When I was little I wished I could have an adventure. I put it down to reading too much Enid Blyton. The children in her stories were always having adventures. In the Wishing Chair and the Faraway Tree they visited magical lands in the clouds, got chased and imprisoned by goblins, wizards and stern school-teachers (Dame Slap and Mr Grim), flew on various improbable objects and had regular feasts. In the Famous Five and the Secret Seven they snuck across dark moors at night, following shadowy men in overalls who turned out to be either burglars or smugglers, frequently nearly getting caught, but finally managing to trick the wrong-doers and manoeuvre them into a sticky situation in which the grateful police were able to arrest them.
‘Oh, why can’t I have adventures like that?’ I wondered. ‘Why is my life so dull? If only I could have just one adventure, I’d be so happy!’
In primary school I loved playing soldiers with my friends in the bush around my home. Sometimes it was just me and my imagination. There were lots of great places: creeks with banks you could peer over to take a shot at the enemy, tall grass you could creep through, mounds of stones and sticks to hide behind and wriggle over. ‘If only’ I thought ‘this was a real war and I was a real soldier, with a tin helmet, a combat back-pack and a Lee-Enfield rifle’. I never thought about what shooting someone, or getting shot, would mean for me or them. One generally doesn’t, as a seven year old boy. When you’re shot you just fall over. You don’t bleed or scream.
When I was older, I graduated from Blyton and Boys’ Own Adventure Annual to CS Lewis and from there to JRR Tolkien. ‘Fellowship of the Ring’ – now there’s an adventure’: travelling enormous distances over magical landscapes of enchanted forests, brooding mountains and miasmic swamps. Pursued by hideous spectres on terrifying black stallions. Dreading the power of the Dark Lord that I know is out there searching for me, growing stronger every day. I wasn’t that keen on the battle scenes – they were too chaotic and repetitive for me – but the struggle against the elements, trying to traverse the Misty Mountains in a blizzard, getting lost in the Mines of Moria, evading the tentacled monster in the black pool, that was the stuff of life! I longed to peek into Mordor, or even just to visit the Misty Mountains.
In later high school I often rode my bicycle out into the countryside. One of the rides was an 80 kilometre circuit past Tidbinbilla, to the West of Canberra in the Australian Capital Territory. There were steep hills and, further to the West, the Brindabella mountains. They were pretty good, and would occasionally get snow in mid-winter, but they were no Misty Mountains. Partly it was the lack of craggy peaks, partly the usual lack of snow, and partly the fact that the surrounding countryside was mostly brown, nothing like the lush green of Tolkien’s Shire.
One winter it rained more than usual, and the foot-hills turned green. I remember looking at them as I rode by and thinking: ‘Now if only they didn’t have those wire fences, and they had snowy peaks in the background, then this would be like the Lord of the Rings!’ There could even be dwarves and barrow-wights in tunnels under the ground.
Perhaps today’s teenagers would instead imagine that it was the countryside near Hogwarts, with dragons and hippogriffs flying overhead.
Later in high school I became more interested in girls and less interested in Tolkien. CS Lewis would have been disappointed in me.
I don’t recall thinking about adventures at all between my mid-teenage years and a few months ago, when I suddenly remembered riding through the Tidbinbilla hills and wishing I could see orcs peeping up above the granite boulders that litter the ground there.
What seems odd to me now is that it never occurred to me that riding my bike on an 80km loop in mostly deserted countryside, with no mobile phone, nobody knowing where I was, and with inexpertly driven cars occasionally whizzing past me at 100kph, was an adventure of its own. Not to mention the occasional attacks of dogs from below and magpies from above.
Nor did it occur to me that there was plenty of danger in the snakes that undoubtedly hid in various parts of the long grass through which I imaginatively snuck in my primary school war games, or the stones that my friends and I would occasionally hurl in one another’s direction, pretending they were grenades (‘oh to have a real live grenade!’).
In those days we had freedom that kids these days can only dream of. We could go wherever we liked, and do what we wanted as long as it wasn’t something likely to raise the ire of our parents or the police, or if it was, then as long as they didn’t find out about it. But we lamented the lack of smugglers and orcs in our lives. Oh, dreary existence that has no such pantomime baddies to liven it up!
Not that there weren’t real baddies. I remember Barry the Bully at primary school (not his real name), a lumbering, brutish lad whose only means of expressing himself seemed to be to thump the daylights out of some unfortunate child of lesser stature who had the misfortune to wander nearby. I vaguely remember him pummelling me one day, surrounded by the usual ring of excited nine-year olds looking on. I suppose I could have considered that an adventure, but somehow I didn’t. Like most of my schoolmates I feared Barry then. Looking back now, I can only feel compassion. I wonder what sort of life he has now, and if he is still alive. I fear he may not be flourishing, but I may be wrong. Barry wasn’t really bad. He was just an inexorable product of his genes and his environment, and I suspect he suffered from his inability to interact with people except through violence, as much as others did.
There were lesser villains too, like the minor antagonists in a pantomime melodrama. The boys from the government school sometimes stole my school bag and tossed it from one to the other, to tease and punish me for being a Roman Catholic and going to the RC school. Then there were the boys at my school who mocked me for having so many patches on my hand-me-down shorts. I remember my mother once tearing down to our school in a rage and excoriating them for their teasing. I can’t remember what led up to that but I remember vividly the verbal tirade she unleashed on them and their quivering, shame-faced silence as they stood there being denounced. I don’t think they teased me any more. I suppose in that episode my mother was as much a hero of the adventure as Galahad or Lancelot, Jupiter Jones or Janet (Secret Seven) ever were.
Then there was the dreaded Mr F at junior high school. He was as violent as Wackford Squeers – another adventure villain that loomed with lurid clarity in my over-excited imagination. The main difference was that, unlike Squeers, Mr F would smile in a broad, friendly manner as he twisted your arm behind your back or lifted you out of your chair by the ears, with his stubby, nicotine-stained fingers. I think he saw this violence as some sort of game, expressing good-natured affection to the students. It was not malicious. Generally I bore him no resentment, and even quite liked him. There was only one occasion when I mentioned to my mother that I thought my arm might be broken because, after a particularly savage twisting, I couldn’t use it properly. It got better. Yet despite the Squeers-like violence (would Severus Snape be a modern-day equivalent?) it never occurred to me that these elements of colour in my life were as good as any Blytonian or Dickensian adventure. I still thought my life was bland.
When I was five we lived in Aberystwyth, Wales and my parents announced that we were going to move to Australia. This set off two fantastic trains of thought in my impressionable young mind.
Firstly, I imagined that Australia was a land covered with thick, dark jungle, and that we would live in a hut in a small clearing. The jungle would be full of snakes and whenever we went outdoors we would have to tread carefully to avoid being bitten.
Secondly, I remember resolving, standing next to the stove while dinner was being prepared, that our arrival in Australia would mark the beginning of a new life for me, and would be an opportunity for me to put my sins behind me and become the good boy that I wanted to be. Inculcation of Catholic Guilt began early in the RC church in those days, at least it did in Wales (those Welsh nuns were well fierce!). I can’t remember whether I ever recalled this resolution once we arrived in Australia. Regardless, the resolution did not seem to be fulfilled. A couple of years later I was as guilt-ridden as every RC boy is expected to be.
One would think that moving to a jungle-filled, snake-infested, primitive land where one seeks to purify one’s soul from its many misdeeds contains many of the elements of a classic adventure. But again I didn’t see it that way then. Snakes and pious aspirations are all very well, but where were the smugglers?
Later teenage years and university have different sources of excitement from boyhood: discovering girls, discovering sex, discovering algebraic topology.
I travelled a lot after leaving school, in a gap year, in university holidays and after leaving uni. I travelled through many lands: Europe, Morocco, India, South-East Asia, Iran, Pakistan. I was mostly on my own and always on a shoe-string budget, sleeping and eating in some very run-down places and encountering many dicey situations – recklessly driven buses careering on two wheels around U-bends on precipitous mountain passes, enduring dysentery and fever in a lonely concrete hotel room, sinister strangers in railway carriages trying to show me pornographic pictures and suggesting mutual exploration of what they depict, crossing the Iranian border with US bank notes hidden in my shoe to avoid the extortionate exchange rate required by the Iranian border controls (and wondering what they’d do to me if they found them). I would have described such things as an experience, but the word adventure never occurred to me. Adventures happen to other people, and usually only in books. Not to me.
When one grows up – whenever that is, some time between the age of 25 and 40 for me – one has other challenging, frightening and exciting experiences. Accompanying one’s partner through the experience of childbirth. Raising a child. Buying a house. Moving across the world to live and work in another country. Most people know what these experiences are like. As a five year old, I would have found the contemplation of such experiences terrifying, yet there I was wishing I could chase smugglers in Cornish caves, or dodge German machine-gun fire as I leaped from foxhole to another.
When we middle-aged people look back over our life to date, there will in most cases be plenty of exciting, surprising, dangerous events, in between the humdrum and routine. Yet in my case at least, I often saw the danger or the challenge in a negative light at the time, wishing it were not there. I have only recently realised how contrary this is to my childhood wish for adventures, a wish that surely some other children must share. The only things I can think of that are missing from real-life experiences, compared to the Secret Seven or Harry Potter, are the presence of magic, and of people trying to kill, or at least imprison you. Yet modern science is far more wonderful, surprising and weird than any tale of magic or myth ever was, and even if people aren’t trying to kill us, we nevertheless live in the constant danger of being accidentally killed by a motor car or attacked by a virus or cancerous cell.
Perhaps if we could re-frame our perception of the vicissitudes of life as an adventure, rather than an imposition or a chore, we would appreciate it more. When we trip while jogging and seriously bark our elbows on concrete, as I did the other day, we can view that as another interesting experience, rather than reacting as ‘woe is me’. Maybe, if one day I have to undergo chemotherapy, or a lingering terminal illness, I will be able to even frame those as new experiences. We shall see. Perhaps even death, as that great philosopher Albus Dumbledore said, is “the next great adventure”.
Andrew Kirk. Bondi Junction, 3 July 2013
CS Lewis coined the memorable phrase ‘Lord, Liar or Lunatic’ in his advocacy of the orthodox Christian dogma that Jesus of Nazareth was God, and his rejection of the view held by some less doctrinaire Christians that he may have been a man with some admirable teachings.
The argument appears compelling: Jesus said he was God, so either he was a liar, in which case we should reject everything he said, or he was deluded (a lunatic, in Lewis’s colourful, alliterative prose), in which case we should also reject his teachings, or he was actually God, in which case we should worship him. This analysis deliberately leaves no room for the ‘Jesus as sage’ interpretation. On the face of it, it implies that moderate Christians, who take a mostly metaphorical interpretation of Christian teaching, lack intellectual integrity, that they are guilty of wishful thinking at the expense of cold, hard rationalism – which is what Lewis thinks he practises.
Persuasive though this argument may sound, it is wrong. If Lewis had offered only two choices, we would call it a a false dichotomy. As he has offered three, let us call it a false trichotomy instead. The whole argument rests on the unstated assumption that Lord, Liar and Lunatic are the only choices available. But we can never be sure that the alternative explanations offered for any observation are exhaustive unless one of them is labelled something like ‘none of the above’, or can be proven equivalent to ‘none of the above’. Lewis never proved that Lord, Liar and Lunatic are the only possible explanations, and we can easily see they are not by considering two other possibilities.
Lack – Perhaps Jesus of Nazareth is fictional
The evidence that there was a single person called Jesus who lived in Nazareth around 0-30 CE and spent his last few years travelling around Palestine preaching and conducting healing ceremonies is fairly strong, but not overwhelming. There is little or no eye-witness mention of such a person from Roman historians, who chronicle many other less important events of that time and region.
The literature debating the question of whether Jesus of Nazareth existed is enormous, and there’s no need or space to review it here. But the very existence of significant debate on this topic amongst ancient historians, even if the ‘Jesus really did exist’ case is predominant, indicates that we cannot definitively exclude the possibility that there was no single Jesus of Nazareth that said all these things, in which case a lack of a Jesus character, implying that the New Testament stories are myths, needs to be added to the Lord, Liar and Lunatic options.
Libelled – Perhaps Jesus didn’t claim what they claim he did
Much more likely though, and not mentioned at all by Lewis, is that there was a single holy man called Jesus of Nazareth, who lived around that time, but he never claimed to be God.
It is undeniable that the Gospels contain some reporting errors, as the reports of the sequence of events on Easter Sunday contradict one another. So why shouldn’t the parts where Jesus implies that he is God be reporting errors? This could very easily happen, as there are very few passages that support such a claim, and most of what there is is vague and indirect. It is entirely plausible that the biblical reports of those implied claims were not based on eyewitness reports but on wishful thinking inserted later by a devoted disciple. After all, we know that the earliest written gospel – Mark – was written more than thirty years after the assumed date of Jesus’ death.
Further, Jesus is not reported in the Gospels as ever having directly claimed to be God. There are passages such as John 8:58 that are interpreted as implying such a claim, and others where he accepted worship (Matthew 2:2, 14:33, and 28:9; John 9:35-38). In some passages Jesus describes himself as the “Son of God”, but it requires some heavy-duty interpretation to accept these as claims of divinity. After all, the Bible also tells us that we are all sons of God, but most non-pantheists don’t interpret that to mean we are all God.
Now maybe these interpretations are correct and maybe they are not. Maybe they are all historically accurate and maybe they are not. But it is undeniable that there is a great deal of presumption required in order to conclude that Jesus was Lord, Liar or Lunatic. It is at least equally likely (and seems much more likely to me) that he was Libelled by the gospel writers.
After all, I could place an article on Wikipedia entitled “Obama Divinity Claim” and say in it that President Obama has claimed to be God, and that hence he must be either Lord, Liar or a Lunatic. Since he clearly isn’t a Lunatic and hasn’t shown evidence of being an egregious Liar (and that would be a most egregious lie), according to Lewis we must then conclude that He – President Obama – is indeed our Lord and God.
Of course that would be nonsense. The correct interpretation would simply be that I had libelled the president, by claiming he said something that He (sorry, ‘he’) didn’t.
Why does this matter?
The purpose of this essay is not to undermine anybody’s belief that Jesus was God. Right now I have no interest in disputing the divinity of Jesus, Krishna, Dionysus, Osiris, Mithra or any other purported incarnation of a deity. If someone wants to believe in any of those things, I am entirely supportive of their decision to do so, as long as they don’t use it as a basis for vilifying or otherwise tormenting others who don’t believe the same thing, or who don’t conform to a set of rules about victimless crimes, purportedly made up by the said deity.
What I wish to do here is to champion the intellectual honesty and integrity of moderate Christians such as John Shelby Spong, Richard Holloway or John Dominic Crossan, who regard the Gospels as a source of some wisdom, but deny that Jesus was Lord, Liar or Lunatic. I have a particular fondness for people of moderate religious belief, who accept the claims of their chosen religion that they find plausible, and reject the rest. By doing this they can avoid having to ‘disengage their brain’ in order to accept all the beliefs they find implausible. Although I believe no religion, and doubt there are any gods, I am convinced that religion will always be with us, as it is an easy way to address a number of deep psychological needs. Since some people must be religious, surely it will be more conducive to the peace and harmony of humanity as a whole, if those that are religious are mostly of the doubtful, open-minded Spong, Holloway or Crossan variety rather than the devout and utterly convinced bin Laden, Ahmedinajad, Westboro Baptist, George W Bush or Pat Robertson variety?
To these liberal Christian theologians, we can also add many Muslims and Jews as people who reject the Lord, Liar or Lunatic hypothesis, choosing instead to regard Jesus of Nazareth as a prophet or holy man, whose sayings are worthy of contemplation, but denying his divinity. I have as low an opinion of Jewish and Muslim fundamentalists as I do of Christian ones, but many members of those religions are not fundamentalist, do not regard their scriptures as inerrant, and are comfortable accepting some of the sayings attributable to Jesus as another source of wisdom upon which they can draw.
Lewis’s false trichotomy would paint Spong, Holloway, Crossan, and anybody else that likes some of what Jesus is alleged to have said but is not convinced that he was God, as wishy-washy and self-delusional, holding contradictory beliefs for irrational, emotional reasons. I want to suggest the contrary. A moderate, partly metaphorical, ‘cafeteria’ approach to Christianity, or any other dogmatic religion, is the only one that is logically defensible, as the New and Old Testaments of the Bible, like any other long religious texts, contain many internal contradictions, as well as claims that are contradicted by science. What matters is not so much which bits they choose (although I’d rather they rejected the homophobic, misogynist, pro-slavery, pro-genocide bits and the threats of eternal hellfire) as that they accept that it is reasonable for somebody else to accept different bits, bits of a completely different religious text, or none at all.