Work in Progress: On High

It’s been a little quiet around here recently, but that’s definitely not due to a lack of activity behind the scenes. Following on from Mutiny and After Magic, I’ve been working on a third piece in a loose-trilogy which is, for the moment, entitled On High.

In short, it’s a history of height. It plots our continued lust for transcendence in all its forms, through drugs, powered flight and religious practice. In particular, the book will focus on the extraordinary years from October 1966 to December 1969, and on three events which form a prism through which this long history can been focused.

The first is Ken Kesey’s ‘acid graduation’ in a warehouse in San Francisco. The second focuses on William Anders’ photo Earthrise in 1968, and the moon landings that followed in July ’69. The third is, in October that same year, the sending of the first ever communication between two remote computers.

Launching from these three events I’ll be attempting to take in something of the common threads (as well as common protagonists) that link them, focusing in particular on what some of the social and theological implications of our fascination with transcending our limited finitude have been. Then I’m hoping to end with an examination of the ‘religion of technology’ – exploring how our impulses on social media and the move towards wearable technology (and A-Life) are based in the same urges that lifted our ancestors eyes to the heavens.

Having set this summary out, I’m now hoping not to have to write the thing at all, right? :)

In case I do, I’ve posted a taster from a very early draft of the introduction on the writing site Medium.  Do have a read. Be great to hear thoughts at this early(ish) stage. Right. Head down again…

 

Trauma, Embodied: On the Revelation of the Unspoken

What happens when the unspoken is said?

We have all lived with the unsaid. Though invisible and unrecordable, it nonetheless has a form of powerful non-existence. It is a silence, an absence that haunts and chills, a spectral communicating that is often extremely clear, though no words can be recounted, nor any actions described that provide solid evidence.

But what happens when the unspoken is said?

The spectre that haunts suddenly becomes embodied. Audible, recordable, somehow visible. Rather than an unspeakable dream, the spoken unspoken creates a trauma. Where there was once nothing to see, nowhere to point, when what is unspoken is said the atmosphere precipitates a physical body, something real that has to be faced and related to.

The introduction of this third reality into a room of two generates problems. We sometimes talk about ‘the elephant in the room,’ but the admission of this elephant makes the room suddenly very crowded. What could be stepped around – an invisible presence that was accounted for, even in its absence – now has to be accommodated.

It cannot be avoided. It must be spoken of more. It must be described and detailed and intently examined. Paradoxically, these acts to accommodate the actual existence of this previously non-existent power can serve to deflate. The words seem more prosaic now that they can be seen. There is less poetry; more proscription.

This deflation can be useful. In human terms, the insurmountable issues that appeared to exist between two people can be diminished. Hurts laid bare. Saying the unspoken, incorporating what was said loudly in silence can, paradoxically, bring transparency.

But what of The Unspoken, the Presence that Has No Name? Here, The Unsayable is the unsaid – a powerful absence that, in non-existence, is able to silently say so much. The problem of so much muscular religion is that it insists on a revelation that loudly speaks the Unsayable. This incorporation, this precipitation of an invisible haunting into a manifest elephant, creates a trauma. There is now something that has to be described, examined, quantified and decided upon. What was, in the silence, so powerful, is now deflated. There is immediately less poetry; suddenly more proscription.

The more powerful revelation, I wonder, is that which still resists being said; a non-existence that haunts, that electrifies, that says so much without uttering a single word, without breathing a single breath, that refuses to be real in order to spare us the trauma of divine crowding. Instead, listening carefully to what is not said, we retain the space to act.

‘Angry Young Prophet’ becomes ‘Father-Figure’ – Driscoll and Tragedy of Prodigal Son

I’ve kept well away from all the Mark Driscoll things that have hit the headlines over the past few years, basically because it’s hardly seemed worth adding to the froth and lather that’s been worked up over what, essentially, is pretty much the sort of nonsense that one can only expect from the kind of religious set-up that Mars Hill represents.

However, Driscoll’s recent apology over the marketing scam scandal that’s surrounded one of his latest books made me sit up and think that something needed to be said. Why? Because I think he’s entered very very dangerous ground, ground that I’ve spent a fair while thinking about in my book Mutiny (not a #1 Best-Seller. I blame my marketing company.)

In his apology, Driscoll says:

In the last year or two, I have been deeply convicted by God that my angry-young-prophet days are over, to be replaced by a helpful, Bible-teaching spiritual father.

if God would lead you to pray for me, the Scripture he has impressed upon me this past year or two is 1 Corinthians 4:15: “For though you have countless guides in Christ, you do not have many fathers. For I became your father in Christ Jesus through the gospel.” As I get older, I am seeking to increasingly love our people as I do my own children in order for our church to be a great family, because of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

With the Father’s affection, –Pastor Mark Driscoll

It’s this transformation of the ‘angry young prophet’ into the ‘affectionate father’ that I think is deeply problematic, and those involved with Driscoll, or influenced by his work should take real care. This is the hard lesson from the parable of the prodigal son: there is a cycle that needs breaking.

In Mutiny (you can read the relevant chapter here for free) I explore a radical re-reading of this deeply-loved parable as a tragedy. It’s a tragic story because, through all that the son goes through, he ends up right back in the place of suppression that he began in. He has learned nothing. His father still rules him.

This reading examines the economic situation, and the sense of enclosure that the young son felt. This was a rich estate, surrounded by those in need. They likely relied on slave labour. Wanting to feel some air in his lungs, the young son asks for his share of the estate – an estate which, then halved, still at the end of the story easily supports the father and other brother. We pick up the story as the son lies, starving:

He would never live freely off his father’s riches again, but he could return as a servant. This way he could rebuild his strength, and do so with honest labour. More than that, he could show his father the error of his father’s ways, tell him about the hungry people that lay dying not so far away, and turn his father’s heart to compassion for them.

So the son returned home. But his father saw him coming. He’d watched every day, worried about the ideas he might come back with, concerned that his other son’s head might also be turned. All he had worked for and gathered around himself was at stake. He could not risk it being redistributed in some ridiculous lefty scheme.

As it happened, he needn’t have worried. The young son was tired, thirsty and splintered. He could only speak with half a heart, and the ideas that had felt so clear and sharp far from home now felt confused and tumid. His father refused his pleas to have him work. He gave him a warm robe, which, if a little heavy on his thinned frame, felt sumptuously comfortable. He was given the family signet ring, which invested him with an odd feeling of pride. He was someone again, with a strange but alluring sense of power. There didn’t seem to be the time or place to challenge his father and persuade him to widen the radius of his generosity…and so he settled back into his old ways, and accepted his old seat at the large and loaded dinner table.

‘I was alive,’ the young man said to himself as he sat listening to his father toasting his return at the feast… ‘but now I am dead again.’ His older brother seemed disappointed and angry, and his head hung low as the music raged and his father grew enraged. He’d tried to break out and had failed; he’d let both of them down. His plan to escape was in tatters. It was over. The father was too strong. They would both become like him.

The ‘turn’ of the story occurs when the son is helpless, among animals and animal food. He feels too weak to push through with his escape, so gives up and returns. Thus, the ‘angry young prophet’ quietly goes back, chastened, and grows to become the father. Takes over the business, his anger pushed down, suppressed, taken out in tiny systemic, authoritarian ways, until his own son grows… and grows angry, and the cycle repeats again.

Jesus refused that way. Coming from a place of great riches to a place of great need, he experienced hunger and poverty. But he didn’t just give up and go back. No, he challenged his father instead to stop hiding, to come out and be vulnerable among these people too. This is the non-tragic ending that the prodigal son misses, and that the gospel presents.

When Driscoll talks about moving from ‘angry young prophet’ to becoming a father, it makes me worry that he is simply following this well-trodden path that the prodigal took… and the father too, in his own youth. Didn’t the angry young divinity of the Old Testament make moves to becoming the loving father? But this cycle only leads to another generation being suppressed, oppressed, and having anger generated too.

Importantly, though, as I discuss in Mutiny, the parable of the prodigal son is extraordinary for its total exclusion of women – just as Driscoll’s ministry is too. Other parallel stories I examine – Star Wars, Peter Pan and The Odyssey, all move away from tragedy precisely because of the female characters:

It is only with their feminine influence that narratives can be balanced, so that the heresy of the child can bring the parent’s redemption, and thus the cycle of life continue towards greater maturity.

Excluding women, moving from angry young man to father with still-unresolved anger issues, a refusal to break down his empire – all of these are tragic elements in the prodigal story that Jesus resisted and Driscoll refuses to. That, for me, sounds major klaxons. Here is a (hi)story all set, tragically, to repeat itself.

Walking Wounded

A video from the Vaux archives.
From the service ‘Walking Wounded’ performed in 2002.
Images by Nic Hughes.
Music: Herd Killing, Future Sound of London
CopyLeft: use for free, but please reference and do use your imagination.

The idea of the ‘walking wounded’ was one Vaux explored for a few months over a series of a number of services. Pushing back at the idea of possible perfection, the impetus was to embrace our woundedness as a core part of our humanity. Not something to be rejected and recoiled from, but to help us walk. This was church as field hospital.

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Lent | Approaching Death | Finitude

What is Lent for? It is an odd season, one that marketeers have struggled to monetise. There are no ‘Happy Lent!’ cards, or faux opportunities for buying gifts. It begins with pancakes and tends to end with a gorging on chocolate, but between these points there is nothing much that can be sweetened. Lent refuses to be reinvented, simply because Lent is about refusal, full stop. But what is that refusal for?

There are the usual announcements from people, most of whom have no strong religious affiliation, that they are going to be giving up certain things. It’s easy to knock, to scoff at the surface nature of it all, or even analyse the denial of chocolate as a mechanism for only increasing the allure of the thing. There are elements of truth, but it’s clear that something is going on.

Whether it’s Mars Bars or alcohol, Lent is instinctively a period of appetite suppression, a time of fasting. We give something up in order to show that we still have control over it. Historically, this time of fasting would have come towards the end of the ‘hunger months’ at the end of winter, with no new produce yet harvested, and larders running low. Short of key vitamins, then fasting on top, divine experiences and visions were far more commonplace.

Lent, in other words, was seen as a parallel to Jesus’ time of fasting in the desert. It was a time of preparation for ministry, to seek visions, to hear God’s voice telling us what to do. To do battle with appetites, show the devils that were conjured who was boss, and come back stronger, more focused, more disciplined.

Lent, in this understanding, is about preparation for ministry, about a refocusing of life on higher things.

But in terms of the traditional calendar of the church, Lent is not so much about Jesus preparing for ministry, but Jesus preparing for death. It is the time of sober reflection in the lead up to Easter. Without being morbid, for those within a radical tradition I think this can be a far more helpful frame within which to celebrate it. This is not Lent as a refocusing on God, but a process of walking towards putting our gods to death.

As I’ve written in After Magic, all of us face demands on our lives, either from systems of belief, or political and economic systems that we are a part of. The problem I outlined in that book is that these demands can end up not enhancing our humanity, but diminishing it. When the demands of our job ‘forces’ us to work late, when the demands of social media and always-on communication ‘force’ us to step away from those with whom we are present and attend to screens, when our beliefs demand that we cannot give equal rights to women or those different sexual orientation… whenever we face these demands we might feel that we ourselves feel differently about them, but we have no choice.

Lent is about exercising that choice. It is not about a refocusing on the higher things of God, but a turning away from the gods that have caused us to lose focus.

As I have set out in After Magic, the radical paradoxical outworking of this is in the putting to death of God godself, precisely because the most godly life is one lived as if God did not exist. Why? Because in the absence of any divine saviour, we have to become the answer to our own prayers. In the absence of divine retribution we have to work for justice on earth now. In the absence of any infinite demand, we are freed to fulfil the only demand that remains. The summary of the law is simplified even further: with God gone, we have only to love one another.

The traditional idea of Lent follows in the long line of religious practises across so many faiths that seeks transcendence by way of abstinence. The problems around elitism and violence that this leads to I’ll be dealing with in a book I’m writing at the moment, tentatively titled On Limits. The radical theological tradition offers an alternative way. Rather than Lent being about transcendence, it is about the precise opposite. Lent is about a return to the earth. It is about taking time through disciplined practices to resist the demands that the gods of capitalism, technology, political structure, religion and socialisation put on us.

This, perhaps surprisingly, is a profoundly Christian vector. Why? Because the incarnation stands the traditional journey in transcendence on its head. It is not about us lifting off from the earth to approach heaven, but coming down from our high places to be born again, bloody and present, to live and serve and die here.

 

Quietus | Fired Earth | Refusing a Municipal Death

[Slideshow of Images from Quietus]

I went yesterday to a truly remarkable exhibition by artist Julian Stair in the basement vaults of Somerset House. There’s an excellent ‘making of’ video here. Stair is a potter who has been exploring the long connection between his craft and death-vessels. These pieces are all sarcophagi, cinerary jars and vessels for remains.

Displayed in these dripping vaults, among memorial stones and in hidden alcoves, they presented a deeply moving, ancient, tender and humanising picture of this mystery, this mystery so much complicated by its twin facets of utter impenetrability and complete inevitability.

This descriptive text says it so well:

“Quietus concludes with the boldest of assertions. In the final room we see a single vessel, a round white matt cinerary jar, spotlighted on a dull lead plinth.

This is Stair’s Reliquary of a Common Man, 2012, made for and from the cremated remains of Lesley James Cox; bone china, quite literally made from the bones and body of Julian Stair’s friend and uncle-in-law, whose life we are introduced to in an accompanying Super-8 film, a slide show of portraits and in the soft-spoken murmur of his storytelling.

Here lie the mortal remains of a man.

There is no resurrection, none of the bombast and resistance of fetishistic memorialising; instead we have testimony, witness to the worth and merit of a person, wrought by hand on the wheel and forged in the fire.”

This reminded me of the poem I wrote on the passing of my friend and Vaux co-founder Nic, whose ashes made up part of this memorial piece some friends and I installed (quite illegally) on the Essex coast that he loved.

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There is something so municipal about the way death is usually done these days. Stair’s remarkable challenge is to link us to a past that saw death as a place to celebrate earthy crafts of pot and bone-china, refusing to make do with chipboard veneers and velour curtains in expectation of a quick flight heavenwards.

Not since seeing Bill Viola’s Nantes Triptych have I been so moved by an exhibition; it’s one that’s going to stay with me a very long time.

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Technology as Revelation: Heidegger, Tractors and the Problem with Social Media

Over the past couple of days there has been even more fuel added to the already raging fire that is the debate on social media. With Stan Collymore, Edward Snowden and the truly tragic context of the death of Tallulah Wilson, the social and ethical issues around Twitter, screen-time, omni-present smartphones are, thankfully, getting a lot of air.

Having recently finished a long period of work focusing on fiction, I’ve been turning thoughts back to some ideas that have been percolating for a follow-up to Mutiny and After Magic. I’m hoping to write this over the next few months. The working title is On Limits and will examine our enduring fascination with the infinite, the problems and harm that this can do, and how we might be better served by a world-view that is honest and accepting of our limitations. (I’ll be posting this sort of stuff here rather than on kesterbrewin.com now, so do follow @VauxLondon for updates.)

A significant part of this will focus on technology. I had an email from Yahoo recently, offering me ‘infinite web-space’ if I signed up for their email package. Infinite? Really? This is classic techno-bullshit: the promise that technology will unfetter us and leave us able to live limitless lives. But it is bullshit that can do real harm if left unchecked, and I believe we are beginning to see the social effects of that.

In preparing to write on this I’ve been reading some Heidegger, in particular his 1950 essay The Problem Concerning Technology. His governing question in the piece is simply this: what is the essence of technology. In other words, what does technology do? His answer is this: technology always undertakes a work of revelation, but in doing so it works to ‘enframe’ the world we live in. As Paul Nadal has commented here:

If I understand Heidegger correctly, the essence of technology, then, is the poetic process of bringing something forth into presence and, as a mode of revealing, “frames” a world that is unfolded or unconcealed in the process.

In what way does technology work to reveal? Think of a tractor: this technology ‘reveals’ a field as a place for the intensive cultivation of food. But in doing this it also ‘enframes’ the world – it creates a field of vision in which fields are places for intensive cultivation. As Maslow neatly puts it, ‘to the man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.’ In Heidegger’s terms: the hammer has enframed the world as a series of things to be hammered.

One of the key debates that recent events have thrown up is the question of whether technology is neutral. Heidegger is clear on this:

Everywhere we remain unfree and chained to technology, whether we passionately affirm or deny it. But we are delivered over to it in the worst possible way when we regard it as something neutral; for this conception of it to which today we particularly like to do homage, makes us utterly blind to the essence of technology.

What I think he means by this is that to say that technologies are neutral would be to deny their power of revelation and enframing. Technologies always reveal and enframe, and so, for Heidegger, to claim that they are neutral is absurd: technologies create vectors within us, even though those vectors might be of different direction magnitude and direction in different people. 

However, the nature of this revelation is multi-dimensional and it’s to this that I really want to look more closely, also exploring the idea that what matters most for Heidegger is our orientation towards technology.

The first dimension of technology’s revelation is back into the self. The hammer we wield reaches back through our hand and reveals something of our own drives and desires. We could use it to nail a beautiful wooden box together, or to smash a window of McDonalds. These actions by the hammer are physical extensions of our desires that reach out through the hand.

This is technology as revelation: in our use of it the hammer exposes to the world something of our self. But Heidegger also says that technology enframes. By this he means that the act of picking up a hammer doesn’t just give a channel for our desires to be revealed, but also changes our desires by changing the way we frame and see the world when we are holding the hammer.

The second dimension of revelation is into nature. Technology changes materiality and uses materials. In our use of technology we are revealing something of our orientation towards how we treat the material world. The constant upgrade culture of mobile phones, the rampant consumption of rare-earth metals: these reveal something about the worth we place on the earth. They also work to enframe too, and Heidegger uses the example of a hydro-electric plant on the Rhine:

The hydroelectric plant is not built into the Rhine River as was the old wooden bridge that joined bank with bank for hundreds of years. Rather the river is dammed up into the power plant. What the river is now, namely, a water power supplier, derives from out of the essence of the power station.

The third dimension of technology’s revelation is into social relations. Because technology reveals something of our inner drives, it also works to reveal something about how we view the worth of people around us. This has a major impact on labour relations. Steve Jobs was big on ‘living the dream’ and pursuing your goals, but for anyone who worked at FoxConn, with suicide nets around the factories, this is nothing more than a sick joke. From the introduction of mechanised farming to the introduction of the iPhone, technology reveals something about how we value those around us.

But it also works to enframe us into modes of working; it reveals to us something of our relationship to economics, to the worth of others within our socio-economic frameworks, the worth of our families in our labouring with tools or in offices. As Nadal continues:

“The culmination of Western Enlightenment in the early 20th century is precisely technology’s domination of nature, which, as [the Frankfurt school of Marcuse etc.] argue, ineluctably leads to the domination of man by man. In Adorno and Horkheimer’s words: “What human beings seek to learn from nature [physis] is how to use [techné] to dominate wholly both it and human beings. Nothing else counts.”

In other words, the society which venerates technology risks being one that venerates power-structures that lead to domination and oppression. This may be by huge corporations (Google / NSA / Facebook) or by military might. But the enframing action of technology can also take us into unhealthy routines.

Technology is sold as a means to unshackle us, but can end up limiting us by prescribing modes of being: modes of communicating, of relating, of performing and living in a routine and automised way. In other words, the ads tell us that this new gadget will leave us unlimited… what it actually does is enframe us, orientate us a certain way to ourselves, to nature and to others. This links to the post I wrote recently on resistance to 24/7 culture of always-on – and understanding its ‘unlimited’ promise as utterly false.

OK… a whole load of theory. So how is social media relevant here?

Using the above we can see that social media performs a dual work of revelation and enframing. Twitter draws out of people something about their inner desires, and the Twitter troll is a perfect example of this. But it also performs a work of enframing, of presenting the world to us in a different way, with different norms and different assigned worths.

Some would argue that this is continuity between old media and new: one could equally have written to a newspaper to ‘troll’ someone. But there is a key difference. With the smartphone, the reach of social media has been amplified way beyond that of the tractor or hammer. The handset is compact enough to be permanently portable, but powerful enough to connect us to people all over the globe, many of whom we don’t know.

This creates serious problems because we are aware of the huge potentialities of this technology, the huge power of its revelatory functions, the huge promise of being able to speak up and be heard by so many – but we don’t yet seem to have adapted well to the effects of this revelation, nor to the massive work of enframing that it has effected. This means that we end up with a massively powerful and toxic revelation of our inner self, our relationship to nature and our orientation towards others.

In conclusion – long post, I know, but this is first draft stuff for book – I think Heidegger offers something important to the debate on digital technology by encouraging us to consider what our orientations are to it, and how it reorientates us.

But, most importantly, because of this powerful revelatory nature, of our relationship to self, others and the earth, I strongly believe that the people best placed to provide a helpful critique of technology now are not writers at Wired or TED or Bill Gates, but theologians (and see this post on what I mean by that term). Rather than tie themselves up over issues of dogma, sexual politics or wordings to baptisms, theologians should be committing themselves to understanding this powerful ‘big other’ that is techno-culture, and offering wisdom on how we might understand ourselves and properly orient ourselves within it.

None of this is to denigrate social media, or argue against its use. It is to offer a push-back to a naive view that somehow social media is no different to a chat in the pub. It is. Not just because of the wider reach, but because the enframing that this different technology does is very different to the enframing that speech has offered us. Confusion on this is perhaps at the root of the scandals engulfing Twitter right now.

What is theology | ‘Empathetic Alterity’ | Love of Knowledge of Love

One of the questions I’ve been pondering recently is what theology actually is. I want to lay out some thoughts on this and thus give some kind of foundation for where I’m interested theologically at the moment.

Clearly, there is orthodox Christian theology, which explores the character of God as expressed in the bible etc. etc., but theology must be a far more encompassing term than that. Islam does theology, Judaism does theology – and academia is stuffed full of people following no religion at all (nor believing in any God) who are committed to the subject.

I’ve heard it said that philosophy is in a constant battle to set itself apart from theology, and it’s tempting to collapse their definitions and say that theology is philosophy, no more, no less. But that, I think, is unsatisfactory. Wikipedia begins by saying:

Philosophy is distinguished from other ways of addressing such problems by its critical, generally systematic approach and its reliance on rational argument.

By its very nature, theology cannot rely purely on rational argument. There can be no rational argument for God, nor any conclusive proof for not-God either. Problems around divine existence are just not that interesting for theology.

So if theology is not philosophy, and nor is it particularly concerned with divine existence, what could it be about? What would separate out the work of a department of philosophy from one of theology?

My hunch is that it could be instructive to think about theology as ‘empathetic alterity.’

Perhaps theology’s primary concern is about what is ‘other.’ That encompasses ideas of ecology, technology, political alienation, poverty and justice – as well as traditional ideas of the divine – but in a way that goes beyond the perhaps more cold, analytic world of the philosopher into the involvement of empathy.

The introduction of empathy into thought is perhaps what distinguishes theology from philosophy. But it is the nature of that empathy that is vital. If the vector is solely pointed to engaging with the alterity of God then this can remain a cold discipline and one that works to exclude and violate. What radical theology has, I believe, tried to emphasise is the vector pointing to engagement with the alterity of those around us. Paradoxically, this move away from a focus on this ‘big other’ of God is itself a godly move because, in Christian theological terms (and perhaps every theological move is necessarily coupled to some system that informs it), it is reflective of the incarnation. As I concluded in After Magic, the mostly godly way to live may be to live as if God did not exist.

Perhaps then, if philosophy is ‘love of knowledge,’ theology is best described as the reflection of that in ‘knowledge of love.’ The outworking of what that ‘love’ is and means is what the core theological task should be. That’s not a romantic notion, but a tough, practical one that demands action.

It’s why I’d be tempted to say that Zizek’s work is not purely philosophy, but can have an insistent theological edge. Not because it is Christian, atheist or of any other brand, but because much of it begins in theory but then demands a hard work of empathy. It’s also why I’d argue that much of what passes as theology is actually a work of dogmatic philosophy, because it lacks any drive to empathy by excluding women, refusing to critique economic systems that oppress the poor etc.

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Vaux.net

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From 1998 until 2008 Vaux was a physical space for some of the best theological thought and praxis around. In the often low-light of a Victorian barn in Vauxhall, London, a group of us set about ‘haunting’ the religion that we had inherited or discovered, chasing ghosts and casting doubts with all manner of art, text, installation, dance and film.

That form burned powerfully, but eventually burned out. In 2012, Nic Hughes – a founder and foundational thinker-artist for all that Vaux has been – died of cancer.

Nic was a profound influence on my writing and practice, always pushing boundaries and bringing encouragement. The time feels right now to resurrect Vaux as a virtual space for the same radical theological journey that began with him so long ago.

I have for a long time been using my own site to post thoughts but, as I push more towards focusing that space on my fiction work, I wanted simultaneously to use vaux.net to be the focal place for the kind of thinking that gave birth to Mutiny and After Magic.

The plan is to try to be a hub-space to link to great content in other places too, and perhaps feature some guest posts. We’ll see. For now there’ll be lots of tweaks coming to design and form, as and when there’s time.

So, if you’ve enjoyed the theological side of my other site, make sure you follow VauxLondon on Twitter for updates here, and spread the word where you can.

Thanks, and here’s to a new phase in a great journey.