A Gospel for the Suburbs

To bring this series to a close, I want to reflect briefly on a question posed by Steve McCoy over at Reformissionary. Steve asks:

Do you think the suburbs are so difficult because by their nature they are a salvation from something else, a gospel delivering people from "sin," poverty, homelessness, interruption, filth, etc? In other words, when we try to give them the Gospel they generally won't listen because they already have one in the suburbs?

This is a great question. In fact, it's probably the most important question to ask. My purpose in taking up this series in the first place was to construct a framework in which to think about exactly this, and Steve states the question about as succinctly and accurately as anyone I've seen. Unfortunately, there isn't an easy way to make the answer nearly so succinct. This is a question that cannot be casually dismissed - it's the sort of question that we need to invite to become a part of our rhythms of life, a part of our narratives and practices both personal and communal.

One of the significant challenges that we face in answering this question is simply defining what, exactly, the gospel is. For my part, I see the gospel as an integral part of the biblical narrative - in other words, any framing of the gospel that doesn't make sense in the context of the whole of the Story is at best incomplete. In order to grasp the gospel, we need to begin to inhabit the biblical narrative, allowing it to define the problem to which the gospel is the solution. And we need read no farther than Genesis 3 to discover that any description of the problem that doesn't include our fractured relationships with God, each other, and Creation is woefully inadequate. This narrative grounding is what sets the Christian story in context; sin is tragic at least in part because of its scope. It's not just about me - it encompasses the entire cosmos.

But if we define the problem in a smaller way, so that the problem is my personal contentment and well-being, then a "gospel of the suburbs" becomes an easy remedy. And this gets to the heart of Steve's question. The "gospel of the suburbs" is tenable only when we've defined the problem in a way that fits such a response. But, I must ask, how small is that leap from the gospel as often articulated in twenty-first century American evangelicalism? If the gospel is personal, spiritual, and eternal - as opposed to cosmic, holistic, and present - then, I'd suggest, we've left a lot of room for other answers to the problem. The gospel of personal relationship is really no threat to the gospel of suburban existence - they can coexist peacefully, as should be patently obvious to anyone paying attention. So I can enjoy the pursuit of happiness now, so long as I don't offend God, and get to heaven when I die. It's the perfect suburban life.

I don't know another way to say this - we should be disturbed, profoundly disturbed, that this telling of the Story has such a grip on American Christianity. God's actions through the biblical narrative are always about calling a new people to practice redemptive living - to participate in a new way of being human, in opposition to the ways defined through sin and curse. How we tell this story makes all the difference - I can't emphasize this enough. Part of what we need to be doing as missional people is creating dissonance and dissatisfaction among our friends and neighbors so that we can realize together that the problem is bigger than can be solved by a nice house and an SUV. The gospel of the suburbs is ultimately a hollow one - but that realization is a stretch for many of the folks with whom we live and serve. In truth, it's often a stretch for me. Only through continual retelling and reenacting of the Story can we free our imaginations from the suburban ethos enough so that we can begin to truly live in the ethos of the Kingdom.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, gospel, narrative

Scripture, Answers, and Alex Trebek

A few days ago I read this post over at Dan Kimball's blog, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. I thought it was profoundly disturbing, particularly when I read the part about "some issues are just black and white". It's disturbing particularly because it's an approach to scripture that's so common among Christians today - God's Answer Book, or some such. But is that really what this is all about? I have to be honest with you - I can't make it work for me. Saying, "The Bible has all the answers," defines a rather odd relationship between a person and scripture. Besides the fact that reducing the Story of God to an encyclopedia of historic facts and theological statements, it clearly begs the question. Nobody who utters such a statement ever intends for it to be taken literally. There are any number of questions on which the Bible is completely and unabashedly silent. "How do I change the oil in my car?" "What kind of wine goes well with beef?" "How many licks does it take to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop?"

The difficulty with approaching scripture from this vantage is that it can't help but turn into something ugly. The reason that I say this is because one can only look for answers once we've defined the questions - and defining the questions is a matter of power and control. There are some questions that are approved: What does the Bible say about justification by faith? Ahhh, they say, and nod their heads. The Bible has the answers. Turn with me to Galatians. There are other questions, though, that are clearly not allowed: Where, exactly, does scripture call itself "inerrant"? How do we deal with the Old Testament picture of God, which seems so different from Jesus? What, exactly, is the gospel anyway? I'm not saying that scripture has no answers to these questions. I am, however, suggesting that merely providing answers may not be the point exactly. What if scripture is at least as much about the questions as it is about the answers? What if the point of much of the stuff that we struggle with is to get us to ask the questions in the first place?

If the Bible is an answer book, then it must, absolutely must, say the same thing all the time about a given subject - hence the focus on things like inerrancy and refuting contradictions and whatnot. But if scripture is a question book, then something changes. Ross wrote something a while back on hermeneutics, about how we need to be able to hold the "It is written," with the "It is also written." Here is a case in point: Deuteronomy, God's authoritative Word, defines the relationship that Israel was to have with Ammon and Moab: "No Ammonite or Moabite or any of his descendants may enter the assembly of the LORD, even down to the tenth generation." It's quite clear, right? No ambiguity there - it is written. But there's a slight problem. Fast forward to Ruth. Ruth, the Moabitess, is granted a place among the people of Israel. The irony isn't lost on the author of Ruth, because this is how the book ends:

This, then, is the family line of Perez: Perez was the father of Hezron, Hezron the father of Ram, Ram the father of Amminadab, Amminadab the father of Nahshon, Nahshon the father of Salmon, Salmon the father of Boaz, Boaz the father of Obed, Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of David.

Back up a second in case you missed it. The point of Ruth isn't that Ruth was a phenomenal woman (although she absolutely was). The point isn't even that God will make an exception if you're really nice to His people. The point of Ruth is that David is a Moabite. David, King of Israel, man after God's own heart, according to Torah should never have been allowed to enter the assembly of Israel. I don't suppose I need to remind you, then, of a certain other descendant of Ruth through the line of David... It is also written.

I suggest that the whole book, the whole collection of writings that we call scripture, is like this. Scripture isn't a song sung in unison. It's a chorus of voices all singing at times in harmony and at times in dissonance - but always beautifully. Does it provide answers? Most certainly. But often, for some strange reason, those answers might be in the form of a question.

Technorati Tags: scripture, hermeneutics, Ruth, questions

Dynamics of Power

One more thought on this before I talk about Galatians - we as followers of Christ must seriously rethink our approaches to authority and power. I touched on this yesterday, but I think it bears more careful consideration than my quick summary. I think this is significant for several reasons. First, power is the dynamic that sets political relationships and structures apart from other kinds of relationality. When I have friends over for an evening of grill and brew, it's not necessarily a political action - there is no overt mechanic of power and authority (unless you have really strange friendships). But bring those same friends into my home for a house church gathering, and the relationality transforms into something political. (In what way this becomes political we'll discuss shortly - that's not necessarily a bad transition.) Second, I would argue that power dynamics are precisely what Jesus subverted in his political sphere. In other words, the gospel challenges us politically precisely because of Jesus' approach to power and authority. Not coincidentally, I think this is precisely where Christian political activism (in the more traditional sense) so often goes wrong, and why I suspect that, not only do we miss the gospel in our approach to government, but we actually do violence to it - especially those of us who follow Christ in the context of first world democracies.

I suppose again that a definition is in order. I've proposed that political relationality involves dynamics of power - nice move, Webster, but what does it mean? By power, I'm specifically referring to dynamics of influence or control. My current line of thought - and I'll be the first to admit this is in no way well-developed - is that power in and of itself is amoral. In other words, there is nothing particularly right or wrong about the act of exercising influence or control; it's simply a part of human relationships. It happens in families, in businesses, in little leagues and coffee shops, in Wissahickon and Washington. What makes an exercise of power a moral act are the means, the ends, and the motives - and it's precisely these elements where Jesus serves as both example and challenge for those of us who would follow in his Way.

I could probably write a book on this, so I'll try my best to be concise here. My proposal for understanding the nature of Jesus as a political figure is to examine the way in which he not only exercised power, but subverted and transcended it. What I mean is this - in the gospels, Jesus never exercises control through domination or subversion of the other. The closest we see to something like this is the cleansing of the temple narrative, and I think it's a stretch to argue that domination is what's in play in that instance. But clearly, in example after example, Jesus subverts power through submission and service. He transforms dynamics rooted in domination to ones birthed in love. Not only that, but he holds out his example for all who would be greatest in his kingdom - it's truly an inversion of worldly power structures, creating a radically different community built around radically different dynamics.

This dynamic is all through Jesus' teachings, especially in the Sermon on the Mount. Love for the enemy, care for the needy - submission and service are throughout, sometimes in truly remarkable terms. Many of us may be aware of the context for the statement about "going the extra mile". Roman soldiers of the day had the power to conscript a person to carry their belongings for a maximum distance of one mile. Jesus turns this power dynamic on its head by instructing his followers to not only submit to the Roman soldier, but to do twice what was required - love for the enemy indeed, to place the statement into its historical context. But I think something revolutionary happens in this act of submission. It's not passive by any means - it's subversive. Jesus takes an act of domination and transcends it through willing submission, in effect claiming its power as his own and transforming it into a display of love and service for an enemy. The cross is then the ultimate example, where Jesus' act of radical submission transcends the domination of Rome and results in Christ's enthronement as Lord. But again, the power of Lordship that he wields is love and service - not domination.

I think this example of Jesus' use of power should serve to fuel our own approach to power and authority. What does this look like for the Christian? If you haven't seen it yet, check out a great post over at Today at the Mission on the Christian Bill of Rights for starters. As followers of Christ, we no longer have the option of wielding power in the ways of the world - we are called to something greater by virtue of being lesser.

A Spirituality of Briar

I really wanted to write something on the Emergent response to critics, which I thought was quite well done, but in truth I just spent a bit of time reading through some of the responses to the response and now I'm just tired. (If you haven't read it and care to do so, head to the emergent-us blog. It's well worth a read, if you're interested in the emerging church.) So more on that tomorrow. Instead, I'm going to pick up something I mentioned in an earlier post and talk about pipes for just a minute. Here's a quick disclaimer - I'm not really interested in talking about the dangers of tobacco, or second-hand smoke, or healthy living. Just putting that on the table. If you're interested in that sort of thing, there are many places to discuss it. I'm not trying to be rude; in fact, I've never said this about a post before, and it makes me rather uncomfortable to do so, but there can be particularly strong opinions on this topic, so I'm just setting some boundaries up front for my own sanity. My apologies for the string of independent clauses, but there it is.

I'm not really what you'd call a "smoker" in the true sense of the word. I enjoy a good pipe about once a month or so. It pops in and out of my writing because the two seem to go together, but in truth it's somewhat of a rare indulgence. To me, it's sort of like fine wine - I consider good wine to be privilege, and I keep it as such by enjoying it only occasionally. It's an avoidance of the contempt of the familiar and all that.

Two things come to mind when I pick up my pipe: conversation and contemplation. Some of my closest friends also enjoy pipes, so our occasional gatherings typically include breaking out the briar. On the other hand, I also find a pipe to be the perfect accompaniment to reflection, contemplation, and yes, even prayer.

Here is the one thing you must know about pipes in order to understand what I mean: it is impossible, or at least incredibly difficult, to smoke a pipe quickly. You can do it, but it ruins the smoke and possibly the pipe as the tobacco will burn too hot and char the briar. There is a method to pipe smoking that is in some sense ritual. One doesn't simply light up. First, the proper tobacco must be selected - this alone can be a dizzying matter, because the range is simply staggering. (Myself, I'm partial to McClelland's Blackwoods Flake or St. James Woods, if you were wondering.) Then the pipe must be packed properly and lit carefully. This is critical to a quality smoke - too loose and the pipe will burn hot, too dense and it will not burn at all. As to the smoke itself, well, one does not "puff" a pipe. A pipe is smoked slowly and carefully, maintaining an even burn and allowing the flavors to develop. It's more like sipping than gulping. When done properly, the reward is (assuming a quality tobacco and pipe) a complex, flavorful smoke that puts the finest cigar to shame (imho).

I think the reason that I gravitate towards pipes is perhaps the same reason that they've fallen out of favor. As I said before, one does not simply light up. Smoking a pipe means to slow down, to take care, to pause. This is why I favor it when I am in need of contemplation. Lighting my pipe is a sort of centering process for me, an opportunity to deliberately slow my pace. Smoking it is a sort of metronome, so to speak. It is something that keeps my mind from racing ahead of itself, allowing me to pause to listen and reflect. Some of my best writing comes out of these times, as well as my best prayer.

Brand Name Jesus™

I remember in the mid-nineties the short-lived fad of Magic Eye images - posters that presented a pseudo-3D image if you'd stare at it long enough in the right way. It was fascinating just watching people try to get the images to work. They'd stare and stare at this jumbled morass of pixels trying to bring the image into focus. When it happened, when someone "got" the image hidden in the picture, it was quite apparent. You'd watch the confusion and frustration transform into this sense of amusement and a slight puzzlement of why it was so difficult to see in the first place. It was as if they'd discovered oil in their backyard or at least a twenty hidden in a pocket of their newly washed jeans.

I think that if you're a Christian for any length of time and you're at all serious about the gospel stories, about what Jesus said and did in life as well as death, about the way in which he talked to people and loved them and honored them, then I think a time comes in your journey when you start to realize that you've been staring at the image for a long time but not quite seeing the picture. What I mean by this is that we come to Jesus with a perspective that we've inherited, particularly those of us in western Christian contexts, about who he was and what he was all about. And, sure, we think Jesus was radical and that he made the religious people very angry and, if we're feeling especially pious, we'll admit that yes, we too probably would have been somewhat irritated with him. After all, he did spend time with some unsavory characters and he made a big mess of all those nice tables in the temple, and nobody likes a grouch. And in the process we manage to read right past what Jesus was really all about and why the religious leaders really did have to kill him. I think we miss the reasons behind his death, and as a result, we allow something far more insidious to happen to him, participate in it enthusiastically in fact, something that is the worst fate that can befall a prophet.

Prophet I say, and mean in the Old Testament sense, for that is what he was. Today when we think of a prophet we either think of some neo-Pentecostal travelling preacher or some mangy-haired, wild-eyed, bug-eating freak of a man who speaks in riddles and occasionally drools. But to be a prophet is first and foremost to be a person of imagination. It means to be able to imagine past The Way Things Are to see, just a hint perhaps, of how they might be if only we were to follow God for just a bit. Imagination is a dangerous thing, perhaps the most dangerous thing of all to those whose positions, whose lives are built on the structures that are dependent on The Way Things Are. Brueggemann calls this the "royal consciousness," others refer to it as the establishment, The Man, or Microsoft, depending on your particular context. The problem with imagination is that it involves hope, and hope requires one to believe that things are not all fine at this present moment, which is exactly what one cannot believe and remain content with The Way Things Are.

So, if one wants to silence a prophet, how does one go about doing so? For a long time, it seemed that the prevailing method was to simply kill the imaginative one. The problem with this approach is that too often the ideas of the prophet didn't seem to stop with his or her death - they had a disconcerting way of continuing on. So the truly ingenious person who wanted to silence a prophet would not do so by killing him or her - rather, coopt the message. Make it work for you. Turn it into a brand, and sell it on every streetcorner. Prophets are silenced, not through death, but through assimilation.

And this is what we have managed to do with Jesus, I think. Jesus has ceased to be the prophet who calls us to imagine greatly with him what the Kingdom of God might look like if it were unleashed in our lives. Instead, we've fashioned a new Jesus™, one who just wants to live in our hearts and not in our neighborhoods, one who is content with being accepted instead of being followed. It's hard to tell, really, whether we've created Jesus™ in our image or recreated ourselves in his, or perhaps some bizarre mix of the two. But the reality is that the end of this path is a faith that cannot challenge us to sell all that we have and give to the poor, to love our enemies, or to take up our crosses (unless they are gold-plated and coordinate nicely with our watch). We cannot imagine past The Way Things Are; in fact, the dirty truth is that too often we are the ones whose lives depend on maintaining the status quo, the ones who need to have prophets silenced because of the nagging voice of hope that intrudes on our consciences.

But every now and again, someone gets it. Someone stares at the picture long enough to realize that there is something else lurking in the blurred pixels. You can see it in their eyes, in the slight tilting of the head, in the puzzlement that turns to amazement as the image begins to clear and something surprising emerges. And, if you're like me, you begin to wonder why you didn't see it there before...

Brothers Gotta Hug

I had all these nice thoughts collected about McLaren's book that I wanted to talk about, and I even tipped my hand with yesterday's brief thoughts. (And I'm most certainly coming back to it; this is only a brief diversion.) I made the bad decision of taking a brief spin around the blogosphere before typing up my thoughts, and now they're gone. To be more precise, they've been pushed aside by other bothersome things. I suppose to let you into my brain, I need to first take a step back and tell a bit more of my story. Some of this I don't know if I've ever confessed publically before, so this is a big deal for me (inadvertent Finding Nemo quote notwithstanding). Here goes:

I am a recovering fundamentalist.

Ok, that was good. I feel much better now, having that out in the open. It's true, though - I grew up with a brand of Christianity that would make Falwell proud. It was an odd sort of fundamentalism, though - some bizarre mix of hyper-conservative politics, literal biblical interpretation, Bill Bright's patented evangelistic methods, and Pentecostalism. It's a wonder I'm sane, really. But undergirding it all was the sense that I was so damn right about everything, that everyone else was destined for the flames of hell because they didn't think like me or vote like me or act like me.

I was a complete jerk, I think. It's a wonder that I had any friends.

The fortunate thing about my story is that my brand of faith didn't survive contact with reality. It's easy to be angry about gay people until you meet someone who is gay and learn that you respect him, for example. My perspectives, as anyone who drops by here with any regularity can probably attest, have undergone a radical revision. It saved my faith, I think. To come to the point where I could begin to picture a God who isn't always angry was huge, the sort of step that makes you want to break out the fine cigars or the imported beer or something.

So I suppose it frustrates me a bit to read people who say that people who think in the same direction that I do are bad for the gospel, that we distort the truth and are at best heretical and at worst collaborators with the Enemy. And here is where I must be most cautious - it's at these times that the seduction of fundamentalism begins to rear its ugly head. I most certainly do not want to fall into a neo-fundamentalism, doggedly defending my limited perspective on limited perspectives and angrily bashing angry bashers. But like an addict, I keep mentally coming back to the same place - I'm right and you're wrong, so shut up and listen to me!

Is it too much to hope that those who follow Jesus - myself first and foremost - could learn to live and love and forgive and fight like Him? What would it take to find common ground, so that we could stop questioning each other's commitment to Christ and start speaking truth in love?

Make-Believe and Fairy Tales

I have to be honest - I have a love-hate affair with the Bible. Even the word sounds trite to me, like something that I should have left in my childhood along with action figures and lollipops and little league. To read the Bible and take it seriously puts you in the same group as television preachers, arrogant politicians, and other generally angry, somewhat crazy people. I mean, does anybody actually believe this stuff? All this about talking donkeys, giant slayers, worldwide floods, man-eating fish, and lunch for thousands? That's how I feel about it in my more honest moments, and I wager that I'm not alone.

It's sad what we've done to the Bible, really. We've turned it into make-believe and fairy tales, and spend the rest of our lives trying to convince ourselves that it's true. I sometimes wonder if the ones who shout the loudest are the ones who, deep down, are the most unsettled about the whole affair, as though their very faith depends on some teetering tower of Jenga blocks, ready to topple with one ill-timed movement. I'm not sure why this is, really - why it is that we reduce this incredible story to little more than children's fare, although it must be said that the children more often than not show the greater wisdom in their astonishment. For amazing it is and remains so in spite of all our efforts to reduce it to something smaller and more manageable, something that fits the target market and makes nice slogans and bumper stickers and t-shirts. After all, if it isn't on a t-shirt, it's probably not real.

I think when you start to get the story of scripture, when the Bible starts to become real for you, you get the sense that this is not at all the stuff of kid's stories. It's dark and gritty, like something that should be put on the top shelf to keep away from little eyes. It is quite possibly the most realistic piece of literature that I have ever read, at least in the sense of naming who we are and what we have become. The tragedy is at times almost too much to bear, the descent from grand design and noble purpose into corruption and death. But at the same time it holds out this impossible hope that never seems to fail, even when the story reaches its darkest points - the darkness cannot triumph.

And this, after all, is the point. The Bible would be the most hated book on earth if it were not for the impossible hope that it holds, because it is the one book that names evil truly, giving it the name of every person who has ever lived. And yet, in spite of this, it never forgets our discarded nobility, and when the story seems most dark, the very One who gave life to all things comes to do so again at the cost of his own life, only to prove that hope is not after all impossible, merely improbable, which is what he seems to do best.

Perhaps if we were to quit trying to prove that scripture is true, and instead began to live as if it were, the arguments would go away. Or more probably, they would continue, only with more credibility and less anger. Perhaps if we found the wonder and amazement that are required to trust in this improbable hope caught in this impossible story, we would begin to understand that the arguments aren't really the point anyway. Instead, we would know that the point is to come to know the Storyteller, to follow Him and to be caught up in the story that He continues to tell, to weave our tales with His and to come to the place where we can tell our stories as a part of the larger epic. I think that when this begins to happen to us, when the Bible begins to come true for us, everything else begins to change as well - and we begin to ask why we never saw things this way before.

One Step

Raining again, he thought absently. He sat by the window and stared out at the monochrome landscape, at the people who drifted idly by on the streets below like absentminded ghosts losing themselves in the mist. Blue smoke from his pipe rose lazily around his head. He liked a pipe for thinking; although he had a reputation (admittedly well-earned) for brazen, impulsive action, he was quite deliberate about thinking. There was a ritual to a pipe that suited him. One doesn't simply light up; there are preparations to be made and not rushed. Packing, tamping, lighting, and smoking all had a rhythm that forced him to slow down. To take care, as I do when I think, he reflected.

This was a day that called for thought. The others sat around singly or in groups of two and three, mostly quiet as well. It seemed hard to believe that only a week ago they had arrived in town, greeted by the throng waving signs and placards calling for upheaval and revolution. He chuckled in spite of himself - they had been expected to arrive in a motorcade suitable for a visiting head of state. Instead, the sight of a line of Harleys riding up the interstate must have taken not a few by surprise. He did like to shake things up, keep 'em guessing. Power brokers do not ride Harleys, apparently.

Things changed rapidly, however. Is there anyone he hadn't pissed off before he was done? The midnight arrest, the sham trial, the hasty execution, and the public's support for it all - It's amazing what can be done in the name of "national security," he thought bitterly. The rest, of course, had scattered. He had paced the halls of the courthouse until a reporter cornered him, hoping to get an "exclusive". She certainly got that, and more. I haven't used language like that in years. At least I'm not likely to be quoted. He pushed the thoughts away before they could overwhelm him with disgrace and shame.

And then...things started to get interesting. The body had somehow gone missing, and word somehow got out. Two of their number had a bizarre encounter with a familiar stranger, and returned bearing impossible news. And then, as they met together last evening, something more strange and wondrous by far had happened. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd say we were all crazy. Somehow, in the middle of dinner, He had appeared in this very room, talked with them and ate with them, and then, just as suddenly, He was gone. The stories were true, and I still can't get my head around it. This changes everything.

They had talked far into the night, wondering what came next. They hadn't actually come to many conclusions; He hadn't been all that specific. One thing at least they needed to do - He had promised to meet them in a few days' time back home. Perhaps they would have some answers then.

James' voice broke the silence. "You know, maybe we should try to get in with the Sadducees..." The thought hung there in the silence, until someone started to chuckle. Then, as though a dam had burst, laughter came pouring out of them, joy and mirth that they hadn't felt in what seemed like ages. Peter joined in, his low chuckle mingling with the others' in a wholesome, cleansing way. No, that won't do at all, he thought wryly. But at least we know the next step. One step is not a journey, but it is a beginning...

EDIT: Credit where credit is due, and a nod to Jeff for the image of Jesus on a Harley.

This Thing We Do

Theology is a strange animal. It appears to have a bit of genus confusion, particularly as popularly practiced and understood in my context, that of the American suburban church with its usual ties to seminary and denomination. I think the confusion results from its attempts to masquerade as a science. Even the name, with its serious and professional-sounding "-ology" suffix, lends credence to this misnomer. The theology that I am familiar with too often looks like a monkey who thinks he's a dolphin, a beast out of its natural habitat who has mananged to convince itself that it belongs but who cannot comprehend its difficulty in adapting to its environment.

When I graduated from college in 1996, I marched down the aisle and received a rather fancy certificate, clean and white and very official-looking, like something telling me I had won a million dollars or a free magazine subscription. As is typical for one who has paid his dues, I hung my million-dollar certificate on my wall in my office, never bothering to consider the irony of what it conveyed - the title of Bachelor of Science in Bible. I often wonder now what Bacon would think of my title, whether he'd be impressed with how far his method has come so as to include even the deity, or whether he'd merely shake his head in incomprehension, wondering how these people had confused observation, experiment, and hypothesis with story, art, and faith.

The problem, I think, with understanding theology as science is that the tools of scientific inquiry do odd, and sometimes bad, things to our search for meaning (which I believe lies at the heart of most theology). Think, for example, about the way in which we approach scripture - we dissect it, cutting it up into the smallest components possible, so that we can describe its systems and connections. Unfortunately, dissection usually involves killing the dissectee. Something irreplacable is lost in the process. In attempting to reduce scripture to its component parts, we have robbed it of the life and beauty and grace that it rightly possesses.

What if we approached theology more as caretakers of the stories of our people and less as scientific authorities? What if we became excited about the grand story of God and attempted to simply live within and articulate that story? What if our theologians became artists and poets and bards rather than scientists and technicians? What if the tools of the trade were not just reason, but also imagination, not just systems, but also stories, not just inquiry, but also mystery?

What if, indeed.