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The Silly, Masonic Debate on Whether We Worship the Same God
It seems that some things never go away, and the running battle over whether Christians and Muslims worship the same God is one of those. The day I picked to take on this subject is deliberate: it’s the feast of St. John the Evangelist, which is also one of the great holidays of Masonry.
As I’ve noted before, Masonry runs deep in both sides of my family, especially my father’s. Yet, in part because of the secret nature of the Lodge, Masonry’s influence on the way Americans look at things is consistently overlooked. This is a subject where Masonry has had a very significant impact. So, on their holiday, I think it proper to take it on.
Let me begin by going back to an earlier post where I look at the running attempt by Malaysian Muslims (you heard it right) to suppress Christian usage of the word “Allah” for God:
In this country, it’s “politically correct” to assume that a) both Christians and Muslims worship the same god and b) by extension, it’s permissible to call him by names common to both religions. This is the line encouraged by CAIR and other groups. However, I have seen this attacked in Muslim literature as Masonic, not Islāmic. Evidently that, in a roundabout way, is the position of the Muslim protesters in Malaysia.
The court, on a factual basis, is correct. Christians in Muslim countries (especially Arab ones, but also in places such as Indonesia) routinely refer to God as Allah and this is reflected in Biblical translations. Conversely all English “interpretations” of the Qur’an before the last century translated the Arabic Allah as “God.” It was left to Marmaduke Pickthall to transliterate the term “Allah” because, in his opinion, “there is no corresponding word in English.” Evidently he felt that the Christian and Islamic conceptions of God were so different that different names were necessary.
Having set that up, let’s turn to the Lodge. Masons often defend themselves by saying “We don’t believe that,” but that’s the Masonic way: take a position and then hide it behind the secret ritual and deny it. (Perhaps that explains the game of bluff of American politics, but that’s another post…) But Masonry has two underlying tenets that anyone who is honest about the subject will admit:
- All religions are the same, have the same goal and ultimately lead to the same god.
- The Lodge offers a way to the “Great Architect of the Universe” that transcends all the other religions, via good works.
The first is falsifiable by a casual examination of different religions. We cannot worship the same god when the number is different, i.e. polytheistic Hinduism, non-theistic Confucianism, Buddhism which can go either way, etc.. Islam, as a monotheistic religion, is a little more complicated, but we’ll get to that. The second basically makes Masonry a religion in its own right, something it has worked hard to deny for many years.
A culture which has been permeated by the first proposition–and American culture certainly has–is vulnerable to confusion based on the first point. If both religions are monotheistic, then they must worship the same god, and thus both will get us to “heaven”, right? It’s little wonder that Christian leaders are so quick to differentiate two “Gods” in a culture soaked with this kind of thinking.
But such a concern is really unnecessary. The easiest way to explain this is to look back on all the years that the European Christians and the Muslims fought via the Crusades, the reconquest of Spain, the Ottoman conflicts, etc. Islam was portrayed in Europe as a Christian heresy, as any reader of Dante is aware of. Christians were called “infidels” not because they were atheists or worshipped a different God but because they rejected the revelation that Mohammed received. In both cases, access to God was as important as the existence of God himself; both sides took as axiomatic that bad access led to bad eternal consequences.
The problem with pushing the “two Gods” idea is that it not only undermines the concept of monotheism; it opens the door for other interlopers such as the Lodge to make inroads, and as we see they’ve already done a good job in that regards.
Access is really the key issue here. Christian–and Islāmic leaders for that matter–should stop and consider things carefully before they take positions that are antithetical to the ones they’re supposed to hold.
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Anglicanism Without Canterbury
The Most Rev. Eliud Wabukala, Kenya’s Anglican primate, lays it out:
It has been suggested that the way forward is for the Anglican Communion to abandon the idea that there should be mutual recognition between the provinces and that it should instead find its unity simply in a common relationship with the Archbishop of Canterbury.
This is not historic Anglicanism; the See of Canterbury is honoured and respected as the Mother Church of the Communion, but the unity of the Communion does not depend upon the Archbishop of Canterbury. Rather, it depends upon the various provinces being able to recognize each other, with all their differences of culture, as truly apostolic and committed to the faith as it has been received. Tragically, that recognition has now broken down and affection for Canterbury is no substitute.
I have felt for a long time that the North Americans on both sides are too heavily invested in Canterbury and need a reality check, both about the current state of the Communion and what a Christian church is really supposed to be all about. Wabukala evidently has figured out both; hopefully both he and his North American counterparts will arrange for “open return” travel arrangements for the meeting next month.
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The Non-Nestorian Theology of "Mary Did You Know"
Jordan Smith’s stunning performance of “Mary Did You Know” on “The Voice” is a reminder of the fact that this song–written by Baptist comedian Mark Lowry–is American Evangelicalism’s “official” Christmas carol.
What Evangelicals probably don’t know is that, for all of their reputation for sloppy theology, Lowry nailed it on this one:
Did you know
that your Baby Boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little Baby you kissed the face of God?One of the first heresies the church had to deal with after it picked itself off of the floor after Arianism was Nestorius’ contention that Jesus Christ was very dual in his being, that the human and the divine persons were very separate. Nestorius himself contended that “God is not a baby two or three months old”.
And so, Evangelicals, when your Orthodox friends (assuming you have any) rail at you when you don’t know the Thrice-Holy Hymn, or that you do not cross yourself at all let alone with two or three fingers, or that you do not recite the Creed during your worship of God, you can say that you’re not a Nestorian.
Which shows, I suppose, that Evangelicalism is where the comedians have a better grasp of theology than the pulpiteers.
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Home is Where the Heart Is, But the Wallet Cannot Go
Christmas is the time of year when we think of “home”. Home for many Americans generates warm fuzzy feelings of a place where things were simpler and life was, somehow, better. It brings memories of places we’ve left, assuming we’ve left them behind at all. And it’s a place where, for all the saccharine sentiment, most of us wouldn’t want to move back to, because where we’re at is better materially than where we started.
For those of us who grew up in a place like Palm Beach, life is different.
To start with, Christmas in South Florida is something of a mind bender. When we South Floridians (or anyone who grew up in a tropical or sub-tropical place) hear of people waxing about “sleigh bells in the snow” our first question is simple: snow? For me, memories of Christmas turn to a Christmas day when my brother, first armed with a driver’s license, and I cruised down the streets of West Palm Beach in 75 deg. F weather, windows down, and sunny. Who needs snow?
Being on our side of the lake–the barrier between us and the riff-raff–was even stranger. People go on about many things they experienced where they grew up, but honestly the best thing about being a kid on the North End of Palm Beach was (and probably is) Lake Trail. A bicycle/pedestrian trail that runs most of the length of the Town of Palm Beach along the shore of Lake Worth, it was a two-wheeled interstate down to more interesting places (including, after 1971, Publix). To get there from our house, we went up and over Palm Beach’s fabled coral ridge and down a paved path at a vacant lot which put us on the Trail. Our cat was likewise enamoured with the area, but he reached it by imperiously sauntering down the streets of Palm Beach as cats are wont to do. One time he came home with blood in his eye, which led us to suspect he came in contact with something bigger than he was.
The years have come and gone, and so has the vacant lot. The Palm Beach Country Club built a house on the lot and sold it in the 1980’s, and that house is now on the market for a paltry USD37,450,000. From the looks of it the access to Lake Trail has been cut off as well, although there are alternatives.
Our abode was nowhere near that magnificent, and it wasn’t on the water either. Nevertheless, while many of my contemporaries wouldn’t go back to the place they came from because they have “advanced” (their material circumstances have, the mentality has not) I could not go back because, frankly, I can’t afford to. As my grandmother would say, we are “too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash“, by current Palm Beach standards.
Some of that is the fate of multigenerational success; sooner or later it fades. But another reason is the stratospheric rise of real estate prices in Palm Beach and other places like it. It’s kind of like the debate over sea level rise: is the sea rising or the land falling? That’s the case with several places I or my ancestors called home at one time or another.
God is good and so is life; I don’t mean this to be a gripe session. Palm Beach’s social system may be the one I reference all others by, but then it wasn’t much fun. I still find all the obsession many of my contemporaries have with “moving up” distasteful, especially if they profess and call themselves Christians. But Christians especially would be well advised to lose the obsession with “moving up” in this life at least. We live in a time when technology and the productivity it can produce great improvements in life, but our economic and political systems tend to concentrate power and wealth in the hands of a few while making the rest of think that we’re in charge though a dubious electoral system. With the downsizing of life our elites plan to mandate in the name of saving the planet, there will be many more who will find the “old home place” out of reach financially.
And that will probably include the place we’re at now.
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Perusing My Parents' Bookshelf
Boomers have always had a love-hate relationship with the generation before them, transitioning from “don’t trust anyone over thirty” to calling them “the Greatest Generation.” Most of those who brought us into the world are gone now, and the ones who are left are “full of years” to use the Bible’s expression.
Part of the problem was that our parents’ weren’t very forthright about what they were really all about. Products of more than a decade of adversity in the Depression and World War II, they wanted to put it all behind them and create an ideal place for their children to grow up in. That was a mistake; it resulted in a generation that lacked a sense of reality that has plagued our country ever since. Understandable, but still consequential.
One place I have turned to to see what “made them tick” was my parent’s bookshelf. My parents were intelligent, sharp-tongued people, but neither of them earned an undergraduate degree. (My mother, I found out later, quit high school to run off and get married, but that didn’t dull her smarts either). Like generations of Americans, they were literate but not literary. The library at home reflected their interests and not a cultural aspiration.
Obviously it is impossible to recreate that library, long broken up with moves and a nasty divorce. But university library sales and other sources have allowed me to savour some of the books that sat on the shelves, many of which I never read before. (At the time most of my interest in the bookshelf was centred on the World Book encyclopaedia). So let me do some “miniature reviews” of some of these titles.
Peter Freuchen’s Book of the Seven Seas
is his delightful and encyclopaedic account of human history at sea. Freuchen, a Danish explorer who was part of the last generation to make really new discoveries on the earth, is the “Herodotus of Marine History”, not always precise with his facts but so entertaining and engaging in his narrative and sweeping in the scope of knowledge that his work is still the best place to start a study of the subject. It conveys better than anything else why the sea is so compelling with a sense of awe that we’ve really lost.An entirely different experience at sea–well, sort of–is William Brinkley’s Don’t Go Near the Water
. A satire on Naval public relations in the Pacific during World War II, his book has been criticised for its desultory organisation and lack of connecting plot (like the 1960’s art movies that shortly followed). To some extent that criticism is justified; it is more a loose progression of short stories with a running undercurrent of one Naval officer’s attempt to romance an island girl with more culture that he had. With World War II satires Boomers preferred Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, but this novel was a major best seller when it came out in 1956, the choice of the participants rather than their offspring. The language is very salty (as one would expect in the Navy, my father’s similar speech came from the Coast Guard) but it shows a willingness–indeed a need–to make fun of the military that has been lost.
More for the coffee table than the bookshelf is the National Geographic classic Men, Ships, and the Sea (The Story of Man Library)
. The text was written by the Australian mariner Allan Villiers, but it was loaded with the gorgeous photographs that were the trademark of National Geographic publications. I grew up on what is now known as “NatGeo”, the monthly magazine was a staple at our house. (I strongly suspect that my grandfather, in his years in Washington, got to know the Grosvenor family and the Society). In some ways it parallels Freuchen’s book but the photographs don’t make up for Freuchen’s narrative. In the back is a good summary of small craft operation and navigation that we, er, could have used…(this post’s date is the fiftieth anniversary of my father sending the check back to NatGeo for the book).
The strangest–but in the long run the most important–book I got from their bookshelf was the Bible. Most Evangelicals have the Bible handed to them, literally and in the life of the church. As an Episcopalian, that didn’t happen to me. It took an encounter with God to impress upon me the need to find out what was there. So I went to the bookshelf and found a little white one, only to be informed that only girls had white Bibles. I quickly substituted that for the black cover, red-letter King James that became my first Bible.
That Bible was older than I thought; it was only as an adult that I found out why the maps in the back looked strange. But it was a start. For five years it was the only Bible I had, until I acquired a New English Bible and started looking at more modern translations (and older ones too, like the Vulgate and Tyndale’s). But my voyage with God was one where I at least started out somewhere ahead of an impressed deck hand, and for that I will be eternally grateful.
