It used to seem rather pedantic to talk about “transcendence.” The word belonged to learned lectures by theologians who drew careful distinctions between “transcendence” and “immanence,” between God beyond us and God among us. Nowadays, however, especially since the craze for transcendental meditation, “transcendence” has become part of everybody’s vocabulary.
The old materialism no longer satisfies. It prevailed too long anyway. J. H. Woodger, professor of biology in London University (1947–1959), so wise that his friends have always called him “Socrates,” once said to me: “I work in an atmosphere so materialistic that the word ‘spirit’ is never mentioned, unless prefaced by the adjective ‘methylated’!” Against this kind of materialistic secularism many young people are rebelling today. Theodore Roszak gave us an excellent documentation of the youthful revolt against the technocracy in The Making of a Counter Culture (1969). I do not think he claims to be a Christian. So I was all the more struck that when he wanted to express the folly of imagining that scientific technology could satisfy human beings, he felt obliged to resort to the words of Jesus: “What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?”
During the last few years increasing numbers of university students have been deserting the faculties of science and technology and enrolling instead in courses on philosophy, history, and literature. They know that reality cannot possibly be confined in a test tube, or smeared on a slide for microscopic examination, or apprehended with cool scientific detachment. They are convinced that there is another dimension to human experience which they like to call “transcendence” and that reality is “awesomely vast” (Roszak’s expression). So they seek it, often in strange and even perilous places, through mind-expanding drugs, through yoga, transcendental meditation and the “higher “consciousness,” through sexual adventures, through art, music, and science fiction, and through experiments with the occult.
None of this should surprise us, who look to the Bible for our understanding of life and who love to quote Augustine’s assertion that the human heart is restless until it finds its rest in God. It is true that ever since the first disobedience in the Garden of Eden fallen human beings have been running away from God. Indeed, we are worse than fugitives; we are rebels who defy his authority and resist his love. And yet we are restless in our rebellion. Instinctively we know that the God we are trying to avoid is our only home. So at times we “feel after him.” We seek to find him whom we are simultaneously seeking to escape. Such is the paradox of our fallenness.
One of the most popular fields of exploration is that of the paranormal, in the form either of psychic phenomena or of astrology or of UFOs. And science fiction cashes in on this cult. I gather that Erich von Daniken, author of The Chariots of the Gods, has even outsold Dr. Spock. It is claimed that 34 million copies of his books have been sold in thirty-five languages.
The science fiction example I would like to develop is Steven Spielberg’s motion picture Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977). Film critics have described it as mere entertainment, without any hidden meaning. But personally I attribute its popularity to its offer of a secular experience of transcendence. Its message could be summarized as follows: (1) “We are not alone in the universe.” We are not condemned to live in what Bertrand Russell called “cosmic loneliness,” for there are other and superior beings in space. (2) They are friendly, awe-inspiring in their power, but friendly, and even taking the initiative to make contact with us (a secular equivalent to “grace”). (3) Bourgeois suburbanites, preoccupied with material security, dismiss believers as mad. They are excluded from the transcendent by their incredulity. (4) The establishment also, symbolized by the Army, not only disbelieve themselves, but do their utmost to keep other people from believing. (5) Little children, however, like four-year-old Barry, grasp the transcendent with wide-eyed delight. For it is “revealed to babes.” They respond to it with joy and eagerness, and have no fear. (6) Simple believers too, like Roy Neary, the film’s hero, refuse to be put off. Roy feels himself “invited,” even “compelled,” towards the rendezvous which, significantly enough, is a kind of “holy mountain.” Nothing will deter him from reaching it. (7) The scientists also discover the truth by their open-minded investigation. They fall to their knees in wonder, almost in worship. (8) In the end, when the glorious space ship descends, the “close encounter” with this Other Reality is an overwhelming experience of rapture, a secular form of “beatific vision.” Spielberg describes it on the last page of his book in these words: “Neary walked forward … leading the way deep into the fiery heart of the mystery.” Then slowly “the great phantom starship began to lift off … through layer after layer of clouds until this great city in the sky became the brightest of the brightest stars.” The book’s last words are “the indisputable proof.”
This claim to a secular experience of transcendence constitutes a powerful challenge to the quality of our Christian public worship. Does it offer people what they are seeking—the element of mystery, the sense of the numinous, in biblical language “the fear of the Lord,” in modern language “transcendence,” so that we bow down before the Infinite God in that mixture of awe, wonder, and joy which we call “worship”?
“Not often,” I’m afraid the honest answer would have to be. We evangelicals do not know much about worship. Evangelism is our specialty, not worship. We have little sense of the greatness of Almighty God. We tend to be cocky, flippant, and proud. And our worship services are often ill-prepared, slovenly, mechanical, perfunctory, and dull.
We need to listen again to the biblical criticism of religion. The Old Testament prophets were scathing in their denunciations of formalism and hypocrisy. And Jesus reapplied their critique to the Pharisees of his day: “These people draw near to me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” This indictment of the Lord and his prophets is uncomfortably relevant to us. Much of our public worship is ritual without reality, form without power, religion without God.
What is needed, then? At least these three things: (1) Such a humble, faithful reading and preaching of God’s Word that the human readers and preachers are forgotten, and the voice of the living God himself is heard and he addresses his people. (2) Such a reverent, believing administration of the Lord’s Supper that there is a “real presence” of Jesus Christ in the midst, the risen Lord himself, really and objectively present, coming to meet his people in accordance with his promise, ready to make himself known to them and to give himself to them, so that they may “feed on him in their hearts by faith.” (3) Such a sincere offering of prayer and praise that believers say with Jacob at Bethel, “Surely God is in this place, … this is the house of God and the gate of heaven,” while unbelievers coming in fall down and worship God exclaiming “God is really among you” (Gen. 28:16, 17; 1 Cor. 14:25).
In brief, one of the tragedies of contemporary Christendom is that just when people are disillusioned with materialism and are seeking a spiritual dimension to life, we seem unable to satisfy their hunger. So they turn to drugs, sex, yoga, mysticism, astrology, and science fiction, instead of to the Christian church in whose worship true transcendence should always be experienced.
John R. W. Stott is rector emeritus of All Souls Church, London, England.
