The problem of the continuity of identity, of what it is that guarantees we are taking about the same entity over a span of time, is an intriguing philosophical conundrum. Even for simple, material objects it can be quite a puzzle. There is, for example the well-known issue of Trigger’s broom in Only Fools and Horses when he reveals he has gained an award for having the same broom for 20 years; it has only had 17 new heads and 14 new handles! This is simply a form of the more ancient Ship of Theseus problem: if over time every timber in the ship is gradually replaced, does it remain the same ship? One solution might be continuity of use (if one wishes to affirm it is the same), but already continuity of identity is seen to lie outside the object in something beyond itself; in this instance the person or community that relates to it for a particular function.
When it comes to persons the issue becomes more complex again. Clearly here material continuity will not suffice because as a living organism every atom is periodically replaced. Mental continuity is also problematic. Not only is there the periodic interruption of sleep, but brain injuries, forms of amnesia and dementia could all provide insurmountable difficulties to asserting continuity of identity. Again, an answer seems to lie outside the self. It is not enough to recognise oneself as the same, because perhaps one is not able to do so. Personal identity is inherently relational; there is a need for others who recognise us as the same.
There is also the question of development and change over time. Which is the ‘real’ you: the foetus in utero; the child of five; the diffident adolescent; the adult in the ‘prime of life’; the aged yet wise octogenarian? It is here that an eschatological perspective can help which builds upon our reflections above. Here identity becomes not a static point along one’s lifetime competing with every other for the title of the ‘true self’. Rather identity opens out into an envelope that includes what one has been, what one is and what one will come to be. The hope of resurrection is not for one’s last moment alone, but operates, as Jürgen Moltmann (1990) proposes diachoronically, that is in an integrating and gathering sweep across time. Accordingly, the eschatological future offers every moment of time the prospect of resurrection and the perfect integration of these moments into a whole. Eschatological identity suggests, then, that the ultimate anchor of one’s identity lies beyond the self, beyond even the (transient) community of creation, and in the eternal God who holds out the prospect of resurrection to life eternal.
This comprehension of identity has highly significant pastoral implications. It means that, within an eschatological perspective, the meaning of the past is not limited to its contribution to the linear unfolding of a life; the past also has an intrinsic worth (along with every other moment). What one is now is not in competition with what one was, nor is what one is now a form of disloyalty to the past. Let us take this one step further.
The ‘modern’ notion of the self as a single, clear, isolated entity can make the process of ageing more troublesome. It can make it seem as if one’s always-emerging identity is a falling away from one’s youth. This can cause one to attempt to act out of the ‘old self’ in an attempt to prove its continuing presence and validity. Many a ‘middle age crisis’ takes this form. A sports car or motorcycle is purchased, or cosmetic surgery is sought to restore past appearance. This same tendency can afflict one’s religious identity and when this is a professional religious identity – such as for a chaplain – the effects can become especially disconcerting and destabilising. What I mean is that there can be a reluctance, for example, to embrace shifting theological perceptions of age out of a false sense of loyalty to the way one used to think. Or, to put it another way, thinking differently in matters of faith can make one feel, erroneously, that one no longer inhabits the same vocation, or perhaps is the same person. I am forced to talk here in general and abstract terms, but do not let my language mask the existential angst that can arise from a sense of losing oneself. In such circumstances an eschatological configuration of identity can bring a sense of liberation. This is because there is a proper sense in which one is never fully oneself; that destination lies ahead of one. In time we are en route to our full realisation since (a) we’re always dependent of relationships (and developments) yet to be, and (b) as we go we leave a trail of parts of ourselves behind stuck in the past due to relationships (and configurations) that no longer are.
What happens, then, if we move from persons to institutions? I am struck by the way in which those who wrestle with the question of the Anglican (Christian) identity of church-founded universities seem to focus on the Anglican part of the equation as if the meaning of identity part was already and precisely known. I’m not sure that it is. But it could be that one can solve (at least partially) both sides of the equation simultaneously. It seems to me that a version of eschatological identity is just what is needed to make sense of the identity of institutions that can, in theory, change every one of their members, the content of what is taught and researched, can even change their name and physical location, and yet claim to be the same. In other words, might not electing to solve the problem of identity theologically itself be a contributor to the Anglican (Christian) character of one’s institution? In such a solution, unity of identity would be generated from the integration of the series of slices in time of one’s university as these are held together by a common vision of purpose itself grounded in the constant nature of God.
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