What if atheism is not a disease that needs eradicated? What if it isn’t an enemy that needs vanquished? What if atheism isn’t the opponent of faith? What if atheism lays on the same continuum of faith? What if it is the atheist—the vocal, passionate, and suffering atheist—who stands in solidarity with the kenotic Christ? What if it is the atheist who best understands the derelict cries of the godforsaken Christ of Golgotha?
In his new book Patience with God, Thomas Halík argues that the atheist is blessed in his solidarity with Christ. Rather than crushing him with fine crafted arguments in favor of God’s existence, the atheist stands in the same pilgrimage of faith. She simply needs more patience with the periods of God’s hiddenness. Instead of an enemy of faith, he is the prophetic voice of protest against a world gone mad, a God who is absent, and a world of violence and shame. She gives voice to the secret doubts of the faithful soul. Rather than eradicate the disease that is atheism, the person of faith, the person of the Church, is obligated to stand in solidarity with the sufferings of the impatient atheist. It is in this moment of solidarity that the faithful approach God’s own kenotic (self-emptying; see Phil. 2) activity.
I for one have found the atheistic/theistic debates tiring. From a purely rationalistic/apologetic standpoint I haven’t found either position particularly fruitful, helpful, or even overly convincing. At the end of the day, both the atheist and theist have his or her reason for believing what they do. While not airtight, most arguments have their plausibility, internal consistency, and external weaknesses. While this language is pushing the case a bit, as a Christian most indebted to Barth (and I’d say the overall testimony of Scripture) I find many apologetic arguments abhorrent. Arguments for God’s existence cannot be a preamble to faith. The testimony of the Bible is one where the existence of God is taken for granted. God’s existence can be assumed because God was not silent and has revealed himself first in Israel and definitively in Jesus Christ. The question in the pages of the Bible is not, “is there?” but “what kind?” of God might we know. In fact, following a thread of Zizek, I might add that the monotheist who takes the atheist as a serious rival is actually a polytheist. Taking the god of atheism too seriously posits and creates the existence of another god that stands next to and in opposition to the God of Scriptures. But I digress.
Thomas Halík is a Polish Roman Catholic Priest. Secretly ordained during a communist regime, he has spent the years following the velvet revolution coming to grips with what it means to live and serve openly as a man of faith. Specifically this means living on the edge of the post-atheist, post-communist east and the post-Christian west. As a Catholic, Halík takes his cues from popes past and present, Vatican II, theologians such as Karl Rahner and Luther, authors like Doestesky, and philosophers like Kierkegaard, Nietzche (yes, you read that correctly) and Simone Veil. Most significantly, Halík draws deeply from the wells of a little known mystic saint: St. Thèrése.
St. Thèrése de Lisieux was a 19th century monastic who is perhaps best known for her deep anguish and spiritual conflicts near the end of the life. She felt Christ slowly departed from here leaving in a desolate place “where no sun shines any longer.” Rather than rebel against the God that left her, she resolved “to accept even the strangest thoughts” out of love for God. God’s absence became a means for her to mark her solidarity with both Christ’s godforsaken cries on the cross and to mark her solidarity with unbelievers.
This, I believe, has great value as we grow and evolve in our faith. It is practically common knowledge that at some point in our life, our faith grows cold. The excitement and exuberance of young faith simply dies. For many, clinging to the embers of a love grown cold isn’t enough. And we grow angry, disillusioned. “The church has failed me.” “God has failed me.” But what if we perceive this as an opportunity? What if we mimic the patterns of Jesus and name our godforsakeness? What if we follow the pattern of St. Thèrése and view this as an opportunity to identify with those who have no faith?
Finally, I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the subtitle of the book: The Story of Zacchaeus Continuing in Us. At the end of the day, this fine volume is a prolonged reflection on the Jesus and Zacchaeus story found in Luke. While longer and more detailed than Henri Nouwen’s seminal Return of the Prodigal, Halík attempts many of the same things. Job one is to see the potential Zacchaeuses around us. A Zacchaeus is a person on the margins. Someone who falls between the cracks. Someone not easily seen.
This is a book for people on the margins. This is a book for those who have grown weary with evidence driven apologetics that serve as a preamble to faith. This is a book for those you who have lost heart with the hand grenades tossed back and forth between the Church and the atheist academics. This is a book for people who want to find another way of faithful living. It’s quieter. But it’s powerful. It’s a life of water slowing filling in the cracks. It’s a life of subtle movements and resolute prayer. I also think it’s the way of the kenotic Christ.
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