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The Casey report on social integration, released in December 2016, is a significant document for those who teach and write about RE. Here I respond to it with three suggestions for how RE can help social integration.

The report aims to consider what divides ‘communities’ and how far these anxieties and prejudices can affect the life chances of British citizens. It is a controversial document that has received criticism for the forthright language it has used in describing ‘regressive religious attitudes’ as part of its analysis of British society.

Casey discusses religion explicitly. She emphasizes religion’s role as a force for good, in caring for the sick, educating children and addressing issues of social justice. But she also points to the difficulty of drawing together communities with entrenched views (8.11). Casey argues that religious discourses, especially Islamic discourses, have been used to enforce gender segregation and restrict marriage choice (7.17); Female Genital Mutilation (7.20) and intolerance against homosexuals (7.28-34).

Casey gives particular attention to schools in her analysis. She observes the difficulty that some schools have in getting the support of parents and ‘community leaders’ to allow children to attend extracurricular activities, such as swimming or visiting the theatre (7.38). And she noted the large amount of time spent by some students (especially Muslims) in ‘unregulated’ educational environments that encourage binary visions of the world and prevent free enquiry, often enforced through corporal punishment (7.48-59).

Casey’s flagship recommendation is that there should be much better provision for English language to allow migrants to access resources and participate in civil society (Recommendation 1). But she also suggests that it is in schools where students should learn ‘British values’ (Recommendation 4). I am sceptical that Britain has a monopoly on democracy, the rule of law or respect for different faiths and beliefs, or that articulating these as learning outcomes for schools is a positive move. At least in theory, I would prefer an educational system that aspired to a disposition towards learning (criticality, empiricism), rather than prescribing a political opinion as an outcome. For instance, someone who is sceptical about democracy may have simply come to an alternative conclusion on the basis of available evidence, rather than being a failure of the education system.

Casey doesn’t give explicit consideration to RE in her report, but I think RE, and the humanities more broadly, could play an important role in addressing some of the problems in integration that she raises, and do so better than her appeal to ‘British values’. Many of the regressive ideas that she raises have religious justifications that are reinforced in places of worship, at home or over the internet. For children who are members of transnational families, these ideas may also spread unchallenged in countries of origin. But schools can contest these ideas by several means.

The first is to observe that religious scriptures are capable of multiple interpretations that are suited to different contexts. Recognition of multiple interpretations in religious traditions has been a laudable strand in RE over the past two decades, but more could be done still be done in this direction. In particular, an awareness of the diversity of religious traditions in medieval times would help to dispel the suspicion that liberal ideas are simply concessions to the West. This is one reason why an awareness of historical contexts and the changing content and emphasis of religious traditions is such an important part of subject knowledge for RE teachers. To take Islamic examples (simply because I know these better), ninth and tenth century Syria and Iraq provide examples of religious sceptics, rationalists and freethinkers (as well as writers of homosexual poetry) who do not receive space in current curricula.

The second is to expose students to multiple ideas of the principle of ‘the good’, some of which are framed in terms of ‘religion’ and others that are rooted in ethical systems that are justified (semi-)independently from religion. This might include a Kantian requirement that religious goods must also be justifiable from abstract ethical principles. Or it could include the Rawlsian thought experiment (the Original Position hypothesis) that one should design a state or society that would benefit you if you were born again as a random member of that society. Again, RE syllabi are already good at drawing on a rubric of ‘religion and belief’. But it is worth highlighting that the effective delivery of RE is not restricted to the ability to hold individual human actions to account, but also to hold the tenets of one moral system to account by testing it against a second moral system, which proceeds from different starting points. This ability to entertain different positions is crucial to sympathy for other citizens’ moral arguments and the ability to be critical of one’s own moral presumptions.

The third way in which I think that RE can help to build an integrated society is to ask the kinds of questions of ‘regressive’ religious practice that Casey asks to students. For instance, we could ask how religion is used to justify forced marriage. Such a question could open out into other broader questions: how does religious adhesion affect the choice of marriage partner? What are the wider effects upon society? These are questions that can be approached from different perspectives (theology, history, sociology) and have no obvious right answers.

Obviously, this needs to be done with careful ‘scaffolding’, to make clear that answers need to be evidenced and without polemic. But if one role of RE is to help students have the kinds of cultural literacy that will allow them to be active citizens in a plural society, this ought to include the ability to critique practices that are justified by religion and to think about the wider social and economic contexts in which certain ideas flourish and others wither away. An analysis of how and why religion is used to legitimate conservative ideas such as in-group marriage, differentiated gender roles and bans on theatre could lead to a wider understanding of the role of religion in defining ‘communities’, and those who benefit from and suffer from this process. At present, I think RE could benefit from a keener focus on religion as a force that defines group boundaries, rather than just as a collection of narratives, ritual practices and ethical ideas, and I believe that this is something that schoolchildren could engage with. Of course, there is an argument that a focus on similarities between religious traditions will ultimately soften differences, but I fear that this underplays the fact that some religious scriptures explicitly endorse inter-group boundaries or engage in polemic.

Michael Metcalf comments that the Framework for Excellence in RE does not ‘respect and recognize pupils’ existing identities …or the communities they already belong to’. I do think that it is important for teachers to be aware of the home backgrounds of their students and the presumptions and knowledge they bring to a class. But I would emphasise that to respect ideas is to critique them, and I would be wary of treating any set of ideas differently because of the role they play in substantiating individuals’ identities. If RE can help students to see the diversity of religious traditions and notions of the good, as well as criticising the use of religion to generate stereotype and exclusive social boundaries, then I think it can play an important role in forming the civil society of the future.

The dangers of EdTech had never been so apparent to me until it came to getting a new smartphone. I had, for the past 24 months, carried around an iPhone. I had loved it and cared for it in a way that a mother might a new born child. I wrapped it up in a nice protective case and shielded it from the elements. I saw it grow from new kid on the block, to grumpy teen, to dearly departed.

But how was I to cope with the loss? I’d grown attached to the 5-inch slab of metal and circuitry, the journeys around the world it had accompanied me on, the memories it had been there for and captured. Although metaphorically I might have said it had become a part of me, at times I genuinely saw it as an extension of my being. A technophobe friend of mine recently asked which I would be happier to part with – my iPhone or my kidney. The pause which followed was not for comic effect but my brain genuinely trying to calculate how well I would be able to cope without my kidney compared to the constant life-support that the iPhone provides on a minute-by-minute basis.

As our journey came to an end, I started to come to a realisation that had not been present in my consciousness before – how, if I know that a smartphone can have this sort of effect on the user, could I ever encourage the use of mobile phones in the classroom and subject pupils to this?

Now, my own smartphone obsession is not justification enough to say that technology should be kept out of the classroom, and indeed smartphones are just one of many things which fall into the EdTech bracket, but it is important to make clear the distinction that I am trying to make and to what I am objecting to. I whole-heartedly believe that the appropriate use of EdTech can enhance learning, what I am taking aim at is smartphones in particular.

I believe that there is little substance to the claims that pupils should be allowed to use smartphones in class, or that there should be a culture which becomes established which normalises their use. I’m not alone in my excessive phone use, pupils are as well. If you were to ask some of the sleepy looking kids in the back of the class why they are so tired, staying up to the early hours on their phone would be a common reply. If it is causing them difficulties, then we should not give them further access to it.

There is often an assumption that the pupils we are teaching are digital natives. Yes, some young people are very adept at using digital technologies such as smartphones, but greater numbers are not – limiting their usage to selfies, social media and streaming videos on YouTube. Now that’s not to say that there is no educational value in these activities, in fact there are high-paying jobs that require the use of these platforms, but to fully harness it in an educational sense is no easy task.

I have, at various times, suggested that we could teach pupils how to sensibly and appropriately use these devices and to fully harness their educational potential – both of which can be achieved at the same time. This suggestion would have barely left my lips and the very reasonable objections of ‘Where are we going to find time to do that?’ and ‘Shouldn’t we be teaching them content, not how to use technology?’ would rapidly start piling up. These in themselves play into the bigger dialogue surrounding the purpose of our education system which I am in no way trying to challenge (or fix) here. The biggest obstacles to the successful implementation of technology often revolves around lack of appropriate training of staff, or lack of appropriate funds. The latter often impacting upon the former.

However, for me, the clearest reason as to why we should be cautious of smartphones in the classroom is because we should never make education a case of ‘Haves’ and ‘Have Nots’. Most EdTech involves the pupils using a device, this would – in most cases – be a situation where the pupil themselves must supply a device which they are going to use.

I can already hear the cries of ‘But surely all kids have iPhones, they’re always taking selfies and texting each other’. Sure, lots of kids have some pretty fancy pieces of kit that they carry around, but ‘lots’ is most definitely not ‘all’. Even if all pupils did have sophisticated smartphones, we are still left with problems. Does the school have adequate Wi-Fi and do they allow pupils to access it? If not, you should not be asking pupils to use their smartphone just to access the learning. I would argue that it is immoral to require a pupil to use their data allowance just to be involved in the learning. The education we provide is free at the point of access, sure we might be facing a future of financial insecurity in schools, but we should not make pupils bear the brunt of that.

Despite the opinion you might have formed of me and my stance on EdTech from reading this piece, I assure you that I am a firm believer of the use of technology in schools, but that there has to be the careful implementation of pedagogy. The technology cannot replace the theory, what is the aim or purpose of what you are trying to achieve, can the technology enhance the learning? If yes, then go ahead. If no, then you are better off without.

‘Sir, I don’t believe in religion. I believe in science.’

Said one student to me at the beginning of an RE lesson when showing reluctance to take his book out of his bag and start work. While perhaps not all students articulate this position so overtly, many others may agree.

Today’s students are the first generation in which having no religion is the norm, according to one of Britain’s leading sociologists of religion, Linda Woodhead. This can certainly make non-religious students question the study of religion in school – something shared by philosophers of education such as John White.

The idea that religion has been superseded by more rational forms of inquiry of course is neither new nor silly (and it is an argument which should not be dismissed without thorough consideration). Since the Enlightenment religious educators have been justifying their work against those who believed in a post-Christian future of humanity , (August Comte being one example). Max Weber, another founder of sociology – who had a more realistic view of progress (when judged retrospectively, at least) – advanced the theory that increased rationality meant modernity was inevitably secular.

In school it is no surprise questions arise when different curriculum subjects rest on different approaches to the world and to knowledge. One hour a student is painting a picture; the next conducting an experiment with a Bunsen burner. But challenging questions about religion also arise from wider cultural assumptions – such as the commonly-held perception of a conflict between religion and science.

But what if both religion and science came from the same natural impulse, if they were both grounded in our very human nature? And what if students could gain a more nuanced understanding of the relationship between religion and science?

My answer to that assertion at the beginning of a lesson was: ‘And what is science?’ To which the student gave a puzzled face. Taking questions seriously is the best way to engage students’ curiosity. And curiosity is the balm to any student’s disaffection. Dangle a ball of wool in front of a cat, write authors Roger Wagner and Andrew Briggs, and the cat looks at the wool. Dangle it in front of a young child, and the child looks at you. The curiosity of the human being is what separates us from animals. It is the driving force of discovery about the visible world (the penultimate curiosity), and of our awe and wonder of the totality of existence (the ultimate curiosity).

All religious educators need to know about the relationship between religion and science. The Penultimate Curiosity: How science swims in the slipstream of ultimate questions is an enthralling book of breath-taking scope that will provide just that understanding. Drawing upon an array of surprising sources, from the exquisite cave paintings of Chauvet to the Religious invocations and Biblical inscriptions at the entrances to the famous museums and laboratories of Oxford and Cambridge, Wagner and Briggs chart human curiosity from its beginnings to the present day.

 

The work of the Lord is great, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein (Psalm 111)
The inscription over the entrance of the new Cavendish Laboratory, University of Cambridge 

Science and religion are often thought as being in conflict, or as two distinct areas with no overlap – what Stephen Jay Gould describes as Non-Overlapping Magisteria. In recent years, the New Atheists have characterised religious beliefs as hypotheses for which there is little or no evidence, and are therefore intellectually untenable. Research suggests that these views can be held strongly by some students, prompting speculation of a ‘Dawkin’s effect’.

Wagner and Briggs present a more nuanced view. Religion and science can be thought as being related like cyclists in a peloton or as geese flying in a ‘v’ formation. Humans have always been concerned about the total meaning of existence and curious about what cannot be seen, but associated with this, and never far behind, is also curiosity about the physical world, the penultimate curiosity. Furthermore, sometimes, like geese or cyclists, the leaders change places allowing other ideas to follow in the slip stream until they can overtake again.

The argument is compelling. There is a litany of correlations of the associated advance of curiosities: the meticulous study of nature in the religious paintings of prehistory, the breakthrough of Anaxagoras and Socrates that enabled the consideration of an order of nature, the polemics of John Philoponus, the physics of Ibn Rushd, Roger Bacon’s rainbows, Kepler’s Lutheranism. Whenever there has been innovation in religious thought, there is a change in scientific thinking. There may be conflict, but the disagreements are indicative of overlap. Rather than inhibiting science, theology enabled it. We see this in the sincere and sometimes novel religiosity of scientists such Francis Bacon, Newton, Maxwell, Herschel, but more importantly in the concept of an (created) order, governed by discernible laws.

The peloton is not only a neat metaphor. It is one that is supported by an enchanting assortment of facts and examples – enough to excite any young mind, and enough to provide any RE teacher with material and ideas to furnish any subject knowledge or curriculum enhancement activity. Such a book could only be completed with the interdisciplinary collaboration offered by one of the nation’s leading physicists and an award winning artist (both of whom are also well versed in ancient languages and theology). Their curiosity is infectious, if not overwhelming.

The Penultimate Curiosity is the story of science, but it is a lot more than that. It tells the story of the interconnectedness of human civilisation, and in so doing defies the artificial and limiting boundaries of the curriculum disciplines. This grand vision is a religious one, but it is open too. Students need to understand and question the big picture, and where else in school can they do it than in RE?

Understanding the intimate relationship between science and religion is another good reason for good RE. Our students (and future scientists) should know theory of knowledge, the history of science and its religious pedigree. But most of all, we should pass onto our students the gift of human curiosity. To do this, we need to encourage challenging questions, but as educators, we also need informed answers that take their curiosity to a higher level.

A short video about the Penultimate Curiosity can be found here.

 

One of the most pressing problems for religious education identified by researchers over the last decade has been the way religions are represented. Terence Copley compared this to Jurassic Park or a cold empty museum. Curriculum religions are not normal; they are strange, exotic, out-of-date and weird.

A Jewish friend of mine once commented that religious education textbooks usually show ultra-Orthodox Jews, and that they have unfashionable wallpaper. There are indeed, at the back of any RE classroom lurking some old resources with pictures that do not show the everyday nature of religious diversity, but something more sensational or, alternatively perhaps, something ‘uncool’. (Take a look…).

However, it is not just the way diverse religions are represented; it is what is counted as diversity. One persistent challenge to religious educators has been how to represent intra-religious diversity. Another is the complex relationship a religion may have with wider culture. This can be difficult because many religious things are different from normal culture, they are ‘set apart’ as a necessary part of being sacred. Conversely, they may be so inseparable from everyday culture they are not immediately recognisable as religious. These issues are relevant to Christianity as much as any other religion.

In this blog, I address some of these challenges by presenting some insights into the diversity of Christianity that may go unnoticed, and how religion may relate to wider culture. I do this using examples from Polish religious culture.

Poles are the largest group of people, by nationality, living in the UK who were not born here. In addition, there are many British citizens with Polish heritage whose ancestors arrived in in the UK because of World War II (including servicemen fighting in the Battle Battle of Britain and Jewish refugees). There are sizable Polish communities in many cities and many Catholic churches in the UK have masses in Polish.

Since the Brexit vote, prejudice against EU citizens living in the UK has risen, prompting complaints from Polish diplomats to the UK. Whether better knowledge about Polish culture and religion among young people would combat such prejudice is debatable, but the distinctive relationship religion has with Polish culture remains of import to any religious educator as a matter of worthwhile subject knowledge, and as a critical case of the relationship of national culture to religion.

Jasna Góra Monastery in Częstochowa, Poland 

I therefore list seven useful things to know about Polish religious culture for religious educators.

1. Polish religion isn’t just Catholic (although you may be forgiven for thinking so)

The Catholic religion was an important factor in the Polish nation’s development, influencing the use of Latin script as opposed to the Cyrillic of its eastern neighbours despite otherwise having closely related languages. Historians date Poland’s existence to 966, the year of the decision of its first ruler, Mieszko, to impose Latin Christianity. However, Polish religious culture is not just Roman Catholic (although 94% of the population are estimated to be adherents). Before the Holocaust Poland had a thriving Jewish community, and there has also been a small Muslim minority since the 14th century, The Tatars, which still exists.

2. Religious Education in Poland

Like England and Wales, all schools must provide religious education classes, but parents may opt their children out of them. While other religious organisations can legally oversee the religious education curriculum, in practice, the syllabus in nearly all schools is directed by the Roman Catholic Church. Interestingly, this still resembles traditional catechesis and has not been affected by the changes in religious education seen in the UK over the last forty years.

3. Jan Pawel II

St John Paul II (Jan Paweł in Polish) was the first non-Italian pope for centuries. A philosopher, skier, theologian, traveller – as well as supreme Pontiff – St John Paul II is one of the most important figures of the twentieth century, and a national hero.

4. The Black Madonna of Częstochowa

Poland, situated in the centre of Europe, has always been vulnerable to attack (most recently, the simultaneous invasion of Nazi and Soviet forces in 1939). It is perhaps not surprising therefore that one of the most famous significant places in Poland is the monastery of Jasna Góra, Częstochowa, which houses a 15th century icon of the Virgin Mary (darkened due to the effects of years of candle-illumination). Legend has it that the intervention of the Blessed Virgen Mary saved the monastery, and Poland, during the siege of a Swedish army in 1655. Today the monastery is an important site of pilgrimage for Poles, many of whom approach and circumambulate the image of the ‘Queen of Poland’ on their knees.

5. The Christmas Wafer (opłatek)

On Christmas Eve Polish families share unleavened bread, opłatek in a ritual that dates from the 10th century. It is white and tasteless, like an unconsecrated communion wafer but oblong and big enough to break and share with each family member. The bread is broken by everyone as they give wishes and blessings to each other family member for the year to come. In the following meal, traditionally 12 dishes are served for every month in the New Year, and an empty chair and plate is left for an unexpected guest. Alcohol is not traditionally served on Christmas Eve, but kompot, a warm drink made from smoked plums.

6. Saint Maximillian Kolbe

Much of the Nazi’s genocide took place in Poland, which then had the largest centres of Jewish population in the world. Many Jews had settled in the Kingdom of Poland during the Middle Ages because of persecution elsewhere in Europe. ‘Auschwitz’, the German form of the Polish town ‘Oświęcim’, is the infamous name of a group of concentration camps which held, murdered and forced the labour of Jews, members of the Polish resistance, as well as other groups, including members of the Polish clergy. St Maximillian Kolbe was a Polish Franciscan Friar who was imprisoned at there after his monastery was closed by the Nazis (he and his brothers had hid Jews there and had published anti-Nazi literature). St Maximillian Kolbe martyred himself by offering to die in place of another prisoner who had a wife and child. Revered across denominations, a statue of Kolbe has been placed above the door of Westminster Abbey.

7. Sister Faustina and the Divine Mercy

Saint Faustina Kowalska was a Polish nun who reported a series of spiritual visions in the 1930s. These included a special meditation and prayer for Christ’s mercy, and the instruction to produce an image of Christ with two rays of light emanating from his heart, one red (for blood) and one white (for water) with ‘Jesus, I trust in you’ written underneath. From these inspirations, several devotional practices have been instituted following the endorsement of Pope John Paul II. For example, three o’ clock every afternoon is the hour of great mercy, when the chaplet of the divine mercy is recited – not only by many Poles, but also by people all over the world. This involves saying on the ten small beads of each decade of the rosary, ‘For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world’. Each decade is preceded by another payer said on the five large beads, ‘Eternal Father, I offer you the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Your Dearly Beloved Son, Our Lord, Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world’.

‘Catholic’ means universal, but we see from these examples that Polish religious culture has contributed to Christianity distinctively, and is connected to Polish national identity inseparably. This illustrates some of the complexities inherent to teaching religious diversity.

Religious traditions have uniqueness and coherence, but they are also multi-faceted. They have had quite different impacts in different national narratives. And these trajectories remain stark. Perhaps the trick to teaching about religious diversity is communicating these kinds of differences (including their enduring spiritualities), but without making them oddities.

Be assured the opt-out involved has nothing to do with Europe!

Over the last week we saw a lively and positive discussion on social media about whether we need to remove the RE conscience clause. We all know the issues and the landscape of the debate. We also know the challenges of expecting any changes to the law.

Most were in favour of an abolition of the parental right to withdraw their child from RE. If RE is as legitimate, impartial, open and investigative as we want it to be – then no need for withdrawal. If RE is such an important part of understanding life in the modern world – it is important that no pupils miss out.

But there was an interesting slant on the debate last week. A number of folk, including myself, highlighted the responsibility that flows from any campaign to remove the legal right.

One contributor pointed out that he agreed “with most others that the right to withdraw should be removed, however, elements of confessionalism are still evident”. My contribution was to suggest that: “If we want a legal change we need to ensure all RE is squeaky clean in relation to confessionalism. Any rise in this demon would argue that we need to protect the right to withdraw”.

It was good to see a National Society spokesperson confirm that: “It is important that the whole RE community is united in this one if we want to see this change”. Positive to see this agreement over the need to eliminate the demon of confessionalism to secure the future of RE.

The reason this issue has urgency is that confessionalism is still alive and well in the world of RE. Indeed, we may be seeing a re-emergence of pressure to reassert its legitimacy.

It is a concern that not only is confessionalism commonplace but it is being given legitimacy. We see examples of children’s work quoted in official RE publications in which they are responding to the study of biblical material by using phrases like ‘God shows us the right way’; ‘God will always be in my life’; ‘God is with us’.

If the learning is structured so that pupils use the important distancing devices of ‘Christians believe/most Christians think/for some Christians’ all would be well. The problem is obvious the moment you imagine the next unit on Islam. If the children write ‘Allah shows us the right way’; Allah will always be in my life’; Allah is with us’ – you can imagine the response. Parental letters would be flowing. It is easy to understand the slip. The problem is the legitimising and celebrating of the practice in official RE publications.

The process of reflecting on scripture to explore any relevance of its text for modern life is a common religious practice amongst believers. It is present in the process of creating spaces for reflection on those texts. It underpins the notion that believers see their religious texts as authoritative sources of wisdom.

These ideas and practices have their place within the life of religious communities. Within RE it is right and proper to examine these ideas and practices within the context of an impartial study of religion and belief. However, is it appropriate for teachers to replicate this process of ‘reflecting on religious material in order to explore relevance’ within their own teaching and the pupils’ learning?

The problem is twofold.

First, this notion of ‘reflecting to explore relevance’ is so ingrained in religious practice that it seems a perfectly reasonable thing to do in the classroom.

Second, the desire to contribute to the pupils’ own search for meaning and purpose quickly leads the teacher to seek out opportunities to explore ways in which religious material might help stimulate that search.

So – if the demon of confessionalism still wanders the corridors of RE we will lose the argument for the abolition of the conscience opt-out clause.

The fact that so few exercise the right does not legitimate the confessionalism. Few parents want to expose their child to the indignity of withdrawal. They will tolerate confessionalism – but that does not justify it.

In the twentieth century, syncretism was commonly used to describe the borrowing of practices between religious traditions. Thus the veneration of ancestors in versions of African Christianity or the similarities between Greco-Roman gods and Catholic saints could be referred to as syncretic.

This usage was widely followed in scholarly circles, but it inherited a polemic that had been articulated in the Protestant Reformation. Here Catholic ‘traditions’ could be contrasted with pure ‘religion’, derived solely from Scripture. Many of these traditions were ascribed to syncretic borrowings from other religions. For some, this has meant that Catholicism was not a form Christianity at all (I have heard such opinions in Belfast quite recently).

The genealogy of the term syncretism in this kind of polemic has led Charles Stewart and Rosalind Shaw to suggest that scholars abandon it as a term of analysis (i.e. as an emic term). They observe that the identification of syncretism tends to be undertaken by those who are advocating an anti-syncretism, and the purging of a religious tradition from foreign elements. In this sense, we can see anti-syncretism as a phenomenon like nationalism, where a commentator identifies a package of identities, behaviours and ideas as ‘pure’ or ‘orthodox’, and deviations from this are labeled inferior and impure.

Stewart and Shaw observe that if we use a term like syncretism in scholarship, this seems to imply that ‘pure’ religious traditions are a possibility. Thus to describe practices as a ‘Hindu-Christian syncretism’ implies that Hinduism and Christianity are both coherent, discrete systems. In practice, all believers constantly adapt new ideas that they encounter, both from religious and non-religious sources. In particular, religious converts often bring the same questions to their new faith that they asked of their previous faith. And in so doing, their new religion expands its remit.

Stewart and Shaw’s critique is particularly important for teachers of RE in secondary school. The time restrictions involved in teaching the subject, as well as the role of SACREs in determining curricula, can often prioritise ‘purist’ scriptural approaches to religious traditions. This can result in the imagination of these traditions as discrete units. One problematic consequence of this approach gives short shrift to the hybridization of religious practice.

However, there has been an interesting rebuttal to Stewart and Shaw from the anthropologist David Gellner. He suggests that scholars ought to be interested in the origins of religious ideas, precisely because so much weight is placed on the scriptural justification of religious practice in traditions such as Buddhism, Christianity or Islam.

Gellner puts forward a usable definition of syncretism that attempts to avoid its polemical genealogy: ‘an unsystematic combination of different traditions that their creators intended to keep apart’. He gives the example of the Buddhist priesthood of the Newar region of Nepal, which can only be occupied by members of the Brahmin caste. This is a region dominated by a Hindu king, and Hindu stories are widespread. Gellner suggests that the use of a Hindu-derived idea (caste) by a Buddhist priesthood who cannot justify this idea from their own Scripture is inherently unstable, and persists because of low levels of literacy among the Newar peasantry.

He contrasts this example of syncretism, with synchronism. He defines this as the evolution of complementary systems, where different religious traditions fulfill different roles. In his Newar example, he argues that Buddhism is only concerned with morality and soteriology (in this case, the achievement of Nirvana). But other features of religious life (the religious explanation of the household or the nation; belief in the sacred nature of the environment) are not justified by the Buddhist priesthood. Here the Newar follow the same kind of Hindu ideas popular elsewhere in Nepal.

I find Gellner’s approach a useful compliment to Stewart and Shaw. Stewart and Shaw’s work reminds us that the identification of syncretism has polemical roots. The language of religious studies is not neutral. It bears the imprint of a Protestant usage and of ‘reformers’ and unifiers in other traditions that have sought to differentiate alien impurities from an imagined authentic truth. But Gellner reminds us that different religions attempt to do different things, and that borrowings between religious traditions (especially non-Abrahamic religious traditions) may be stable and not in conflict. In particular, we should remember that ‘religion’ does not have to define the boundaries of a community, as it tends to do in Abrahamic traditions. At the same time, Gellner also carves out a space for scholars to recognize that scripture matters too, and that many religious traditions make claims about their origins in scripture that are widely discussed and defended. Contradictory religious beliefs of different origins can endure in the same society, or the same individuals. But where religious identities become more rigidly policed, where the religious identification of individuals is expected to align to their practices and beliefs, this leads to the closing down of hybrid religiosity and an emphasis on the scriptural origins of true religion.

 

References

Stewart and R. Shaw (eds.), Syncretism/ Anti-syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis (London/ New York: Routledge, 1994).

Gellner, ‘For syncretism: The position of Buddhism in Nepal and Japan compared’, Social Anthropology 5 (1997), 277-91.

Barnes, ‘Misrepresentation of religion in modern British (religious) education’ British Jnl of Educational Studies 54 (2006), 395-411.

In a previous blog I referred to the prize-winning philosophy of Charles Taylor. Drawing further inspiration from some of the arguments presented in A Secular Age, I would like to consider the merits of literature as an important resource for religious education. That is, how and why a consideration of poetry, story, prose and fiction can inspire and inform students as part of their religious education.

In his analysis of religious belief in a secular age, Taylor uses the example of the writing and experience of Bede Griffiths. Griffiths, also known as Swami Dayananda was born in the suburbs of London in 1906, and died in his Christian-Hindu Ashram in Shantivanam, India, in 1993. He was one of the most famous (and controversial) interreligious pioneers of his generation, but it is the influence of literature upon Griffiths’ spiritual experiences in suburban England which are of relevance here.

Griffiths studied literature in Oxford. His tutor was the author and Christian apologist, C. S. Lewis – another famous advocate of the role of literature in religious understanding. Like Lewis, Griffiths underwent a process of conversion that he documented in his writings with compelling detail. Griffiths came to belief partly through a serious reading of the English poets, particularly the Romantic poets, while living in an experimental community with two friends in a cottage in the Cotswolds. He then converted to Roman Catholicism and entered a monastery. He wished to find the deepest level of union with God through a heightened experience of prayer. For Griffiths, Jesus was not a philosopher, but a poet. In a ruthless industrial era, Griffiths believed Christian spirituality could be deepened by engaging with non-Western traditions and reconnecting with nature.

Taylor uses an example taken from Griffiths’ autobiography to illustrate religious experience in the modern era. Griffiths describes listening to bird-song on a summer’s evening (as though he had ‘never heard the birds singing before’) that shattered his senses momentarily and brought him into an awe-inspiring encounter with God. To Taylor, this experience of fullness of life shows that neither belief nor unbelief in a secular age should be considered as theories or ideas. They are lived ‘conditions’.

Throughout A Secular Age Taylor explores how, through the numerous turns of Western culture, literature provides a way to understand shifting religious and intellectual trends. A Secular Age is, as one reviewer has remarked, the result of a lifetime’s reading. From Baudelaire and Blake, to Wordsworth and Woolf, the lived experiences of different orientations to life and God are examined in broad sweep.

In a recently published article about the religious beliefs and fiction of Leo Tolstoy, using a similar argument to Taylor’s, I explore how and why attitudes to non-Christian religions changed in the post-Kantian era to allow for the global pluralism that we have today (of which multi-faith religious education is a part).

This brings us to the purpose of this blog. Why and how can literature help with the business of religious education? Firstly, it should be noted that there are many kinds of literature and some may be more relevant than others. But, in general, great literature explores human experiences and values through dramatic, narrative and poetic devices that can cut across cultural and religious differences.

Literature describes ‘thick’ situations in detail often with characters’ inner thoughts and realisations explored in a way that no other kind of text does. While many stories have goodies and baddies, actually in many literary works we see how complex moral decisions are, and how people are capable of good and bad actions depending on the dilemmas they may face. In this way literature encourages empathy with different kinds of people and presents circumstances that we may only be able to live vicariously. Literature also allows for the explication of distinct theological positions, but does so in nuanced and powerful ways explained through narrative, symbol, metaphor, or myth.

Through its complexity, beauty, and sustained demand on the imagination, literature can bring us to a greater understanding of human experiences and religious principles. It therefore can counteract some of the problems that face religious educators. For example, research shows that RE can often emphasise religious boundaries instead of breaking them down, particularly by the reification and distortion of religious traditions.

In small-scale empirical studies, Christian, Jewish and Muslim adolescents report considerable discrepancies between their own religious identities and those represented in multi-faith curriculum materials. Literature, on the other hand, is more authentic and unpredictable, often showing the complex relationships between people and religions. Furthermore, the evocative power of poetry can be considered as contrary to the ‘reasoning’ advocated by academic studies about religion which rely heavily on more rational interpretations and comparisons.

So much for the ideals and theory: what about some good examples? I give some tried and tested literary figures. I do not give any quotations, or examples of suitable learning objectives, but links to texts and further information.

Rumi is perhaps the most famous and well-known example of many great spiritual poets from Islamic cultures that could be used to enrich religious education. ‘Rumi’ as he is commonly known in English, was born in the area that is now known as Afghanistan and Tajikistan in the Persian Empire and later lived in what is now modern-day Turkey. Writing in Persian, he is also known as Jalal ad-Din Muhammad and Jalaluddin Balkhi. Rumi was a religious scholar before becoming a mystic and poet. His poetry has universal appeal and is held in high regard across the Muslim world. (He is frequently said to be the best-selling poet in the United States of America.)

Another good example is the Nobel Prize winning Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941). His great work of poetry The Gitanjali was championed by the Irish poet W. B. Yeats and was popular among some in the British establishment, finding favour among English Unitarians. Tagore returned his Knighthood, however, in protest to the British rule in India. Like Rumi, Tagore’s poetry is concerned with the spiritual life and can be interpreted as uniting concepts across different religions.

 

The photograph shows a monument to writers outside the Parish Church of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, Mexico City

The great writer Leo Tolstoy is the subject of an earlier blog. Unlike the other examples given so far (Rumi and Tagore), Tolstoy eschewed poetry and indeed, in later life, the form of the novel. Tolstoy therefore began writing short moral stories for children and for adults. Some of these are good examples of what is known as narrative theology. This is the notion that the twist of a story (as opposed to the evocative language of poetry) can be utilised to illustrate theological concepts for consideration. Perhaps a better example of narrative theology can be found in the work of C.S. Lewis, whose Narnia stories are famous for being allegories. (An interesting research project is currently being conducted at the University of Leeds considering how these stories can build moral understanding among those of all faiths and none).

A controversial and grittier consideration of Christianity through narrative is the famous novel, Silence by Shusaku Endo. This tells the story of an outlawed Portuguese missionary in feudal Japan. It has been made into a film by Martin Scorsese (it is a gruesome story and the film, due in January, will most likely not be for the faint-at-heart).

As for Griffiths, Wordsworth had an enduring impact. And through this example we can observe the potency of literature. For while a work of literature may be derived from its author’s experiences; it can also provide a key for readers to reinterpret their experiences in light of the vision of that author. Reading Wordsworth it is possible to palpably feel the poet’s own spiritual response to the beauty of nature, something that resonated with the young Griffiths – and then lingered with him for the rest of his life. Indeed, understanding this, it would seem impossible to read that staple of schooling, ‘I wondered lonely as a cloud’ without considering Wordsworth’s religion. Or to put it in Taylor’s terms, Wordsworth’s lived condition – in the case of the daffodils, a fleeting and heavenly vision of life’s momentary fullness.

 

… the less likely you are to be religious

 

This is of course a completely fabricated headline – but in the post-truth age who cares?

This week a very silly Facebook quiz apparently shows that only 2% of catholics can ace the test! For research purposes only …… I did take the test. They include …. you know you want to know…..

• When does Lent occur?
• What is the name of the last Pope?
• What does Palm Sunday represent?
• When does Advent occur?
• Where do the ashes from the Ash Wednesday service come from?
• etc etc……

Yes, I know these are challenging but the test did include three optional answers for each question.

I did enjoy the rather disapproving nun staring down at would-be quizzers.

But is there a serious point to this?

Is there any evidence about the relationship between levels of religious literacy and religious affiliation? Is it possible that improvements in religious literacy (a familiar goal for RE) will lead to a decline in religious affiliation? This could potentially have significant implications for current debates about the purpose, approach and content of RE.

Stephen Law, writing in a new book Religion and Atheism: Beyond the Divide, makes the following intriguing statement:

“One recent US study found that those self-identifying as atheists and agnostics scored better on average on a general religious knowledge quiz than did the religious. They also had a better knowledge of Christianity, on average, than those self-identifying as Christians.”

Religion and Atheism: Beyond the Divide Ed Anthony Carroll and Richard Norman (Routledge 2017)

Law is challenging the argument that atheists fail to recognise the reasonableness of Christian belief because they are ignorant about those beliefs. In reality they may know more about those beliefs than many Christians.

The study to which he refers is by Pew Research from 2010 and headlines its findings by saying:

 

“Atheists and agnostics, Jews and Mormons are among the highest-scoring groups on a new survey of religious knowledge, outperforming evangelical Protestants, mainline Protestants and Catholics on questions about the core teachings, history and leading figures of major world religions.”

http://www.pewforum.org/2010/09/28/u-s-religious-knowledge-survey/

But this is America! And recent events may make us very sceptical about suggesting any parallels with the UK in terms of religious life.

Lying behind these findings is, of course, the hint that as you develop more and more knowledge about religious beliefs, the less and less plausible they become. It reflects a comment made to me recently by a very familiar RE friend who told me that it was exposure to learning more about Christian theology that finally drove him to atheism.

We are now in the land of speculation (the joyful territory of the blogger). However, all this may raise some serious warnings for those designing the RE curriculum. We are seeing, particularly in relation to Christianity, a tendency to want to place a huge emphasis on theology. It is reflected in recent models which place key theological concepts at the core the RE curriculum.

The possibility is that this heavy focus on the belief of one religion (as opposed to the rich diversity of lived religions with an emphasis on patterns of belonging, behaving and being), will have the effect of driving students towards a rejection of religion. Religion presented primarily as belief could easily stretch the credibility of many students.

Is this another, but very important, reason why RE needs to actively reflect the diverse, complex richness of the landscape of religion and belief if it is to avoid the paradox that:

 

the more you know about religion ….

…. the less likely you are to be religious?

 

And for those interested. Your friendly blogger got 100% right in the Facebook quiz !!!!

The 2016 Annual Meeting of the Religious Education Association – a US-based organisation with a global remit for the promotion and development of religious education – took place in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the weekend before the Presidential Election.

Outside the conference, the election campaign was in full swing (Hilary Clinton visited Pittsburgh the day after), and churches in the city distributed flyers asking congregations to reflect in conscience on her campaign pledges versus those of Trump.

The election inevitably remained an informal topic of discussion throughout the conference. But this was not coincidental or tangential. The role of religion in American politics is well-known – and of politics in education, of course. On a deeper level, the role of religious educators among all the division, noise and turbulence of the world – political and otherwise – has ongoing pedagogical and theological significance. These themes were relevant to the conference aim of ‘generating hope’.

An after-dinner address was made by the award-winning columnist Tony Norman who gave an eloquent and detailed account of the inspiring teachers of literature who had encouraged him to write and had given him hope. Bert Roebben, an advocate of the importance of theology in religious education, in his presidential address meditated on the importance of hope in religious education, showing how theological ideas may inform praxis.

Of Belgian nationality but working in Dortmund, like many others in Germany Roebben has observed first-hand refugees arriving there, but through those challenging circumstances he has also seen the hope that religious education can provide, including the work of his students and colleagues with them.

Roebben’s argument, drawing upon the work of Heather Walton, is that teaching is not just phronèsis or rightly-informed practical action, but actually poèsis – a creative action that symbiotically transforms the teacher, student and world. Reflecting on his own work as a teacher-educator led Roebben to see hope as fundamental to this process. Because of the enormity of the task of engaging students with ultimate questions, the teacher’s work must be ‘anchored in a habitus of hope’ (p. 235).

As part of his meditation of the meaning of hope, Roebben referred to the thought of the last president of Czechoslovakia and the first president of the newly formed Czech Republic, Václav Havel. Havel observed while incarcerated by the communist regime that to hope does not mean to expect things will work out for the best, but that we must endeavour to do what makes sense, regardless of how things turn out. It follows therefore as educators, that we should not just see hope as a goal, but that it can saturate the teacher’s outlook, motivation and methods.

To practice hope in the classroom, Roebben argues, we must break isolation and learn patiently and deeply in the presence others. One way of doing this is to use ‘sensitizing stories’ – narratives that encourage a deeper reflection of oneself and one’s values. Story can transform classrooms and teacher-training. Roebben used the examples of the last gardener of Aleppo and the parable of the growing seed (Mark 4:26-29) to illustrate this point. While the former is a sensitizing story of hope being destroyed, Roebben suggests the latter provides a metaphor of how our toil can lead to new growth without us knowing why. One aspect of this is hope’s eschatological dimension – for in looking towards the time when a corrupt order will be overthrown, praxis can also pass on theology.

The philosopher of education John Dewey once stated that the teacher is the usher of the Kingdom of God on earth. Many today would not share such a utopian view of democracy or of education. Perhaps religious education can never transcend the political. But if there is a place where our deepest values, questions and concerns may be identified, addressed and shared, that surely must be in the religious education classroom. The religious education teacher has tremendous responsibility, but also may be a harbinger of hope.

A term into the new GCSEs and folk are finding their way. A key issue is assessment particularly in the light of the beyond levels culture.

Early indications are that the legacy of the ‘level’ confusion coupled with the focus of GCSE on the skill of evaluation (AO2) threaten to undermine assessment common-sense.

One of the worst mistakes of the old 8-level scale was building a ladder of skills with the implication that some skills represent a higher level than others. This was, of course, a mistake – evaluating simple ideas represents a lower level of attainment than understanding more complex challenging ideas.

Crucially – there needs to be a careful synergy between the two competences. Broadly, although it is not a rigid formula, it is essential that students understand what they are learning before attempting to evaluate the material.

One of the major pitfalls of much assessment practice is the tendency to ask students to deploy the skills of evaluation BEFORE they have understood the ideas they are studying under the illusion that evaluating is a higher level. Once you couple this with confusion about the purpose and nature of the subject you have a recipe for continuing assessment muddle. And early evidence is that the question setting by exam boards is falling into this trap.

If students find they are being asked to evaluate before they develop a reasonable level of understanding the consequences are familiar. Writing lacks independence, fluency and coherence. The learning reverts to ‘teaching to test’ and assessment starts to look for ‘points made’ in order to get the marks, rather than assessing the real quality of understanding and argument.

Initial indications seem to be that this dilemma will become more problematic with the shift towards a more ‘theological’ approach in RE. And the issue can also be seen at Key Stage 3 with teachers moving towards GCSE-style assessment practice.

Brave teachers have been posting examples of tasks. Two recent examples illustrate the problem. In both cases the teachers are clearly trying very hard to develop more challenging tasks – and in neither case should they be criticised for their efforts.

In both of these cases do we face the problem that the understanding and evaluation demands of the tasks are out of kilter?

 

Year 7 students are asked: “To what extent do you agree with God’s decision to test Abraham?”

Apart from the obvious problem that the task seems to presume belief in God, there are other issues about asking Year 7 students to evaluate the statement.

1. It is not clear what kind of question it is. Is it the kind of question you ask when studying fiction; the equivalent to asking whether Hamlet should have killed Polonius? OR is it more like a historical question; the equivalent of asked whether the UK should have declared war on Germany in 1939? Or is it a theological question; the equivalent of asking why Christians believe Jesus is the Son of God? Unless students are clear which kind of question this is, it is very difficult for them to make real progress.
2. Assuming it is intended as a theological question, it requires a very high level of biblical and theological understanding before any evaluation will make sense. The only way the students could really handle the evaluation would be if they could explain different theological interpretations of the story and then offer a balanced assessment of those interpretations in the light of a wider understanding of key threads in Christian (or Jewish) theology. Phew!! Without that understanding all the students can do is offer a highly subjective personal response to the story which is in practice very difficult to assess.

What we have is an evaluation task which demands complex levels of understanding beyond the students’ capacity. Better to ask the students a challenging ‘understanding’ task to find out why this story is important within the Christian tradition.

 

Year 10 students are asked: “The crucifixion is more important to Christians than the resurrection”. Evaluate this statement.

1.Again, we have the problem about what kind of question this is. Superficially it looks like an empirical question. Find out, as a matter of fact, what percentage of Christians do or do not think crucifixion is more important than resurrection and then analyse the results of your research ….. not presumably what is required.

2.Assuming the question is, in reality, a theological one we are again faced with huge challenge in terms of understanding before we even come to evaluation. In order to develop an independent, fluent response to the task students would need to analyse different theological interpretations of the two main concepts. They would need to be able to explain those differences before even beginning to develop any serious evaluation of the statement.

In practice, what most students will do is construct ‘learned’ arguments trying to incorporate the required number of points to ’get the marks’. Much better to ask the students to explain different Christian views rather than trying to evaluate, which is a step too far.