The Face of God: the Gifford Lectures

The Face of God: the Gifford Lectures
Roger Scruton
Continuum, 256pp, £18.99

When this book arrived for review, I was already well into J A Baker's almost miraculous book The Peregrine - a coincidence, if you believe in coincidences - so I decided to read them together. Almost immediately, they were performing a mysterious descant, which is hardly surprising since both writers are on a hunt to discern the face of the Other. In his introduction to The Peregrine, Robert Macfarlane says the book is not about watching a bird, it is about becoming a bird. As Baker tells it:

Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified.

Substitute God for the peregrine and Baker's words could be sung by Scruton. He, too, is on a hunt: "Any attempts to see the world as a whole . . . is doomed to failure . . . It could succeed only if we could . . . attain to the 'transcendental' perspective that is God's." Yet that is what he is trying to do in this book, as he trudges through fen and field, seeking to discern the "dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding", to quote Gerard Manley Hopkins, another compulsive pursuer of the possibility of God.

Central to Scruton's search is an attempt to observe the mystery of human consciousness and save it from those who would reduce it to biology. He tells us that people can be conceptualised in two ways: as organisms and as objects of personal interaction. "The first way employs the concept 'human being' (a natural kind); it divides our actions at the joints of explanation, and derives our behaviour from a biological science of man." But the other way of understanding employs the concept of person and sees us as beings that mysteriously transcend the merely biological.

In spite of the materialist determinism of some scientists, this is certainly how it feels to be human. We know that our brains can be scanned and our emotional lives translated into neurological code but many of us find it hard to believe that that is all that can be said about us. We know that the mind and the brain are dynamically interfused but we do not believe that the former can simply be subsumed into the latter. This is what keeps many of us poised on the edge of transcendence.

The leap Scruton makes over that edge towards God is one that many people will not be able to follow but his move cannot simply be dismissed out of hand, unless we are also prepared to abandon anything other than the materialist interpretation of human consciousness. He argues that, just as the human person disappears from the world when we look for the neurological explanation of his acts, so God disappears from the world when we hunt only for the cause and never for the reason of things: "So maybe God is a person like us, whose identity and will are bound up with his nature as subject."

That would suggest that, just because science can't find him, it does not follow that he is not there to be found; anymore than it follows that because neurology can't find us we do not exist either. Though far from conclusive, that approach is suggestive, and suggestions from thoughtful people are worth listening to.

His next move is one that many will find even more problematic but he disarms us by acknowledging the difficulties, even if he does not resolve them for us. He suggests that the hunt for God will inevitably take us into religious communities, the fields over which Hopkins's "windhover" ranges. And that, indeed, is what keeps many of us fellow God-hunters uncomfortably involved in religious institutions.

Unfortunately, the institutions in question bristle with difficulties, only one of which I shall remark on here. Organised religious communities make exorbitant truth claims for themselves, on the basis of which they have a proven tendency to persecute those who cannot accept them. Scruton is well aware of the danger, though he does not seem to offer a way of avoiding it: "[W]hen a system of beliefs begins to persecute those who do not accept it, we know that it is only a pseudo-science" - which is precisely the problem.

In religious discourse, we too quickly move from the illuminating suggestions of parable, metaphor and myth into quasi-scientific claims about the nature of the mystery that we are hunting. The irony here is that religions end up doing to the elusive person of God what biological determinism does to the elusive person of the human: they void it of mystery. This is why intransigents on both sides of the current debate about God increasingly sound like each other.

Scruton won't resolve these issues for you but if you want a handy pocket guide to humanity's perennial search for God, one that will take you safely round the edges of the current religious battlefield, this elegant and gracious book is the one to buy.

Richard Holloway's latest book is "Leaving Alexandria: a Memoir of Faith and Doubt" (Canongate, £17.99)

Richard Holloway is a Scottish writer and broadcaster and was formerly Bishop of Edinburgh in the Scottish Episcopal Church

This article first appeared in the 02 April 2012 issue of the New Statesman, France is my enemy

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Shell-shock symphony: Berg’s Wozzeck – opera’s take on post-traumatic stress disorder

Begun in 1914 and premiered in 1925, Wozzeck has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects.

When I was 12 years old, I made a devastating discovery. The arias from my favourite operas – Rigoletto, Turandot, The Barber of Seville – which I played over and over again, winding and rewinding the cassettes ­until they ceased to work, did not ­necessarily have words that matched the beauty of the music. Intense study of a book I had received for Christmas called Stories from Opera taught me that although some of the soaring melodies I adored carried words about love, death, horror and tragedy, other lyrics, in translation, proved to be people agreeing where to meet later, or misremembering each other’s names.

This crushing disappointment came to mind again recently while I was listening to an edition of Radio 3’s Building a Library, a segment of its regular Saturday-morning CD review, in which new releases are compared and contrasted with archive recordings to find the best listening experience. The reviewer Gillian Moore was surveying the available recordings of Alban Berg’s Wozzeck. She gave credit to several English-language recordings for the clarity they offer newcomers to this work, but eventually concluded that she must recommend a version using the original German, because there were crucial aural elements that could not be reproduced without it.

Moore, now director of music at the Southbank Centre, chose to kick off a series of semi-staged concert performances of operas with Wozzeck. Although undoubtedly an opera, it was a far cry from the fairy stories and doomed romances that filled my pre-teen ears, but it worked surprisingly well stripped of scenery, costumes and other theatrical accoutrements.

Zurich Opera’s presentation placed importance on the orchestral score above all else, allowing its jagged and insistent lines to remind us that this is music born of the dark years between the world wars. Begun in 1914, but delayed while Berg served in the Austro-Hungarian army (it premiered in 1925), it has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects. The score owes much to Berg’s fellow Viennese composers Gustav Mahler and Arnold Schoenberg (Mahler’s widow put up the money for the initial publication of the score). At times in this production, the orchestra was so utterly central that it felt like a symphony with singing, rather than vocal melodies with accompaniment.

The Wozzeck of the title is a poor soldier, flawed and dogged by madness and visions we would probably now see as signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He scrapes a living for his girlfriend, Marie, and their son by humiliating himself before his military and class superiors (the Captain, the Doctor, the Drum Major) and by participating in degrading medical “experiments”. The star of the show, the German baritone Christian Gerhaher, had to withdraw at the last minute for health reasons, so the British singer Leigh Melrose stepped in to reprise his Wozzeck from the widely acclaimed 2013 ENO production. Despite performing from behind a music stand, Melrose acquitted himself well, handling the transitions between Berg’s three singing styles: “half-singing”, Sprechgesang (or “spoken singing”) and full vocalisation to great effect.

Gun-Brit Barkmin, with a severe Twenties bob and a flowing scarlet dress, was a superb Marie – alternately harsh and soft as the music demanded it, flirting destructively with the Drum Major while conveying how little choice she had in the matter. Of the ensemble, Lars Woldt’s Doctor particularly stood out, using the German libretto to drag every ounce of black comedy out of his character’s fascination with Wozzeck’s bodily functions. The high vocal standard proved Moore’s point about the necessity of the original German libretto – it is a difficult language to sing, because of all the harsh consonants and modified vowels, but when used expertly can be unendingly expressive. We hear this in the way the double “zz” of the title character’s name becomes a derisory bitten-off “tz” in the mouth of the Captain; and Wozzeck’s exclamation in Act I that “Du, der Platz ist verflucht!” sounds so much more accursed and deranged with all those consonants in such close proximity.

The German sociologist Theodor Adorno once called Berg “the foreign minister of the land of his dreams”, much to the composer’s amusement; but, hearing the score for Wozzeck laid so bare, you understand what Adorno meant. The incredible double crescendo on a single B from the orchestra after Wozzeck murders Marie – raised by the conductor Fabio Luisi in this performance to an unbearable volume before being allowed to die away – feels like music from an other-worldly nightmare. Yet, for the war-battered men who inspired Wozzeck, his tragic half-life was all too real.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis