Standing with @LaryciaHawkins | Learning #EmbodiedSolidarity

Part of the work of a Christian theologian is to consider how their faith relates to the other faiths of the world. Not all religious traditions worship the same god. How they differ from each other matters. This is why I often bristle when people say, “We’re all on

different paths to the same god.” The spirit of this statement is well-intended. The goal is respect and understanding. But the differences matter, and I believe there are better ways of saying this that illustrate the particular genius of Christian faith.

I do not say that out of a kind of Christian exclusivism or superiority. Rather, I say we worship different gods out of a sense of respect for the particular ways each religious tradition formulates their concept of their god. And of course some traditions worship no god at all, so to believe that all of us, anonymously or secretly or unbeknownst to us, actually worship the same god, does not respect the truth in the other tradition. I’ve heard at least one non-Christian say, when presented with the idea of anonymous Christianity, that really all are Christians through the salvific work of Christ: “Get out my eschatology!” 

To respect the religions of others, we are called to know our own tradition well, and then, as best as possible, bring our faith into conversation with other faiths, and see what we can learn. In the process, we learn as much or more about our own faith as we do about our neighor’s faith. I believe this is how we all grow spiritually. Several years ago, a professor of missiology suggested that interfaith dialogue is like exploring a mountain range. All of us in our religious exploration are in a mountain range ascending various mountains. There isn’t just one mountain. There are many. And all those doing the work of ascending their mountain, and doing it well, gain greater clarity about the gods and faiths of neighbors ascending other mountains. The higher you are, the more clearly you can see the entire mountain range, the beauty and variety of mountains surrounding you. If we’re all just ascending the same mountain, on a path to the same god, then the peek is equally occluded from each of us, and if we are on different sides of the mountain, none of us can even see each other.

In recent national conversations about the welcome of Muslims to the United States, I have been pondering a recent book by Miroslav Volf, Allah: A Christian Response. Volf, as a Christian theologian, considers Islam in particular, and tries as best as possible to articulate a Christian perspective on it. Notice this is a very different project from trying to explain Islam to Christians. What Volf attempts is an articulate Christian response to Islam. This is authenticity. It has integrity. None of us can really fully know the religious tradition of others, but we can deepen our own understanding of our own tradition as it relates to other faiths.

Reading Volf, and praying over the matter for many years, I have come to the conclusion that Christians and Muslims worship the same God. I did not always believe this. I still think that many of the ways the Muslim expression of faith supersedes preceding Abrahamic faiths is problematic, and I would want to challenge many theological positions within Islam. I do not identify wth everything Muslims confess about God, but I believe that it is the same God we worship. 

Notice, this does not mean that I believe all religions worship the same God. I am speaking in this column particularly of Christians and Muslims. Nor am I abandoning my Christian, trinitarian understanding of God. I still confess the creeds. I am a Lutheran Christian. But I think the God we worship is the same God even if we have, in some ways, very different understandings of that God.

One comparison I find particularly helpful that can shift the terrain is between Muhammad and Jesus. Often Christians assume that is the most appropriate comparison between our two faiths. But actually, Muhammad is neither the savior in Islamic theology, nor the Son of God. So to compare these two men lacks subtlety. A better comparison is probably between Muhammad and Mary. Mary gives birth to the word of God, Jesus. Muhammad births forth the words of God, the written text now known as the Qur’an. There are even interesting parallels between Mary as a virgin and Muhammad as illiterate before he writes the text. Comparisons, though not exact, sometimes help each of us understand the faith of the other more deeply, and share faith with each other.

There is a lot about God in Christ I would want to share with a Muslim. In fact, there's a lot I'd like to share about God in Christ with anyone who wants to listen! In mutual conversation, I would share how I know God in Christ, and listen respectfully to how a Muslim knows God through their religious texts and practice. At the very least, I would hope to draw them to know our shared God more deeply. I’ve had increasing opportunities to have such conversations here in Fayetteville, and have been enriched by them.

In the present moment, however, when Muslim neighbors are under attack, I go a step further, and express actual solidarity. I've even said expressly, "I am Muslim." Not because I am in practice, but because I am in our shared worship of the same God, and in our shared humanity. I might equally say, in another moment, "I am atheist,” if it were my atheist neighbor under attack. And also because frankly, sometimes the God an atheist doesn’t believe in I don’t believe in either. Christians are committed again and again to overcoming idolatry in order to worship the true God. We have a lot to learn from atheists.

Nor do I think identification can always work. Identification as solidarity sometimes verges on cultural appropriation, a strange kind of colonialism. We can over define ourselves through our view of the other, as Edward Said points out so vividly in his book, Orientalism. So all I really want to say is that this kind of identification and deep learning, comparative theology that risks deep empathy with others, across religious boundaries, has had, at least for me and always, the impact of deepening my faith, and discovering the truth of Christianity. 

Which is of course quite different than saying that Christianity is the one true faith, because I've always believed that Christianity is true when it doesn't attempt to lay claim to truth exclusively.

While writing this column for the newspaper (to be published Saturday), news of Larycia Hawkins suspension from Wheaton College made the news. I was reminded of 1 Corinthians 11:6. I felt an immediate sense of connection with her Advent devotion, #womeninsolidaritywithhijab, and started to wonder, what's the white male form of solidarity? I stand with her and support her here in this blog. What else?

Larycia published a public statement on her Advent practice, and I share it here:

This morning, I partook of the Eucharist, the culmination of the Christian liturgy where Christians through the centuries have united around a common table to practice hospitality by the eating of bread and the drinking of wine, to seek forgiveness from those we've hurt or offended, and to grant forgiveness to ourselves and to others. It is a table of reconciliation--both spiritual reconciliation and relational reconciliation.

Since I recently embarked on ‪#‎embodiedsolidarity‬ with women who wear the hijab (‪#‎wish‬), I've received pushback almost exclusively from other Christians. The pushback has primarily centered on the claim that Christians and Muslims worship the same God. In the spirit of the unity of what Christians term the body of Christ, I would like to respond--but will not reply to comments on an internecine dispute that arose rather recently in the history of the church. 

Please find a cogent analysis of the basis for my claim in this link--as well as a convincing argument for why asserting our religious solidarity with Muslims and Jews will go a long way toward quelling religious violence and enervating religionist fear of the religious other. Whether or not you find this position, one held for centuries by countless Christians (church fathers, saints, and regular Christian folk like me), to be valid, I trust that we can peacefully disagree on theological points and affirm others like the Triune God (albeit there are differences here as well--Athanasian Creed, anyone?), the virgin birth (or Immaculate Conception depending on your persuasion), and the Resurrection. Let there be unity in our diversity of views about all of the above.

My wearing of the hijab as an act of advent devotion has certainly caused some to question the sincerity of my devotion. To those who question the authenticity of my faith, I love you. 

The apostle Paul declares, "...as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone" (Romans 12:18). That includes those of you who now count me apostate for daring to call fellow humans who happen to be Muslim my brothers and sisters. I love you with the power of the love that saved me and keeps me and bids me do justice in my body. 

Being at peace with everyone means embracing you virtually and asking for forgiveness of those I have offended. It doesn't matter that I did not intend to do so. What matters is the imperative that I move first to make peace with others. As far as it depends on you, will you accept my holy handshake? 

Respect, love, and peace to all of you.

Your sister in the hijab, 

Larycia

‪#‎womeninsolidaritywithhijab‬
#wish
‪#‎advent‬
#embodiedsolidarity

Why Lutherans Fight Over Sin and Social Justice

One strong tradition in Lutheranism is a focus on forgiveness of sins, the justification of the ungodly through the gospel of Jesus Christ. In this tradition, faith is what takes hold of this gospel and also that which extends the justification in the first place. Christ's faithfulness is that which justifies; our faithfulness is the response. This is salvation.

Quite a lot of our confessional documents give space to this topic, with entries in the Augsburg Confession on original sin, justification, the causes of sin, confession, repentance, etc. Because this matter was of central importance to the reformers in their debates with leaders in the Roman Catholic Church of that time, it is no surprise it is given considerable space. It's a complex theological construct, with many moving pieces. Here's one brief articulation, the AC article on justification:

Also they teach that humans cannot be justified before God by their own strength, merits, or works, but are freely justified for Christ's sake, through faith, when they believe that they are received into favor, and that their sins are forgiven for Christ's sake, who, by His death, has made satisfaction for our sins. This faith God imputes for righteousness in God's sight. Rom. 3 and 4.

Justification in particular was hotly contested, so Melanchthon, in the longer apology to the Augsburg Confession, wrote his longest and most theological rich (and dense) piece specifically on justification.



Here's where things get tricky, and Lutherans part ways. It seems to be the case that "confessional" Lutherans focus on personal sin and sinfulness and the doctrines surrounding justification itself. "Progressive" Lutherans, among whom I count myself (although I tend to lean in the confessional direction more than some of my colleagues), find the doctrine of justification and forgiveness of sins important but see it leaning towards issues of social and institutional sin, and less towards personal morality.

These are big generalizations, but I think they are accurate.

The result: Confessional Lutherans are critical of progressive Lutherans because they perceive us as being lax (or conforming to societal norms) on topics of personal morality (sexuality in particular). Progressive Lutherans are critical of confessional Lutherans for their failures to address sin at the structural level (sexuality in particular).

Where we really divide is in our approaches bringing our understanding of sin, repentance, and faith to bear on contemporary life. To be really straightforward--many confessional Lutherans think progressive Lutherans don't really believe in sin because we won't call same-sex attraction sin, and many progressive Lutherans don't think confessional Lutherans believe in sin because they won't see their own judgment of the LGBTQ community as complicity in structural, social sin.

Sometimes I wish we would all attempt to understand our theological commitments more carefully in the proposed language of those on the other side of the line. I have trouble, for example, understanding why confessional Lutherans resist liberation theology so strongly. They seem to react strongly to any theology that takes account of personal experience of oppression as a resource for reflection on complicity to sin, and the call for repentance.

Similarly, I have trouble understanding why progressive Lutherans resist forming adequate phenomenological accounts of repentance and forgiveness along the lines of the confessions, including the direct address of personal sin.

One of the oddest developments on the confessional side of the equation is the libertarian tendency in Lutheran confessionalism. I admit, I simply can't completely get my head around this one. Basically, Lutheran libertarians believe social structures (in particular government) should get out of the way to make space for the free proclamation of repentance for the forgiveness of sins in Christ. In other words, if institutions get out of the way, individuals who need to hear the law and be convicted will do such preaching better with complete liberty. Somehow they are inherently more good and able to make this happen than the institutions that constrict such preaching. This is, we might say, a contradiction in terms.

But similarly, social justice advocates, liberation theologians of all sorts, have developed an odd tick of not talking about sin while talking about it all the time. They call it by every other name--racism, homophobia, cisnormativity, xenophobia, misogyny, oppression--but not the name that would make sense to confessional Lutherans, or frankly, a large majority of Christians worldwide. I do not know if this is because they want to avoid speaking of personal sin, or if they feel the word has been so co-opted as to be unusable. Nevertheless, there it is. Our language fails us at the Horizontverschmelzung.

An additional matter has to do with the this world/eternal life dichotomy. Progressive Lutherans tend to see the doctrine of sin and justification mattering for this life. Liberation theology calls for change now, an in-breaking of God's kingdom today. They believe the Marxian critique of religion is valid, that it sometimes functions as an opiate, as in Marx's contribution to the Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right:

The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo...  It is, therefore, the task of history, once the other-world of truth has vanished, to establish the truth of this world. It is the immediate task of philosophy, which is in the service of history, to unmask self-estrangement in its unholy forms once the holy form of human self-estrangement has been unmasked. Thus, the criticism of Heaven turns into the criticism of Earth, the criticism of religion into the criticism of law, and the criticism of theology into the criticism of politics.

Liberation theologians by and large accept Marx's critique. Only through a focus on Christ's preferential option for the victims of sin, and a commitment to changing the structures that continue the violent effects of such structures and powers, can real repentance and justification happen. We might adapt Feuerbach's thesis on Marx in this way:

The theologians have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point, however, is to change it.

The Augsburg Confession includes an intriguing article on civil affairs worth quoting in full:

Of Civil Affairs they (Lutherans) teach that lawful civil ordinances are good works of God, and that it is right for Christians to bear civil office, to sit as judges, to judge matters by the Imperial and other existing laws, to award just punishments, to engage in just wars, to serve as soldiers, to make legal contracts, to hold property, to make oath when required by the magistrates, to marry a wife, to be given in marriage.

They condemn the Anabaptists who forbid these civil offices to Christians.

They condemn also those who do not place evangelical perfection in the fear of God and in faith, but in forsaking civil offices, for the Gospel teaches an eternal righteousness of the heart. Meanwhile, it does not destroy the State or the family, but very much requires that they be preserved as ordinances of God, and that charity be practiced in such ordinances. Therefore, Christians are necessarily bound to obey their own magistrates and laws save only when commanded to sin; for then they ought to obey God rather than men. Acts 5:29.

Quite a lot of our current debates about civil affairs hinges on a few lines in this article, especially "save only when commanded to sin," and "lawful" civil ordinances. The Lutheran doctrine of vocation and orders of creation is on full display here, but those little terms are the arena in which the complications of sin and its effects, social justice and its merits, play themselves out.

On the flip side, confessional Lutherans point out that progressive Lutherans seem almost exclusively concerned with this world, with little or no conversation about life after this life. Interestingly, the Augsburg Confession doesn't have a particular entry on eternal life per se, but only on Christ's return to judgment. This article follows a fairly traditional separationist line, with Christ separating the godly from the ungodly, each receiving their predictable deserts. But the article is followed by one on free will, and indicates in traditional Lutheran fashion that basically, we don't have free will. So if we are "godly" and righteous, it is only by God's grace and favor and gift. We are made righteous. We do not make ourselves righteous.

This being the case, with God being all in all when it comes to the life after this life, it is fairly clear that there need not be a disjunction, but rather continuity. We can live now in anticipation of what is promised in the right-making God is accomplishing both in this world and for the next.

One last thing. A remarkable aspect of our disagreements concerns the extent to which sin itself corrupts our perception of sin. In other words, sometimes what we call or label sin is itself clouded by our sinfulness. Sometimes we learn it was our sin that labeled something else sin. Nowhere is this more true than in Jesus Christ himself (2 Corinthians 5:21), who became sin who knew no sin. Concomitantly, those who once were sin find themselves surprised by their righteousness.

In this life, those are all rolled up together. In the next, they are sorted and righted by God. In the meantime, God's justifying action is, in my estimation, best understood as social and singular, each and all. The best confessional theology is also liberation theology. And vice versa.

A Christian Syllabus on Islam

I am by no means an interfaith expert, so please take this syllabus in the spirit it is offered, as a starting point, suggestions from a Christian blogger on a starting point in order to understand our faith in relationship to Islam better.

First, watch Of Gods and Men. Then watch it again. Then watch it again.



Next, read A Common Word.

For excellent tools to overcome blatant Islamophobia, read:



For the great and classic text that will change your life:



For an argument that Christians and Muslims worship the same God, from one of our greatest living theologians:



And a similar expression of faith from a Muslim scholar:



Finally, a recent and accessible study Qur'an:

Holy Rollers

Role-playing game systems increase in popularity year after year for many reasons, but one of the most attractive features of such games is the opportunity to advance in levels.  Kill this many monsters, solve this many quests, gain this many experience points, and up a level you go, with greater strength, more magical powers, and greater resistance to attacks that might kill you.

I can remember, early in my career as a gamer, yearning after the elusive upper levels. I'd spend hours each week running a set of characters through Bard's Tale, thrilling each time the group gained another level. I was, and remain, willing to invest considerable time in whatever activities would move my avatar ever closer to epic levels of might and magic.

Developing characters in a fantastic world was an integral part of my personal maturation. When I think back to 4th grade, I can remember an awkward stage sitting on the floor in my parent's bedroom, phone cord stretched across the room, maps and rule books laid out around me on the carpet, regaling a friend with the details of the game. The friend on the other end of the line must have been particularly patient, because I think I talked for hours, literally, about the process for developing non-player characters that would populate dungeons. In my halting fashion, as a child less adept at social interaction than academic performance, the world of games allowed me to move along, slowly, in emotional intelligence, framed by the conversations of the games. Gaming was a safer way to be awkward.

A clear measurable path for progress really is magical. This is true not only in games, but in real life. Skill acquisition of any kind, though time-consuming and pain-staking, offers a set of unparalleled rewards. There is a visible and discernible change that makes all the effort worthwhile. Run this much, get this much faster, lose this much weight. Practice the piano, learn these scales, play Chopin.

Role-playing games are unique in that leveling up is unidirectional. There is no backsliding. Take your paladin to the 20th level, and she stays there. Perhaps this is the great satisfaction and joy of RPGs. We can be challenged while never set back. In this way, games decrease the risks of failure, and this is what satisfies. By comparison, if I stop running or practicing piano or speaking German, the skills slowly drift away.

 

Often, I wish growth in the Christian life were like gaming. Like a cleric whose access to the holy remains steady and deepens the higher he rises, channeling the energy of their deity with ever greater proficiency, I wish some days my own holiness were so clearly progressive. But it isn't. Most of the time, it is difficult to offer markers of how, from year to year, I grow in faith at all, and if I'm honest, I can offer more examples of backsliding than forward movement.

For example, recently I realized I am seldom in prayer. Since pastors commit themselves to a life of prayer, I have over the years implemented myriad ways to build prayer into my daily life. I have meditated. I have prayed the daily offices. I plan prayer runs. I go on retreat. Even just last year, I was praying regularly, daily, in a variety of ways.

This summer, it occurred to me that I rarely pray except professionally, as part of worship, or because council asks me to open our meeting with prayer. How is it possible, given the regular practices I've cultivated in my life, that I suddenly find myself, a 40-something Christian pastor, not praying. How can holiness go in reverse?

At least I am aware of the reversal. That's progress of a sort. It is as if the only power granted a pastor in real life is the power to see the world and the self increasingly for what it is, a murky and complex place through which glimpses of brilliant grace inexplicably shine. I know and trust that while I have not been praying, my friends and parishioners have, and Christ has continued to intercede before the Father even while I've been less than present myself in those prayers Christ lifts.

Although almost all of Christianity assumes some kind of progress in holiness, this progress is considerably more mixed than we like. Two steps forward, three steps back. Progress, for Christians, is growth in one area just sufficient enough to illuminate immaturity in some other area of the Christian life. Just about the time I congratulate myself for engaging in a particularly successful evangelism conversation at the coffee shop, I go home and get impatient with my family. 

Some Christian traditions over the centuries, to be sure, have been more confident in their ability to measure growth in holiness. But the further proof of the folly of such confidence is the discernment of the wider Christian communion, who have always seen this over-confidence in self-aware holiness for what it truly is, a mark of immaturity and lack of spiritual grace.

As desirous as we are of holiness, and as desirable as clear growth can be, the truth of holiness in Christian tradition lies elsewhere. In fact, it rests not in measurable means, like leveling up. True holiness rests outside of us, in God.

Holiness is a God thing

A man runs up to Jesus and asks, "Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" Jesus pauses before answering to ask a question, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone" (Mark 10:18). The one man who might get a pass on being called good is the very one who deflects the title away from himself and back to God.

This is a catechetical moment, one worth our attention. If Jesus himself deflects goodness back to God, there must be something in the life of holiness that is focused not on our own holiness, but on the holiness of God. 

John Webster, in one of the few recent booklength treatments of holiness, says as much. "Holiness is a predicate of the personal being, action and relation of the triune God, of God's concrete execution of [God's] simplicity; it is not a quality in abstraction, but an indicator of God's 'name'" (Webster 39).  Jesus does not want "good" added to his name, because God alone is good, by nature of the name of God itself.

Theologically, everything related to holiness is grounded in the holiness of God. God is holiness and gives holiness. Holiness is established in the hearing of the promises and good news of the holiness of God. The end or purpose of holiness, if we are to pick up on a solid reformed insight, is the sanctifying of the holy name of God. Holiness is about God's own leveling up, as it were.

But in good classic Christian theology, there is never a God in Godself, God for Godself. The holiness of God is known in God's being for us. In fact, God is not God without being "for us." It is another name of God. So the holy God is holy precisely in being for the people God is actively making holy.

Gamers might think of a parallel concept in the gaming world, of power-leveling, where a lower level character advances more quickly through the assistance of a higher level character, who completes quests or defeats creatures impossible for lower level characters, but allows the lower leveler to vicariously receive experience points beyond their normal ability.

A few years ago, when I was studying World of Warcraft for a book I was writing on media and faith, a friend and long-time WoW gamer volunteered to walk me through parts of the WoW universe I would not have survived on my own as a low-level character. I partnered with him on a quest that included defeating a dragon. My ranger increased a couple of levels in that short time. As a result, I was then able to travel on my own to a great number of regions. By vicarously gaming with a friend, I gained strength, confidence, and freedom. My friend literally increased my capacity for life in the game.

The analogy works, but not well, because the holiness of the Christian community that participates in the holiness of God truly participates, in that the community receives the name of God itself in its holiness. In Christian theology, we do not become "like" God. We are gathered up into God's very self. That is holiness. The comparison, if there is one to gaming, would be that I would no longer just be a gamer in the game, but would become part of the game-design team. Leveling up, I would have the chance to write the very game I was playing, co-creator in the diving gaming.

So is there growth?

All of this leaves us, on the practical level, wondering whether there is growth in holiness, and if there is, what it looks like. Clearly, if the holiness of God draws near to us because of who God is, we need to be able to speak of growth in the holiness that God gives.

For example, John Webster asserts, "We need to understand that theological thinking about holiness is itself an exercise of holiness" (8). For Webster, a primary aspect of holiness is "an increase in concentration: the focusing of the mind, will and affections on the holy God and his ways with us" (105). We can be at least somewhat confident that growth in holiness looks like growth in awareness of the holiness of God.

One aspect of God's holiness is its illumination of our sin. So another mark of holiness in our lives is our awareness of how far we are from holiness, how far we are from God. God's holiness, and our awareness of it, shines light on our distance from it. God is God, and we are not.

I have this suspicion that this related in some ways to Tolkien's concept of sub-creation. Although we cannot live up to the holiness of God, we have had extended to us a role within the creation and sub-creators of God's good creation.

That being said, we immediately circle back around to the truth that the very God who we are not is the God who is for us and with us and will not without us. This is why theologians have, over time, developed in various ways a notion that our growth in grace, if it is to be described at all, may best be described as a holiness that happens again and again, once for all, and more and more.

Again and again, because we continually fall away from it, slide back into ways of life quite distant from the holy life, and so must, day after day, return to the holiness so graciously extended. This is the wisdom of Martin Luther in the small catechism, who teaches about baptism that we are to daily drown and die to sin and daily rise as a new person in God in Christ.

Once for all, inasmuch as Christians frequently emphasize the unique place of Christ's death and resurrection in the economy of salvation, Christ's taking on the sin of the whole world in order that we might be made into the holy people of God.

More and more, and here is the most difficult move, because we truly have seen living examples of faithful folks who have grown so deeply into the grace of God and rested in it, that the very holiness of God imbued their lives with particular holiness and grace. We call these holy ones saints, and for good reason. By the grace of God, and in mysterious ways, they really did level up. The path was unique and perhaps unrepeatable, but this in no way detracts from their attractiveness as examples of holiness.

The Geography of Holiness

St. Symeon the Stylite

There is one last thing. Holiness is about God, God's goodness, God's grace, God's love, God's care. Our own holiness we tend to consider in terms of behavior or demeanor. Yet there is an unremarked geography of holiness worth our attention. Holiness is, more than we realize, an aspect of where we are. Holiness is embodied. Consider the Stylites, whose holiness was directly correlated to the strangeness of their retreat. Or the anchorites, whose particular practice of holiness tethered them to holy structures. Even God's holiness has an unavoidable spatial dimension.  The more God is holy, the more God is up. Perhaps in our quest for progress in holiness, we have failed to notice that holiness is a place. Holiness is a space, a set-apartness, proximity to divinity. It's just that in the quantum era, we don't know where we are anymore, or what "where" is.

Intriguingly, we are living in the renaissance of table-top gaming, which means game parlors are proliferating and even chain stores like Barnes & Noble are filling up with card board creations. All over, little game stores are popping up, typically shelved with a hodge-podge of gamer paraphernalia, and the ubiquitous stacks of three-ring binders filled with the king of Collectible Card Games, Magic: The Gathering. But essential to all game stores are the tables, cheap folding tables and chairs, sometimes sturdier wood structures readied for war games. Gamers seem not to demand fancy spaces. They'll camp out in any old place. But they do need to be together, and they do need each other. It takes players to play a game. The sacred space evoked in gaming has very little to do with vaulted ceilings or fancy frames, but instead is facilitated in the holy hospitality of shared imagination. Like any playroom, the mess is acceptable if it facilitates jouissance.

So let me offer a proposal, one that may not satisfy all, and certainly will confuse cartographers. The place of holiness is the neighbor, in particular the neighbors in neighborhood at play. Making holiness about a place, and the place being the neighbor, might give us some additional resources for reconsidering all our conversations about growth. Unlike avatars in RPGs, who approach almost all non-player characters they encounter simply as utilitarian resources to be benignly exploited for their own leveling up, our own leveling up is accomplished expressly and completely in the freedom we receive from the holy God to be holy, and wholly, in our neighbor.

As an adult gamer, I have begun to play around, on the side, with indie and meta-games. Traditional roleplaying games like Dungeons & Dragons or Pathfinders are spectacular in that they have a predictable structure in which the imagination can run wild. A game master leads a group of players through a session they have designed. The session focuses exploration in a pre-planned scenario, often with a map of the city or dungeon to be explored, puzzles to solve and monsters to defeat. Some game-developers, inspired by the traditional role-playing games invented and popularized by Gary Gygax have imagined alternative gaming systems, less linear, less spatial. In the end, these are all like varying monastic orders, sets of rules to cultivate sacred community.

For a time, especially at the stage of initiation, or during the novitiate, growth in holiness takes the form of attending to the rules. Most gamers go through a long apprenticeship, time spent gaming in order to learn the rules of the game. Even long-time gamers periodically exit the play itself to discuss the finer points of the rules, even to debate them. But all the rules, all the structure, is assembled in order to facilitate the game itself. The rules invite a community of players to forget themselves and lose themselves in the game. The game rolls them up into something higher, something greater, something divine.