Jews such as Philo of Alexandria (c. 30 BCE to c. 45 CE), who were trained in Greek philosophy, approached the Torah. Instead of dismissing these ancient Hebrew texts as barbaric, they devised an allegorical interpretation that made them right according to their own Hellenistic standards, translating them into a more familiar idiom. They could not have achieved this had they not made a charitable assumption when studying these scriptures and finding thus a good deal of truth and reason in them.14

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  Yandell chose this definition with some care, aiming to avoid bias in terms of its outcomes. Where the New Atheism defined religion in terms that were designed to facilitate its ridicule and destructive criticism, Yandell does not presuppose anything about the truth or falsity of religion, nor fall into the error of assuming that a religion necessarily involves belief in a god or gods. His concern is to place religion upon a conceptual map, and try to clarify at least some aspects of its distinct identity and functions. One aspect of Yandell’s analysis is particularly significant: his clear recognition that a religious ‘conceptual system’ leads to the creation of moral values and the emergence of a manner of living which is not based on some allegedly universal human rationality, but is an appropriate expression or enactment of the internal logic of this religion. We now know enough about the emergence of human rationalities to reject the notion that there is some universal normative pattern of reasoning, outside the specialist realms of logic and mathematics; cultural rationalities emerge historically, and are shaped by their social contexts. Some believe that you can judge religions objectively – as, for example, in the Enlightenment’s appeal to a universal human rationality, which transcends the limitations of any religious worldview. Yet there is no such neutral standard or standpoint, and we must always judge religions in light of some ultimate truth-commitment that lies beyond external proof. Judging a religion often seems to involve assessing one belief on the basis of another belief. Wittgenstein rightly points out that rationality has a history, and that it takes different forms in different social locations: ‘What men consider reasonable or unreasonable alters. At certain periods, men find reasonable what at other periods they found unreasonable. And vice-versa.’36 Although Yandell does not engage Pierre Hadot’s call for the revitalisation of philosophy as a set of practices arising from theoretical discourse, his approach suggests significant points of connection with the theme of ‘finding spiritual nourishment’.37 Yandell rightly sees that conceptual systems create and inform ways of life – one of the most characteristic aspects of major religions. This insight is affirmed by recent psychological studies of the distinctive role of religion in human life. In general terms, religion engages three deep human needs that seem to be essential for our flourishing. Religion is unique in that it can inform all three components of existential meaning for individuals and cultures: religion provides a coherent, encompassing narrative that has great explanatory power; it outlines specific values and goals that are to be pursued; and it conveys a sense of transcendence that goes beyond the mundane and the ephemeral.38

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  Communities of belief can take both forms. In the case of Christianity, we might think of local parish churches (embedded in a specific place) or dispersed communities in which individuals gather with belief-based agendas and interests, rather than with specific local issues in mind. In recent years, there has been a dramatic increase in online gatherings, whether these take the form of territorial meetings with an extended range (for example, a parish church or cathedral which reaches thousands of people for their online services), or spatially dispersed gatherings which choose to increase their reach online. In a socially and ideologically fractured age, communities play an important role in maintaining the fabric of a culture which might otherwise unravel. It is well understood that communities of belief have an important integrative function, individually and socially, which has been particularly well studied in the case of religious communities.2 Yet such communities are about more than socialisation and solidarity; the dynamics of belief in a community involves a complex interaction of ‘believing’ and ‘belonging’. Some believe and are drawn to communities of belief as a social expression of their beliefs. Others are drawn to these communities for social reasons, and gradually come to appreciate and appropriate their belief systems. Religious narratives, rites and rituals form a system of symbols, which is of critical importance for creating and maintaining a sense of ‘belonging’ or ‘togetherness’, thus serving as the nucleus of a community shaped by these values.3 A ‘community of believers’ offers reinforcement of the plausibility of the beliefs of what Peter Berger refers to as a ‘cognitive minority’ – a ‘group formed around a body of deviant knowledge’, whose view of the world ‘differs significantly from the one generally taken for granted in their society.’4 Berger’s notion of ‘plausibility structures’ offers an important lens through which we can understand the role of communities of belief, which offer both social and cultural support to their members through inhabiting a common framework of meaning and the sense of belonging that arises from it. Community and Human SocialityAristotle declared that we are social animals. This communal aspect of human identity is not unique; most animals show substantially the same types of social behaviour such as affiliation and aggression, the use of rituals, or the establishment of hierarchy and territoriality. Biological organisms function in groups, in which cooperation is key to survival. This cooperation can take many forms – such as the collective intelligence of a colony of ants or a school of fish, or human beings constructing cities in Mesopotamia. Groups survive; isolated individuals don’t. It is thus not difficult to explain why human beings are social, but this does not account for the emergence of ‘communities of beliefs’, in which the organising principles are not specifically linked to biological survival, but to the fostering, inhabiting and study of ways of understanding our world. These communities are cultural, rather than biological, in their origins.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  The general human need to seek out and socialise with like-minded people is mirrored widely in the cultural and religious domains. People want to meet those they feel at home with and with whom they can share their experiences and concerns in an affirming manner – rather than be ridiculed, abused or dismissed. People feel the need to feel valued and supported – irrespective of their beliefs. This is particularly important in nations in which state criticism of religion, or one specific religion, causes some religious individuals to feel insecure, threatened or unwelcome.9 For example, the public visibility and activity of Christianity is limited within the highly restrictive political context of China. Chinese Christians have adapted to this context by using social media apps such Weixin and Weibo to develop a sense of community and provide religious teaching and news through regular online publications.10 As noted earlier in this chapter, an important function of a community of belief is to affirm the plausibility of these beliefs, especially in the case of a ‘cognitive minority’ – a group whose view of the world does not conform to, or deviates from, those that are taken for granted in the wider culture. Confronted with a culture which is, or is perceived to be, antagonistic to certain beliefs, communities of faith provide a context within which these beliefs are treated as both normal and significant, rather than being seen as weird. No apology is required for holding them within these communities, nor are they seen as embarrassing. Berger’s sociological analysis highlights the importance of ‘plausibility structures’ that are embedded within a trustworthy community. ‘The plausibility, in the sense of what people find credible, of views of reality depends upon the social support these receive. Put more simply, we obtain our notions about the world originally from other human beings, and these notions continue to be plausible to us in a very large measure because others continue to affirm them.’11 Berger points out that communities of belief often hold to forms of ‘deviant knowledge’ that are out of tune with the mainstream of the wider culture. Yet this perception of ‘deviance’ is historically situated, determined by the dominant ideologies of a particular age and location. What is ‘deviant’ today might have been acceptable or even normal in the past, and may become so again. An atheist might feel they belong to a ‘cognitive minority’ in the United States, which is largely Christian; yet Christians felt they belonged to a ‘cognitive minority’ in the Soviet Union for much of its history. No community of belief is intrinsically a ‘cognitive minority’ or ‘deviant’; it may become so, however, on account of its changing social context, rather than its fundamental beliefs.

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  Others are drawn to these communities for social reasons, and gradually come to appreciate and appropriate their belief systems. Religious narratives, rites and rituals form a system of symbols, which is of critical importance for creating and maintaining a sense of ‘belonging’ or ‘togetherness’, thus serving as the nucleus of a community shaped by these values. 3 A ‘community of believers’ offers reinforcement of the plausibility of the beliefs of what Peter Berger refers to as a ‘cognitive minority’ – a ‘group formed around a body of deviant knowledge’, whose view of the world ‘differs significantly from the one generally taken for granted in their society.’ 4 Berger’s notion of ‘plausibility structures’ offers an important lens through which we can understand the role of communities of belief, which offer both social and cultural support to their members through inhabiting a common framework of meaning and the sense of belonging that arises from it. Community and Human Sociality Aristotle declared that we are social animals. This communal aspect of human identity is not unique; most animals show substantially the same types of social behaviour such as affiliation and aggression, the use of rituals, or the establishment of hierarchy and territoriality. Biological organisms function in groups, in which cooperation is key to survival. This cooperation can take many forms – such as the collective intelligence of a colony of ants or a school of fish, or human beings constructing cities in Mesopotamia. Groups survive; isolated individuals don’t. It is thus not difficult to explain why human beings are social, but this does not account for the emergence of ‘communities of beliefs’, in which the organising principles are not specifically linked to biological survival, but to the fostering, inhabiting and study of ways of understanding our world. These communities are cultural, rather than biological, in their origins. At one level, culture is not a uniquely human phenomenon, if this is understood in terms of learning new patterns of behaviour that are acquired and shared by other members of the group, and then passed down to the next generation. A well-known example is the sweet potato-washing monkeys ( macaca fuscata ) on the Japanese island of Koshima. In the 1950s, researchers left some sweet potatoes on the island’s beach, and noticed one of the monkeys washed the sand off the potato with sea water before eating it. Why? Perhaps the potatoes tasted better when they were salted?

• From Why We Believe: Finding Meaning in Uncertain Times

  If the Christian faith can be compared to a landscape, then its best guides are those who live there, having internalised its contours and incorporated them into their lives. There is a necessary and proper synergy between the statements of the Creeds and the personal experiences of Christians. The Creeds map the landscape of faith; yet individual Christian believers are best placed to explain and unpack its features, and the difference that this makes to their lives. The primary witnesses to the vitality of faith are ordinary Christians, who can connect the landmarks of faith with their personal journeys of discovery and living out their faith, and explain how these credal statements affect the way they live not merely how they think. Let me gather together these reflections, and show how they help us give a Christian answer to the question, ‘What does it mean to believe in God?’ Is it like believing in an extra moon orbiting the planet Uranus – a factual statement about something just being there? No. For Christians, faith is trusting that there is a viable ‘big picture’ of life, leading into a decision to step inside this worldview, and live it out. The Latin word credo (I believe) has the root meaning ‘to trust or confide in something or someone’. While we now tend to think of belief in terms of a hesitant theoretical judgement, the creeds see it as a confident personal commitment. I cannot prove that this is true, but I know there is something here that I cannot let go of without losing my identity, significance and meaning. Historically, early Christianity did not see itself as a ‘religion’ (as many now use that word) based on a set of beliefs to which we must assent, but as a way of imagining and living which we can trust, and are invited to enter. Perhaps for this reason, the early Christians were initially known as both ‘believers’ and ‘followers of the way’ – people who thought and acted in a new way.34 What is the difference between a ‘religious’ belief and an ‘ordinary’ belief? To begin with, there is an obvious similarity: like ordinary beliefs, religious beliefs lie beyond proof. Yet they are not individual disconnected affirmations; they are elements of a greater scheme of things which we are invited to trust, and make the basis of our way of thinking and living. Earlier, I mentioned the philosopher of religion Keith Yandell’s definition of a religion, which captures this point without falling into the error of assuming that belief in God is integral to the identity of religion. His ‘neutral definition’ of religion needs to be quoted more fully. A religion is a conceptual system that provides an interpretation of the world and the place of human beings in it, bases an account of how life should be lived given that interpretation, and expresses this interpretation and lifestyle in a set of rituals, institutions and practices.35