The Bible tells us not to eat pig or seafood, not to mate different kinds of animals, not to plant a field with two kinds of seed, and not to wear clothing woven of two kinds of material, so polycotton is out.  It tells us that women should be silent in church, dress modestly and avoid jewellery.  Most of us ignore all this.  It says that wives should be subservient to their husbands.  Good luck with that.

It condemns most strongly of all the taking of interest on a loan and the financial exploitation of the poor by the rich.  Our economic system is built on these sins.  Our pensions depend on them.

Yes, I know, these things should be taken in context, and they reflect the culture and mindset of the authors, some of whom, Paul for example, were hardly well-adjusted specimens of Homo sapiens.  

I was brought up in a farming village.  Cattle from the five working farms were herded between byre and field along the roads holding up traffic that had to pick its way through the steaming residue the cows generously left behind.  I came to savour the fragrance.  My short-trousered self could see that we were upright cows—head, body with holes at both ends, four limbs.  At school I became interested in zoology and the way the animal kingdom could be classified into various groups, single celled amoeba to complex multicellular organism like us, and I began to see evidence for evolution.  At Cambridge studying embryology as part of the medical course, my mind was further opened by the fact that in the first few weeks of our intrauterine development each one of us undergoes a kind of speeded-up evolution, and that we still carry with things that other creatures have but that we don’t need any more.  

So I’ve always understood that humans are animals like all the rest: we are in fact modified reptiles—not modified enough in some cases.

One of the biggest problems with theology for me, then, is interpreting scripture in the light of this.  

Do I actually believe that Jesus was born to what we call a virgin? Or is that simply a reworking of far more ancient myths about the birth of gods and goddesses, used by Matthew and Luke to “big up” Jesus? Such birth stories are still in use, notably in North Korea, where propaganda has elements of the Christian Nativity story to “big-up” the births of Kim family members.

Does my zoological mind really accept that humans are more special than any other creature of the earth?

Does my scientific mind really believe in the miracles that Jesus is claimed to have performed? Or are they simply fairy stories expressing profound truths using idioms familiar to the writers and readers of two thousand years ago? Middle Eastern people used—and use—language and imagery much more colourfully than we do.

Why should we pay heed to the writings of people of long ago who had a different worldview, who thought the earth was flat, who thought that water covered the sky, who thought that natural phenomena were manifestation of an irascible sky pixie’s temper?

I find it exhausting trying to marry these two world views together, that is modern and ancient, and I wonder why I bother.  What has kept me hanging on to the Christian story for so long, if only by the skin of my teeth?

The answer is quite simply the psychological authenticity of the gospel.  By that I mean Jesus’s teaching displays authentic human psychology and is without doubt the best way to live life.  It’s a pity it’s never been tried.

I don’t care about the virgin birth. I don’t care what adults do with their genitals for mutual pleasure. I don’t care whether the miracles are factual or not.  I don’t care whether the events recorded in the life of Jesus are historical or not.  I don’t care if they were all invented by his followers simply to “big-up” a remarkable man so that his teachings might take root.  I don’t care about much Christian doctrine. Some of it is of great poetic beauty, but much of it is pernicious nonsense invented by clergy to keep us proles in our place with the promise of jam tomorrow—when we ‘re dead. Sod that for a game of soldiers.

I see the message of the gospel as the triumph of selflessness over ego-self, the agony in the garden leading to the death of self so that selflessness can rise.  The equilibrium between looking after oneself—which is essential—and being selfless for the common good.  With such selflessness we are no longer weighed down by guilt and shame and we can metaphorically rise to become like Him.  Made like him, like him we rise.  The mass is the cosmic drama of self-sacrifice.

Does this mean I’m not fit to be a priest? Does it mean I’m not a Christian?

Many might say so.  I think the opposite.  I think we need more like me.  I think many people today are at best ambivalent about the supernatural, but are interested in the validity of gospel teaching when the penny drops.

I would go so far as to say that Christianity in the west has no future unless it grasps this. Deserves no future, even.

There are so many apparently brain-dead people in today’s increasingly narrow-minded C of E, so it’s hard work swimming against the tide. Maybe I need to stop thinking. But I shall KBO as long as I can.