The End is the Beginning: A People of Vocation

Previous posts in this series can be found here, here, here, and here.

God calls Abram in Genesis 12 and inaugurates a new era in history. Much ink has been spilled on this particular topic, but permit me to add my own small take: the call of Abram isn't something to be read in isolation from the previous 11 chapters, but rather as a continuation of them. In other words, God's call of Abram is a creational act, through and through - or, more specifically, perhaps we should call it an act of re-creation, a glimmer of the new amid the old.

What is really happening in the call of Abram is nothing less than God's reinstitution of his creation project that has become derailed. This is important, because what we need to recognize here is that God isn't about scrapping the mess and starting over. The creation project has become deeply and foundationally broken, but God remains committed to it, determined to see it to his desired end. And he intends to do this, not by starting a new thing as over against the old, but rather by bringing the new right smack-dab in the middle of the old, so that in the end the old will be subsumed in the new. Some time later, one of Abram's descendants will describe this sort of activity in terms of yeast and mustard seeds - but we're not there yet. In fact, this is a puzzling bit of news, as Abram is an old man without children.

The themes of creation are rich in the Abram narrative, if we know how to look for them. Perhaps the most significant is the theme of giving fullness to that which is empty - God fills the void of creation in Genesis 1, and God fills a similar void in Abram and Sarai's life by providing a child. This leads to a twofold promise in relation to the land - Abram's descendants will rule it and fill it, a microcosm of the vocational call of the image of God granted to the man and woman in Genesis 1. New creation begins here, with the institution of the people of Israel and the assignment of a vocation to them. We significantly misstate the point of Genesis 1-11 when we read it to discover how God went about the task of creation. This has little to do with creation in a general sense. Genesis 1-11 is included in our text specifically to tell us who the people of God are and what their task is to be. Genesis 1 is about Abram more than it is about Adam.

And yet, we are left with Adam's legacy - remember the statement in Genesis 5? Adam had a son in his image. Abram is as much a child of Adam as he is a child of God - the fundamental flaw that has endangered the creation project to this point in the narrative has yet to be resolved. The rest of the Old Testament is about the conflict between these two realities, image and curse - and at the end of the narrative, we find that Abram's descendants are cast from the land in an event that is strangely reminiscent of another exiling, long before, in a garden somewhere in the same neighborhood.

The End is the Beginning: Frustration of Vocation

Previous posts in this series can be found here, here, and here.

When I last picked up this topic, I described my understanding of the image of God in humanity as a vocation to which we are called, specifically that of furthering and completing the creation project begun by God in Genesis 1 by ordering and filling the earth. I also described my understanding of the curse as the distortion of that vocation, reflected in the aspects of the curse that were given to the man and the woman - the man was cursed with enmity between him and the earth, frustrating the task of ordering creation, while the woman was cursed with hardship in childbirth, frustrating the task of filling creation. Further, the man and the woman were set at odds with each other, with man dominating the woman instead of reflecting the joint image-bearing task that was given them in Genesis 1.

Image, you see, is a communal task. It isn't something that you bear and that I bear, but rather something that we, together, bear as we participate with God in his creation project. Or, put differently, you and I are each created in the image of God - but we reflect that image as a whole, as a people, as a community. That is, I think, the lesson of Genesis 1. In contrast to the kings of Babylon and Egypt who were said to be the image of the gods, the Hebrew scriptures describe it as something that we all share and that is distorted when we do not recognize it in one another.

This, however, is exactly what happens in Genesis 4-11. We see humanity caught between image and curse, attempting to order and fill the earth yet harming, enslaving, and killing one another. This is a difficult set of chapters for us to read because the events described clash significantly with our modern sensibilities - and for good reason! They describe what happens when the image of God is frustrated and the divine task is abandoned. The flood story is one of the most troubling texts in the whole of the Christian canon, if we will be honest. But I think what the narrative is meant to portray is the intensity with which God will guard his creation project. I think that what we take away from such a story is that the project is in serious jeopardy. Regardless of how one approaches the question of the sovereignty of God, what is in my view undeniable is that in the narrative God is forced to take drastic action - that's what the logic of the story tells us. Things are devolving quickly.

I think it fascinating that this particular section ends where it does, with the narrative of Babel. It's an odd sort of tale that doesn't strike many chords with contemporary readers - but I think it's a powerful climax that drives home the question of how God will respond. Middleton writes in The Liberating Image that what God is opposing in this story is a sort of proto-Babylonian empire that subjugates other peoples and conscripts them into massive imperial building projects. In his view, the single language of the story isn't some idyllic time when everyone spoke the same language - in fact, chapter 10 describes the various people-groups as developing their own languages as a natural progression of their spreading out and filling the earth. However, it was common for a conquering nation to impose its own language on conquered peoples to facilitate their labor. What the narrative of Genesis 11 represents, then, is the actions of an empire whose intention is to "make a name" for itself in opposition to the purposes of God. It will accomplish this task through oppression and conquest, using means such as forced labor and imposition of a common language to unite the conquered peoples for massive building projects. God's intervention in this project results in the cessation of building, the return to many languages, and the dispersion of people across the land - in short, the return to God's purposes for humanity.

God intervenes numerous times in the first eleven chapters of the story to protect his creation project - but he is about to move in a whole new way. Next, we'll look at Abram's call from the perspective of the divine vocation and the imago dei.

Technorati Tags: narrative, new creation

The End is the Beginning: Distortion of Vocation

If it is fair to connect vocation with creational intent, as I discussed in my previous post, then I think it also makes sense to look at Genesis 3 from the same vantage point. Genesis 3 is a fascinating chapter in the Christian scriptures, not least because of how little it really tells us. Read the chapter carefully, and you might catch that a lot of what is commonly assumed to be going on in the chapter is in fact an interpretive veneer that we lay over the actual text. Take, for example, the identity of the serpent - I've only once heard it postulated that the serpent could represent something or someone other than a personal malevolent entity known as Satan, and yet nowhere in the entire canon is that connection made. That doesn't necessarily make it a bad reading - but it isn't in the text. It has to come from somewhere else.

Likewise, we often assume a set of meanings in relation to the curse. Most of these meanings are based on later elements in the story, or even on popular theologies that are somehow read back into the text. For example, it's common in evangelical theology to speak of the curse as "separation" from God. But again, that's not in the text, or at least it's not described in terms of curse. The man and the woman are expelled from the garden, implying separation. But that's not the curse. That happens later, so that the problem will not be compounded by the man and woman continuing to eat from the tree of life and thus living forever in their cursed state. (Go ahead, read it - I'll wait. ;) The curse is all about vocation in Genesis 3.

Flip back a few pages to the end of Genesis 1. The man and woman have been given their divine task - to jointly image God and to participate in the creation project by ruling and filling the Earth. This is exactly what is twisted in Genesis 3. The divine vocation that was given to humanity is now frustrated; the creation project is in jeopardy. The curse on the man is mirrored by a curse on the ground - instead of ruling and subduing the earth, the man will now have to fight and struggle with the earth just to be able to eat. The curse on the woman is likewise reflective of the divine task - instead of filling the earth, childbirth will now be painful and costly. And, instead of jointly imaging God, the man will exercise authority over the woman, another corruption of the creational intent. Finally, in the end, both will die, returning to the dust from which they have been made, in what seems the final triumph of "uncreation".

We stand now at the point of driving conflict in the scriptural narrative. On the one hand, God holds forth his creation project, in which humanity is to serve as his chief representatives. On the other, humanity has rejected our own vocation and set ourselves in opposition to God's purposes, rather than in cooperation with them. This conflict echoes through the rest of the narrative. Every movement in the story from this point will be a move towards one of these two poles. And God now has a new task in the narrative - how will he rescue his creation project from those who have screwed it up so badly? And what will become of these humans, who were to serve in a pivotal role in that project?

Technorati Tags: narrative, new creation

The End is the Beginning: Purity of Vocation

Vocation might seem like an odd connection to make when talking about (towards?) New Creation. It might seem even more so in relation to Genesis 1 - but that's where I want to begin. I'm going to sketch out a rough outline, starting here, and hopefully pull some themes to the fore that I think are largely ignored in contemporary western Christianity. As to what that will tell us about our place in the narrative - well, we shall see when we get there.

Those of you who (like me) grew up in or are currently a part of churches that lean towards the conservafundagelical will no doubt recognize the take on Genesis 1 that looks at the narrative as a description of how God created the world. There are different ways of navigating that, of course - literal six-day view or theistic evolution or days represent ages or whatever - but the perspective boils down to the understanding of the text as basically answering the question how. I've come to believe that there is really very little of that question in play at all in Genesis 1, and the parts that do talk about how aren't saying at all what we've come to believe. I think that Genesis 1 is basically talking about two themes: vocation and power. And those themes, I think, are intertwined, so that the questions that the text is answering focus on things like: who are we? What is our role or task in the world?

Those questions, you must understand, were also asked by others in the ancient world, others who had a particular motivation for having them answered in a particular way. When the text speaks of the image of God, it is using royal language - both the Babylonian and Egyptian empires used that language of their kings in connection with their right to rule. The logic goes something like this: You were created to serve the gods. The king is the living representative (image) of those gods. Therefore, whatever service you owe to the gods is due the king as their representative. So get back to work!

Genesis 1 is a text that, I believe, contains a powerful polemic against such language. God is portrayed, not as a harsh taskmaster, but as a gracious deity who invites Creation to "Be!" Humanity, both male and female, is portrayed as being created in His image - as His divine representatives on earth. All of us. We are tasked with a divine vocation - to finish the Creation project by ordering and filling the earth, taking up where God left off. I've written more extensively on this here; I owe much of my current understanding to Richard Middleton's excellent book The Liberating Image.

The point here is that, if New Creation represents the reinvigoration and reestablishment of God's original creational intent, then we have to recognize that this wasn't a country club existence, hanging out by the pool and getting free lunch. This was an invitation to service and work, to participate in the act of creation itself! It was an opportunity to become a partner with God by representing Him in the created world. And it was not an invitation to choose to exercise power over one another, but rather to partner with one another as well as with God.

Whatever New Creation will be, I have to believe that it will reflect this picture: an existence of active service, cooperation, and partnership with God and each other, bringing His creational intent into being.

Technorati Tags: imago dei, narrative, new creation, image

The End is the Beginning

I'm struck by several things that I think are related in American Christianity: first, we have no real theology of hope, and in fact we barely can speak in the language of hope; second, we have no real theology of vocation, and we struggle with a sort of neo-Platonic dualism that separates the physical and spiritual; and third, our soteriology is oriented towards escape, and is often little more than a description of what we are saved from, instead of being an articulation of that to which we are called. And I think that these particular struggles of ours are rooted in a particular way of understanding eternity, an understanding that at the end of the age we will be rescued to an atemporal, spiritual existence where we will live in eternal bliss, a sort of uber-retirement of leisure and rest, if you will.

The more that I think about this, the more that I believe "retirement" is exactly how a lot of folks picture what eternity is supposed to be about. In other words, I've worked my tail off, thank you very much, so now I get to kick back, play golf, and enjoy ten percent off at Denny's. And, since it's heaven, there will probably be a bit of singing involved or some such. But this is really a fairly bizarre sort of notion, and profoundly unbiblical - the closest that we come to something like this is the concept of the Sabbath-rest of God, which has absolutely nothing to do with leisure or relaxation. In fact, the scriptures present a picture of a God who is always at work, always participating in the world and taking delight in what he has made. The scriptures begin with a picture of God at work, doing the stuff of creation and finding great joy in the task. The scriptures likewise end with a picture of a God who is still at work, reigning in the great City over the New Creation, from which the river and the tree of life bring healing to the nations. And there is a very strong sense that this is a vibrant and active city, where kings and nations come and go freely, doing whatever it is that a hand unburdened by the curse will find to do.

What we see, then, in the end is what we find at the beginning: God is about the task of creation, ordering and filling the earth, and his representatives are about this same task, working alongside to bring his vision to life. All of the stuff in the middle, the stuff of this present age in which you and I find ourselves, is about how that task became frustrated and about how we abandoned our divine vocation, choosing instead to craft our own smaller stories and to forge our own meaning and purpose in defiance of the one that had been granted us. All of God's movements of redemption are about reclaiming that initial purpose, about restoring all things so that they are once again very good, in the sense that they reflect exactly what it is that God had in mind when he made them. The end is the beginning, in the sense that it is original intent reclaimed and restored. And so, to understand the end, we must begin at the beginning.

Technorati Tags: narrative, new creation

Why Narrative Theology Matters

I mentioned earlier that I've been working a bit on a side project involving narrative theology. On a mostly unrelated note, I've also been listening to a few of NT Wright's recent lectures, which have been absolutely fantastic (not that this should come as any great surprise). These have meshed well with some of my recent rantings, in particular those related to the idea of New Creation. This idea, this theme that unfolds marvelously in the scriptures, unfortunately often gets shortchanged in western Christianity, heavily influenced by Platonic ideas of the duality of spirit and matter. As a result, this idea of New Creation tends to show up more often as the epilogue, instead of as a significant theme in its own right.

Put simply - I don't think it's possible to have a robust, biblical theology that doesn't incorporate this idea of New Creation. I don't think that we can talk about sin, or about atonement, or about ecclesiology, or about justice, or about discipleship, or about leadership and service, or about, well, pretty much anything that's worth talking about from a theological standpoint without somehow connecting to the idea of New Creation.

Here is where I find that a narrative approach to scripture comes into its own: I find that this theme (among others) works much better if it's seen as just that - a theme - rather than as a doctrine. As a doctrine, we can catalog all of the passages that reference it, construct some general statements about it, and perhaps find some connecting points with other doctrines. Please don't misunderstand - I'm not knocking doctrine. It serves a specific and vital function, and I would never want to discard it. But constructing doctrines out of things, in the sense of saying what we do or don't believe about the New Creation (or other themes), isn't always the most beneficial approach. A narrative approach sees instead the New Creation as the climax of the story. It is the telos, or end, towards which the narrative progresses. In other words, we see the echoes of New Creation all over the scriptures - it is the focal point that brings the rest of the story into clarity. But it doesn't function like that for us, for those of us who have grown up in a tradition influenced by Enlightenment's neo-Platonic categories. It isn't the driving force behind our theology; it isn't the climax of the narrative; in many cases, it's simply absent, replaced by either some goofy sense of human progress or a disturbing sense of immanent doom and destruction.

Over the next few posts, I want to explore what it might mean to allow our theologies to embrace a robust understanding of and hope for the New Creation. I think that it may provide resources for us to imagine in new ways what it might mean to be the people of God - and provide a new approach for a way-of-being in the world.

Technorati Tags: narrative, new creation

Who's Driving the Bus: Narrative vs Systematic Theology

I'm working on a little side project at the moment that deals with narrative theology. Narrative theology is an approach that has received increasing attention in recent years; you'll likely see the term floating around in emerging church or postevangelical conversations, and it's gaining traction in other spheres as well. In a formal sense, my understanding is that it's connected to the postliberal theologians (Frei in particular), although I'm not all that knowledgeable about that particular school. In a popular sense, it's usually used to refer to an approach that attempts to take seriously the biblical narrative as a theological statement in and of itself - in other words, the form of the text matters a great deal to what the text is trying to say. It's often placed in contrast to systematic theology, which is in essence the attempt to summarize the message of the biblical text on a number of subjects, things like the nature of God, the nature of humanity, and the nature of scripture.

So I've been thinking about what it is that makes narrative and systematic theology different. I've read some critiques of systematic theology that I find just naive, especially in that they are often paired with an elevation of narrative theology. But on some level both approaches share a lot in common. Both are attempts to say in some kind of summary form what the text says at length. Narrative theology - and I'm referring to the popular approach as opposed to any specific work by the postliberal theologians - must take the text and condense and summarize it if it wants to say anything about what the text means. This task is typically driven by what is perceived as the "themes" of the narrative. So, for example, a narrative approach would probably describe the primary themes of scripture as something like Creation, Fall, Redemption, and New Creation. And, if you're paying attention, you can see those themes repeated and reinforced and echoed and fulfilled through the larger narrative - they form a framework through which we can understand what the text means. And those themes can be broken down further - you can speak of election, or of atonement, or of the church, or of the mission of Christ as themes that weave in and out of the larger theme of redemption, for example. And I'd say that an approach that takes those things seriously and uses them to illuminate the meaning of the text is an approach that's doing justice to scripture.

But wait - isn't this starting to sound suspiciously like a systematic theology? After all, systematic theology also breaks down scripture into its components and then organizes and summarizes its findings. Isn't that the same thing that I've just described? I'd like to suggest that there is one significant difference in particular that shapes how I think about the two approaches: it's what drives the organization of the framework. Systematic theology begins with a framework already in place, and then mines the scriptures to fill in the predetermined structure. In other words, a typical systematic theology text will begin with the doctrine of God, and then go to the text to try to fill in the blanks or answer the questions that the framework has posed about God. And then that leads naturally to the doctrine of Christ, so we go back to the text to fill in the blanks for our new set of questions that the framework has naturally posed. And so on. The framework drives the exegesis. Narrative theology, however, begins with the text. The text begins, not with the doctrine of God, but with the story of Creation - so narrative theology, likewise, begins with creation. It's interesting that we don't really get to see what this God is like until about Genesis 12 or so, when we start to see God and Abraham interact. And it's not until Exodus that we even know how to refer to this God - until then, we don't even have a way to talk about him, except to call upon the experiences of our forebears. The one who is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob doesn't even reveal himself as Yahweh until the story is well underway. And that revelation is as much a concealing as a revealing - it would be hard to construct a doctrine around "I am that I am." (And perhaps there is a lesson in that...)

The point, then, is that narrative theology attempts to allow the text itself to set the agenda. It tries to let the text drive, not just the answers, but also the questions. That isn't to say that systematic theology is bad - sometimes, there is a need to ask the questions of our context, and to then search the text for what answers it may hold. It is, rather to say that both approaches need each other, because they both bring something different to our understanding of the scriptures.

Technorati Tags: narrative, scripture, theology

A Framework for Atonement Theology

I've been giving a fair amount of thought to atonement theology of late, and it occurred to me that it would be helpful to have some sort of framework to determine whether a particular theology of the atonement is a good theology or not. As I think through this, it seems to me that two criteria stand out in reading a particular theology of atonement: narrative coherence and ethical impulse. By the first, I mean this: a particular theology should fit well within the story as a whole, and should do justice to as much of the scriptural data as possible. A good theology will help to illuminate the narrative - and by this I'm thinking of the grand narrative that begins in Genesis and culminates in the new creation. It needs to take seriously the enormous effects of sin and brokenness that the scriptures relate, and it needs to be able to tell how the atonement resolves or otherwise deals with these effects. The second is closely integrated with the first - by ethical impulse, I mean that a particular theology of the atonement should enable/inspire/encourage/narrate a particular way-of-being in the world, so that one who follows Christ is given a way in which to follow. I say this because I assume that the Church is God's answer to the curse in the present age. This might seem a bit jarring at first, because I think many of us assume that the atonement is the entirety of God's response to sin. But I suggest that the outworking of the atonement is the creation of a community that will embody that atonement, living in a way that is no longer defined by the curse but is instead the life of the Spirit. To that end, a theology of the atonement must give that Spirit-life community a way-of-being, an ethic if you will, that says something about how we no longer function in that way, the way of the curse, but now live in this way, the way of the Spirit. A theology that does not provide this life-in-community impulse misses something integral to what it is that the atonement is to accomplish.

I think this framework illustrates why it is that we need multiple models to do justice to the atonement in terms of biblical theology. Thinking of two popular models, for example, I'm of the opinion that the moral example theory fails the first criteria, while penal substitution fails the second. That isn't to say that either of these models are bad, but rather that they are incomplete - they need other models to fill out the picture and provide a robust approach.

Technorati Tags: atonement

Random Thoughts on Atonement

I've spent the last several evenings with my computer dismantled as I attempt to bring the internal temperature down to an acceptable level. For some reason, the cpu temp keeps spiking, causing it to shut down - which, of course, makes for difficulty in blogging. Rearranging the internal fans and tweaking some settings on the motherboard has, I think, done the trick. I need to throw a better heat sink into the mix, but things seem to be functional for the moment.

In the interests of getting back into the groove of reflecting on the atonement, I wanted to post a few bits that I found recently that I think are quite helpful. First, N.T. Wright has published an absolutely fantastic article called The Cross and the Caricatures in which he takes on penal substitution in a balanced and nuanced manner. Some quotes:

The biblical doctrine of God's wrath is rooted in the doctrine of God as the good, wise and loving creator, who hates - yes, hates, and hates implacably - anything that spoils, defaces, distorts or damages his beautiful creation, and in particular anything that does that to his image-bearing creatures. If God does not hate racial prejudice, he is neither good nor loving. If God is not wrathful at child abuse, he is neither good nor loving. If God is not utterly determined to root out from his creation, in an act of proper wrath and judgment, the arrogance that allows people to exploit, bomb, bully and enslave one another, he is neither loving, nor good, nor wise. To trivialize - almost to domesticate! - this massive biblical doctrine, rooted as it is in the doctrines of God as creator and as the one who will restore his creation at the last (in other words, in the biblical sense, 'judge'), into a few anecdotal trivialities about God petulantly hurling thunderbolts around is hardly the way to begin a serious argument.

Underneath all this discussion is a deep concern which has emerged again in our own day, notably in the writings of the Yale theologian Miroslav Volf. In his magisterial Exclusion and Embrace (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994), he demonstrates, with sharp examples from his native Balkans, that it simply won't do, when faced with radical evil, to say, 'Oh well, don't worry, I will love you and forgive you anyway.' That (as the 1938 Doctrine Report already saw) is not forgiveness; it is belittling the evil that has been done. Genuine forgiveness must first 'exclude', argues Volf, before it can 'embrace'; it must name and shame the evil, and find an appropriate way of dealing with it, before reconciliation can happen.

There are large issues here of theological method and biblical content, all interacting with other large issues of contemporary hermeneutics: would I be totally wrong, for instance, to see some of the horrified reaction to Steve Chalke, and to some of the 'Emerging Church' reappropriation of the gospels, as a reaction, not so much against what is said about the atonement, but against the idea, which is powerfully present in the gospels, that God's kingdom is coming, with Jesus, 'on earth as in heaven', and that if this is so we must rethink several cherished assumptions within the western tradition as a whole? Might it not be the case that the marginalisation of the four gospels as serious theological documents within Western Christianity, not least modern evangelicalism, is a fear that if we took them seriously we might have to admit that Jesus of Nazareth has a claim on our political life as well as our spiritual life and 'eternal destiny'? And might there not be a fear, among those who are most shrill in their propagation of certain types of 'penal substitution', that there might be other types of the same doctrine which would integrate rather closely with the sense that on the cross God passed sentence on all the human powers and authorities that put Jesus there?

And speaking of Volf, from his absolutely excellent book The End of Memory:

If we view Christ on the cross as a third party being punished for the sins of transgressors, we have widely missed the mark. For unlike a financial debt, moral liability is nontransferrable. But Christ is not a third party. On account of his divinity, Christ is one with God, to whom the "debt" is owed. It is therefore God who through Christ's debt shoulders the burden of our transgressions against God and frees us from just retribution. But since on account of Christ's humanity he is also one with us, the debtors, it is we who die in Christ and are thus freed from guilt. Christ's oneness with both creditor and debtors leaves only two categories of "actors" and thus negates the notion of his involvement as a third party.

Volf's book is incredible - both challenging and encouraging. There is something deeply moving about his work; I think it's the eschatological vein that runs through it. I find it to be a source of hope in a way that more popular "eschatology" could never be. More to come on atonement - I want to pick up again the economic model that I've been discussing recently and see if we can't move towards something that's more holistic than perhaps other models.

Technorati Tags: atonement, N.T. Wright, Volf

An Economic Model of Atonement: Debt (p.1)

I want to offer just a few thoughts for the moment on how the metaphor of debt functions in what I'm calling an economic model of atonement. In my earlier post, I referred to debt as the controlling metaphor; by that I mean simply that debt is the way in which a person locates himself or herself in the narrative that the model presents. Debt, of course, is how the model speaks of sin. In a consumerist society such as the one in which I find myself, I think that debt offers a way to talk of sin in a way that resonates with the experience of the culture, while at the same time remaining deeply and sincerely biblical. But what I find compelling is that debt offers more than simply a resonance - it provides a means of speaking of sin in a way that avoids the spiritual / social dichotomy that one often finds in such discussions.

One way to get at the workings of this metaphor is to consider the way in which we in twenty first century western democracies think about justice, particularly as it relates to crimes and punishments. A punishment is just if it fits the crime; put another way, an offender accumulates a "debt" to society that is repaid through suffering some form of punishment. In some cases, this represents restitution or recompense for a wrong done; more often, it is retributive in the sense of causing hurt in like manner to the original act. We think of this in terms of making a person "pay" for what he or she has done. You can see, then, that the metaphor is already in play in the way that we speak of wrongs and justice.

We focus on this debt to a fault. We want to be just people - we want to be sure that wrongs are repaid but repaid fairly. And my suspicion is that what results from such a focus on debt is a society that is vengeful. We believe that we are owed recompense for wrongs that we have suffered, and we seek retribution as a result. Invariably, we hold such retribution as just; often, the other party may not agree that this is so, and thus holds himself or herself to be wronged in return with a right to retribution. Witness the lawsuit/countersuit dynamic that is in play in our society for the smallest of infractions - it is a cycle that is based on retribution, and that in a sense of vengeance. The end result is a system that thrives on retribution. It is, in this sense, an economy of vengeance, based on the perception of debt owed and taken.

This is what I mean when I speak of sin in an economic sense. It is, I hope, a way that offers some new resources for thinking about the subject, while at the same time remaining intuitive and familiar. Next, I want to think through how God factors into the description I've just presented, but first - thoughts so far? Does this resonate, or perhaps present some new avenues for thought?

Technorati Tags: atonement, economic model, theology

Toward an Economic Model of Atonement

One of the challenges that I think faces any model of atonement is finding a way to connect with the systems of meaning in a given culture. Substitution certainly runs into this difficulty, as does in my view Christus Victor. Even the model of example, arguably the least esoteric, can find itself on odd footing - without a trinitarian underpinning and the other models to support it, this model can degenerate rather quickly into, "Don't be mean," and when taken too far becomes, "Let other people be mean to you," becoming something with little power to shape our imagination and enable a Christian way-of-being in the world.

The challenge, to my mind, is that these models all trade in metaphors that are not dominant in our culture. Legal imagery and talk of the powers simply do not have the rhetorical currency that they might have in other contexts. This is a problem, to my way of thinking - metaphors function in the way that they do precisely because they are intuitive. If a metaphor has to be explained, then it is no longer functioning as a metaphor - it has become something else, something that obscures rather than reveals. And I'd argue that this is where we are with atonement. The metaphors have ceased to function as metaphors and now require their own explanations. Worse, we've stopped believing that these things are metaphors at all, and have begun to treat them as though they are the truth towards which they point.

James wrote something a while back that has been rolling around in my head for a few months. He has this to say:

I have suggested before that many folks in our western, democratic culture have a difficult time imagining language of "kingdom." The concepts of kings and kingdoms are as foreign to most of us as the concept of "priesthood" is to a Southern Baptist (but that is another topic for another time). Based on this assumption of mine, I have argued that if Christ told parables in our culture he would not speak of the Kingdom of Heaven. More likely, he would tell us stories of the Economics of Heaven. But my hunch is that if Christ did tell these stories we would not like them very much.

I've done some thinking on this before, but for some reason this particular post of his triggered something that I've been working on ever since. I'm becoming quite convinced that we can craft a new metaphor for atonement that will resonate in contemporary western contexts, while having a robust connection to the stories told by the people of God throughout history. It's a metaphor that already offers significant scriptural resources, although I confess that I've never seen it discussed in the way that I'm suggesting. And it has the advantage of integrating some of the strengths of the other models into what I think could be a more cohesive whole. The metaphor is, of course, economics - I'm suggesting that we begin to do as James suggests, and tell stories of the economy of God.

The basic framework as I'm currently envisioning functions around the controlling metaphor of debt. I think that we can envision sin as a type of debt, a debt that we owe to God, to the Other, and to the world/creation. The basis for this concept of debt lies in the idea of reparations or recompense. When a wrong is done to another, we are under obligation to make it right - we take on a debt to the other. The economy of sin relies on this debt to function. This debt, however, is not one that can ever be paid in full; the problem is that we continue to accumulate it, so that even as we make restitution for one offense, we have continued to offend, resulting in an ever-increasing debt. The problem is compounded by those who demand payment in full, even as they themselves live under the weight of their own obligation. And the one to whom the primary recompense is owed is, of course, God.

God, as creator of all, is owed restitution for wrongs done against all. In other words, because each offense is in some sense an offense against God's creation project, God assumes a stake in all offense and as such is a party to any restitution that is owed. But, just as the debt between and among humans continues to mount, the restitution that is owed God by humanity as a whole continues to grow. This is where the atonement takes its significance. God, instead of demanding payment in full, enters into the agreement as a witness for humanity. When God becomes human in the person of Christ, he assumes the debt that humanity owes him as a personal responsibility. The tragedy of the incarnation is that humanity continues to amass debt by offenses committed against Christ. In some sense, the death of Christ takes this debt to its fullest extent by maximizing the offense. Humanity rejects, humiliates, tortures, and murders one who was God come among us. No greater offense is possible - humanity has, in a sense, maxed out our account.

The miracle of the atonement is that God breaks the cycle of offense and recompense by canceling the debt that is owed, in effect closing the account. This is possible because God is now both debtor and creditor, and because no further offense is possible. God destroys the economy of sin and inaugurates the economy of the Kingdom, which is no longer based on offense/restitution/debt but is rather based on forgiveness/freedom/generosity. The invitation to enter the economy of the Kingdom is open to all and sundry - but one cannot operate in both economies at the same time, as the fundamentals are in opposition. For the cycle of reparations to be broken, each one who enters the economy of the Kingdom must also give up claim to any restitution that is owed him or her. In this way, through generosity and freedom, the economy of the Kingdom grows and the economy of sin is lessened.

And that is the general framework. I think it's a valid model, and I think that it has the advantage of utilizing a metaphor that is already in place in scripture. Economic language is all over the place in the text and is often connected to this idea of a debt that is owed God or the Other. And I think the model offers significant resources for both deep reflection and deep practice - I think that it can avoid some of the spiritual/physical dichotomy issues that sometimes one encounters in other models. More on that shortly. But what do you think - does this resonate? Is there something here worth investigating?

Technorati Tags: atonement, economic model, theology

The Trouble with Substitution, or It's Only a Model (p.4)

I think this is going to be my last post on this - I actually hadn't intended to carry on this long, but I keep running into new problems as I think through these things. If you're just joining or if you need to see the standard I-don't-hate-substitution boilerplate, check out the first three here, here, and here.

I've been thinking about the resurrection of late - it's an appropriate time, I believe, to be doing so, and I've been contemplating how it shapes the way we view atonement. Or, perhaps put better, I've been trying to figure out why it doesn't play a bigger role in the way those of us who are from more evangelical traditions think about atonement. After all, as I mentioned previously, when Paul talked about what was "of first importance", he was speaking of the resurrection; he also states that "if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins." This seems to me a strong connection between resurrection and atonement. And some models, I think, do well with this. Substitution, however, is not one of them.

The resurrection simply does not play a large role in SA. And, as with the question of ethics, I think this is a weakness in the model itself and not only in the way that people frame it. Growing up in an evangelical tradition, I heard a lot about the resurrection. But I didn't hear about the resurrection in connection with atonement. The way the resurrection was framed seemed more about God cutting Jesus a break since he was a good kid than it seemed an important piece of the whole picture. The blood, the cross, death - these paid for my sins. Coming back to life was not discussed in this way. That was more about Jesus' proof that he was God or some such.

And there's the rub - if Christ's death is what accomplished redemption, then the resurrection is nothing more than a bonus. It does not have an integral part in the model; if it's included at all, it feels sort of bolted on, an afterthought that doesn't really contribute to the whole. When it is included, it's often framed in ways that borrow more from other models than ways that are integral to the whole. You can speak of Jesus' defeating the power of death, for example, and demonstrating that through his new life - but that's not really substitution. It's Christus Victor.

The problem is that Jesus can suffer wrath without experiencing resurrection - and suffering wrath is what SA is all about. Again, let me reiterate - that's not a bad thing. That's what SA does well; that's what it brings to the discussion. But when it's the only model, or even the central model, then we simply do not have a robust theology of resurrection. It's not necessary for the model to do what it does well. But that's precisely why it can't be the only or central motif. We need an invigorating theology of resurrection that speaks of new life, of new creation, of the death of death and the defeat of the powers. That is what resurrection is all about. It's the demonstration that Jesus has absorbed the worst that the powers can deliver and has come through unscathed. The powers are disarmed - they've done their worst and have failed. This is resurrection-talk. And those who are in Christ likewise share in his defeat of the powers. That is atonement viewed through the framework of the resurrection.

But it's not substitution. Substitution simply doesn't offer the resources to speak in such language. And that's not a bad thing, in one sense - it only becomes a problem when substitution takes over our way of viewing atonement. Substitution is a good model, when properly articulated. But it needs the other models to provide a full and rich picture of what atonement is all about.

Technorati Tags: atonement, substitution, resurrection, theology

The Trouble with Substitution, or It's Only a Model (p.3)

I should post my standard I-don't-hate-substitution boilerplate here, but I've said it enough already. If you need it, or if you're just joining, feel free to check out parts one and two.

Continuing our discussion of the issues with substitutionary atonement as it's commonly articulated, I want to touch on something I find to be a glaring weakness in the model that I think precludes our viewing it as the central metaphor for atonement in the NT. It's actually something of an irony in that I'm thinking about the way that the cross functions in the NT versus how it functions in many articulations of this particular model. And to be honest, at least in this particular instance, I think the weakness is inherent to the model itself, and not so much a problem only with its articulations. The irony? I think that many defenders of SA think that they're attempting precisely to do justice to the cross in how they view atonement.

The point is that, for the NT authors, the cross functions primarily as the center of the NT ethic. The cross is our example, and it is held up as such over and over and over. I've said this before, but I'll repost because I think it so vital to our understanding of both atonement and ethics. Yoder writes in his landmark work The Politics of Jesus:

As we noted before more briefly: there is no general concept of living like Jesus in the New Testament...His formation of a small circle of disciples whom he taught through months of close contact has been claimed as a model pastoral method; his teaching of parables has been made a model of graphic communication; there have been efforts to imitate his prayer life or his forty days in the desert: but not in the New Testament.

There is but one realm in which the concept of imitation holds - but there it holds in every strand of the New Testament literature and all the more strikingly by virtue of the absence of parallels in other realms. This is the point of the concrete social meaning of the cross in relation to enmity and power. Servanthood replaces dominion; forgiveness absorbs hostility. Thus - and only thus - are we bound by New Testament thought to "be like Jesus." (pp 130-131, emphasis added)

I don't want to focus on Christus Exemplar here; if you're interested in a brief treatment of that, I wrote a piece for this month's next wave on the topic. What I am concerned about here is that substitutionary atonement seems particularly challenged to grapple with this particular strand of the NT.

Here is, to my mind, the problem: the focus in SA is on what happened in the cross event. It is about a one-time, unrepeatable, divine act on our behalf. It's about God's actions in and through Christ, framed in a particular way that precludes our having anything to do with the event at all. It has to do with a spiritual and ontological perspective on sin and how to fix it. And - don't misread me - this is a good thing. It's what SA does well; it's why the model exists in the first place. But - and this is a huge issue - as a result, substitutionary atonement cannot offer itself as a model with anything to say about a NT ethic. The only thing it might contribute is the ontological sense that freedom from sin allows us to live in ways that are not sinful. But it cannot function as an example for us - as the NT unmistakably and repeatedly speaks of the cross - precisely because it is a divine, unrepeatable act. So, if SA is in fact the primary lens through which the NT views atonement, why the focus on the cross as ethic? It simply doesn't make sense. And, conversely, is it any wonder that a movement that has come to view SA as the primary metaphor struggles with this very ethic of imitation?

David Fitch recently posted some thoughts on evangelicals and justice. One of the things that he discussed was the connection (or lack thereof) between SA and justice in evangelical theology:

In regards to the penal view of the atonement, salvation is defined as accepting the pardon of God for my sin accomplished at the cross when Jesus, being my substitute, paid the penalty for my sin. This view of the atonement, some say, leads us often to making our salvation a legal transaction for self-possession. Participating in the righteousness of God, his reconciliation being worked out in the world through the victory on the cross becomes an after thought.

I think he's exactly right here. Make no mistake - theology matters. What we believe shapes who we are and how we carry ourselves in the world. And if we neglect developing a robust theology of atonement that in some way connects with ethics in a primary sense, not as an afterthought, is it any wonder that we find ourselves ineffectual at actually finding a Christian way-of-being in the world?

Technorati Tags: atonement, substitution, ethics, theology

The Trouble with Substitution, or It's Only a Model (p.2)

Continuing our discussion of the model of substitutionary atonement, I want to pick up on how the way this particular model is articulated frames the way that we think about God's character. Again, I want to affirm at the outset that I'm not out to tear down or otherwise discredit what I find to be a perfectly biblical model for thinking about the atonement. Rather, I'm interested in engaging with what I perceive to be a failure of articulation - that substitution as it is commonly articulated invites misunderstanding and critique. And nowhere is this more evident than in how substitution frames our understanding of the person and character of God.

I don't think it's unfair to say that what is distinctive about substitution is its emphasis on wrath. And that is a good thing, I think - something needs to be said about wrath, because scripture says a lot about it. The problem is that what scripture means by wrath may not translate well into our context. Or, put differently, we need to be cautious about how we talk about wrath, because so much in this model hinges on this one word. Scot McKnight posted on this subject a while back, and offered this definition:

Let's be clear: this is not about God being "pissed off" as is the case with Zeus and the Olympians up in Greece who got all huffy about their status and starting tossing thunderbolts into the plains of Troy; this is not about God's violence or God's arbitrariness. It is not God flying off with rage and anger. That misses the whole Creator and covenantal origins of God's grace...I make this proposal: wrath has to be seen in the context of God being a Jealous God (Exod 34:14), and it has to be seen in the context of relationship. God made us as his Eikons, he gave us a responsibility to "eikon" all over the place, but we chose to crack the Eikon and we can either live as cracked Eikons or we can return to God in his grace and find forgiveness, healing, and restoration. If we choose to live as cracked Eikons we will be choosing to live with God's Jealous wrath that is simultaneously a yearning for us to return and a diminishment of our Eikonic vocation.

The problem that we run into is that, in our context, wrath means exactly "pissed off" and has connotations of violence. When we don't nuance how we talk about what scripture means by wrath, we give the impression that God has an anger management problem. And, in truth, I don't know if we're always fully aware of the distinction; I've read a lot of folks who are perfectly content to speak of God as someone who is really angry at most people, angry in the "Hulk Smash!" sort of way.

And nowhere is this more evident than when we speak of the atonement. By starting with this mistaken assumption or presupposition, we contribute to the image that God was so pissed off at sin that he had to find someone upon whom to vent his rage. Only there wasn't anyone who could exhaust it - so he had to vent it on his own Son. Now that he's been appeased, we can all get back to the business of living. That is, until the End, when we'll have another go at it for those who haven't toed the line.

Please understand - I'm not saying that this is what substitution is all about. I'm saying that this is how it can be heard, because we aren't careful in how we speak. I'm saying that we need to speak more cautiously and more expressively. We need to ground this in love and justice, because that's where scripture heads when talking about this sort of thing.

Justice - now there's an interesting word for you. Justice is another element that is distinctive to this model; it's what the penal part of penal substitution is all about. And it is, unfortunately, another element where we haven't been so careful. The common articulation is this: God is just; justice demands payment for wrongs; Jesus satisfies justice by rendering payment on humanity's behalf. There are a number of problems with this schema, not least its definition of justice. In this argument, justice is defined in a legal sense, and in particular a western legal sense - it is about seeing that wrongs are punished and payment exacted. Something is just when the punishment fits the crime - hence the reasoning that an offense against an infinite God is an infinite offense. But this runs into two challenges - it's inherently self-contradictory when applied to the atonement, and I'm not convinced that it's trading in the right semantic sphere.

Self-contradictory is a strong word, but I use it consciously, for that is truly what I believe. Here is the problem: for justice to be what we believe it to be, then punishment cannot be arbitrary - it must fit the crime. And if justice is defined as appropriate punishment of wrongs, then the suffering of an innocent for the wrongs of another is not just. It is, rather, a profound injustice. How could God's justice be demonstrated by innocent suffering on our behalf? I don't believe that it can - not if what we mean by justice is what twenty-first century representative democracies mean by justice. So this articulation runs into a profound problem from the outset: what is supposed to be a way for God to maintain both his love and his justice instead becomes the means for an infinite injustice, when viewed from within its own framework.

This, of course, brings us to the second problem. I'm not certain that what scripture means by justice is what we commonly think when we use the word. Reflect for a minute on its common usage and perhaps you'll see what I mean. Justice is more than legal in the biblical sense. When we speak of justice for the poor in the biblical sense, we don't just mean that they'll get a fair shake in court - although we certainly don't mean less than that. What we mean is that they would find restoration and wholeness, in an economic and communal sense. To do justice isn't simply to punish wrongs; it is to work for the restoration of God's creational intent. Scot again offers a helpful definition:

Justice, as defined by the Bible, is determined not by what I want, or by my own freedom and rights, but by the will of God. What is "just" is what conforms to the will of God. Anything less is morally deficient and anything else is not Christian. Now, let us suggest...that the ultimate and final will of God is that humans love God and that humans love others.

But this presents yet another challenge to the way that substitution is commonly articulated. One gets the sense that God is caught in something of a conundrum: He can't leave sin unpunished, for that would be unjust; but to punish sin as justice demands would mean the ruin of his intent for creation. The atonement, then, is his answer for this divine dilemma. But the problem is that justice becomes the arbiter of what God can and cannot do. It takes on something of a controlling force - God is constrained by this entity called "justice", which he cannot violate. This places justice in the superior position - it places demands on God, rather than being an expression of God's character and creational intent. And this, to me, is profoundly disturbing.

The answer, of course, is again more nuance. We must be careful to speak of justice in the way that scripture does, and not the way that those of us from twenty-first century representative democracies have come to think of it. When we place these pieces in perspective, undergirded by a robust Trinitarian theology - then, I think, we begin to grasp what substitution in the biblical sense is about.

Technorati Tags: atonement, justice, substitution, theology

The Trouble with Substitution, or It's Only A Model (p.1)

This is the post that I've been dreading. Part of me thinks I'm nuts for wading into this particular arena; I'll confess to a bit of trepidation that I'm going to somehow get dogpiled by a bunch of crazed Calvinists. On the other hand, this subject presents so many opportunities for misunderstanding, and I really don't want to contribute to that. But I do think some things need to be said here on the subject of substitutionary atonement, so I'm going to dive in and hope that I can speak appropriately.

Let me begin by saying this: I think substitution is a fine model for thinking about the atonement, when properly understood and articulated. I think that it's true to the scriptures and I think that we abandon it at our peril. I think that a lot of the problems begin with sloppy tellings, with a lack of care to maintain some of the distinctives that make it true and beautiful. So think of this as perhaps an open letter to the defenders of substitution, from a friend who shares your concerns. I think the problems begin when we attempt to place it in a privileged position, when we say things like substitution is the central motif or some such. When we make that assumption, then the model begins to drive our exegesis instead of our exegesis driving our model, and that's always a bad setup. A case in point: I've seen numerous folks point to 1 Corinthians 15:3 to argue that substitution is at the center of the gospel:

For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures,

The argument goes something like this: "See, Paul said that it was of 'first importance' that Christ died for our sins. Therefore, substitution is the most important part of the gospel. Paul said so right here." The problem here is that we've already decided what it means that Christ died "for our sins", and we're assuming that meaning in the text. What isn't actually stated is that Christ died for our sins to appease God's wrath, which is the key part of substitution that differentiates it from other models. There are other models that talk of Christ dying for our sins, but that wouldn't use the motif of wrath to do so - Christus Victor is the first that comes to mind, although in truth I could probably argue that any model of atonement is attempting to explain what it means that Christ died "for our sins". So the verse only functions in the sense of defending substitution if substitution is already assumed as its referent - without that assumption, it simply refers to atonement without speaking to the more specific question of what atonement means. Which brings me to my second point - Paul's main point here isn't actually about atonement at all. Notice in the English translation that there's actually a comma hanging out at the end of that last clause, and you'll realize that there's more to be said here:

For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, and that he appeared to Peter, and then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred of the brothers at the same time, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all he appeared to me also, as to one abnormally born...But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead?

So Paul here isn't arguing about atonement at all - he's in fact arguing that the Resurrection was a real event witnessed by real people, and that his preaching testifies to something that really happened. What is of first importance? That Christ died, was buried, and rose on the third day - not a particular way of understanding what that means now in some metaphysical sense. When the model drives the exegesis, then the exegesis turns into something unhealthy - it can no longer speak truth to us, but only what we want to hear. And that's something we can all stand to remember in this particular area.

I was going to add some more thoughts, but I've said much more thus far than I had intended. But I think that's perhaps a good thing in this case. Next, I want to reflect on what substitution, when articulated poorly, says about God's character.

Technorati Tags: atonement, substitution

On Trinitarian Thought

One of the first classes that I had at Biblical was a theology course with John Franke. I have a lot of respect for John; Beyond Foundationalism is the book that brought me to Biblical in the first place, and when I was attempting to make a decision about transferring, he took the time to sit down over dinner to answer my questions and help me decide if it would be a good fit. And it was, on many levels - I owe a lot of who I am today to that dinner over four years ago. But I digress. One of the questions that he presented in this class has remained with me ever since - I drag it out from time to time to keep myself honest. The discussion was around the nature of doctrine; we were discussing, as I recall, what it is that makes one a Christian. The doctrine of the trinity surfaced fairly early in the discussion, and this is the point at which John asked, "What difference does belief in the trinity make in your life? If you didn't believe in the trinity, how would things be different?" Truth be told, we were hard pressed to answer.

Something as supposedly central to our faith as belief in the trinity should serve as more than a simple boundary marker for orthodoxy, shouldn't it? Shouldn't we be able to point to the ways in which we are different people as a result of telling the Story in this way rather than in some other? And, if we can't, does it really serve as the boundary marker that we believe it to be?

I've found it to be a haunting question, one that I've tried to allow to shape my thinking in a greater way since. And, in truth, once I became aware of the ways in which trinitarian theology didn't have a place in my thinking, I've become surprised at the ways in which that has changed. It isn't surprising to me that the earliest conflicts that the church faced centered on issues of Christology - and, more specifically, on trinitarian Christology, on what it meant for Jesus to say, "I and the Father are One."

I say all of this because I think it likely that many in similar contexts have similar experiences. The Trinity, for some reason that I find difficult to imagine, simply fails to capture our imagination or inform our faith in anything more than a cognitive sense. I think it likely that the doctrine for many of us is more a source of puzzlement than anything wondrous or, on the other hand, practical. But to me it has become the central motif of the New Testament. Put more plainly, I think the gospel is at the center of the NT, and the cross is at the center of the gospel, and the Trinity is at the center of the cross. And I think the gospel is at the center of Christian ethics - so there is for me a sense that, without the Trinity, Christian ethics simply do not function.

Let me say it this way - when thinking about the atonement, it is absolutely critical that we maintain the sense that God the Father and God the Son are not two distinct parties in the event, in the way that we would normally think about such things. It simply isn't possible to be faithful to the Story and think about God as one party pouring out wrath on the Son as a separate and distinct individual (to borrow from one model). There is a strong and necessary sense in which God is the suffering one, God is the one who receives wrath, God is the one who absorbs the violence, God is the one who is given as a ransom for many. The story of Christ is the story of a God who looked down on the suffering of his people and, to borrow from the Exodus story, has "come down to rescue them." This, contra others who may place one model or another at the center, is what is at the heart of the gospel - it is the story of the God Who Has Come Down.

Not only do I think this a better telling of the Story than some, I find it also to be full of resources for a truly Christian way-of-being in the world. This story of a self-giving God who sets aside his power and takes on the very nature of a servant is one that can be imitated and followed. We must be careful, then, to maintain that sense of identity between Father and Son, no matter what approach we take towards the atonement. To do otherwise is to tell the tale falsely; worse, it is to create something different and wrong, a bastardization of something true and beautiful and wondrous.

Technorati Tags: atonement, John Franke, Trinity

Thinking about Atonement

Ever had that feeling that you want to dive into a conversation, but you think you're going to end up making a mess of things? That's sort of where I am at the moment. I've been pondering the subject of atonement for a few weeks now, and I really think that I want to head in that direction. I have a number of half-formed ideas here that really need to be put down on paper (figuratively speaking) so that I can get my head around them - but I'm not really certain where to begin. The conversation is, in many spheres, already underway, even if it seems that there's more heat than light of late. Most of it centers on the debate about substitutionary atonement, about whether such a model is or isn't adequate to describe what happened on the Cross, and about whether such a model carries any currency today. There are those who will make substitutionary atonement so central to Christian thought that, it is declared, to deny it is to deny the gospel; there are others who proclaim that it is a vile doctrine that is tantamount to divine child abuse. In the process, other models are also receiving attention, both good and bad - the moral example model is both in vogue and under fire these days as well. As I said, heat vs. light.

I don't really have a dog in this fight, to be honest - or at least I find myself sympathetic to both sides. I think there's something deep and beautiful and true about substitution, but I think that many (most?) of the current articulations of it aren't worth a bucket of spit. I think it has its own set of challenges and difficulties in twenty-first century western society, some of which are because it's offensive in that it challenges our sensibilities, and others because it's offensive in that it tends to interact quite poorly with semantic systems that don't quite function in the right way to grasp what it's all about. It tends - again, to be specific, I mean its current iterations - to interact with an articulation of justice that is odd and, well, I think flawed. And, probably more importantly, it's too often described in such a manner that it loses the trinitarian core that makes the whole thing hold together (by both its defenders and detractors). But I don't think that one can simply jettison it without doing damage to the larger narrative. More on this shortly - I've perhaps said too much already.

The question that keeps me up at night, though, isn't really satisfaction and its pros and cons. I'm currently wrestling with something that's more contextual in nature. I suppose it's on some level connected to the question of semantic systems that I mentioned earlier. Bottom line - I'm unconvinced that we have a model that carries the sort of freight that's needed to tell the story in a way that resonates with contemporary western culture. And that's not out of a desire to avoid particular sensitivities of a polite society - please don't misread! I'm just not entirely certain that we have a way of talking about the atonement in such a way as to do justice to both it and to those who would hear about it. And I have some ideas on where to head with that, ideas that I want to take for a test drive, so to speak. I'm thinking that there is a significant degree of economic metaphor in the scriptures that could be utilized for such an undertaking, metaphor that would resonate significantly with a culture that derives its primary systems of meaning from just such a realm. Again, more to come on this one - it's still not all there yet.

Well, that's that - I thought perhaps that if I just sat down and started to write that things would come together of their own accord. First up, I think, will be some preliminaries; in particular, I want to begin with a bit of thinking on the Trinity, perhaps Protestantism's most underappreciated and underutilized doctrine, with a few thoughts on why failing to get trinitarian thought will scuttle any attempt to understand atonement before we've even begun.

It's good to be back. ;)

Technorati Tags: atonement

Ontology, Incarnation, and Category Confusion

I mentioned in the comments on my last post that I'm not much of a fan of the term "incarnational" ministry. This is something that I've been pondering for a while - in fact, I used to love the term, but over the past year or so I've been rethinking. It's come to my thought again, in part, as a reaction to something that Frost says in Exiles that for some reason put a new spin on the question for me. Here is, to my mind, the crux of the issue: is the incarnation a model for our engagement with culture and, if so, in what way? Frost has this to say:

This one doctrine [the incarnation] alone seems to bother us more than any other. It reminds us of the radical capacity of Jesus the man to seamlessly embrace humanity and divinity equally and successfully. His example, though impossible to duplicate, is nonetheless a rallying point for us to seek to emulate his lifestyle. In the incarnation, God enters fully into close relational and physical proximity to humanity in the pursuit of reconciliation. Likewise, if exiles today are to model their lives and ministries on that of the exile Jesus, they must take a stance that promotes proximity between themselves and those among whom they live. (p. 54)

I again find myself in a position of appreciating where he arrives while disliking intensely the route that he takes to get there. Again, for some, my quibbles with his points may seem pedantic or even mere semantics - but I'm a big fan of keeping our terms unmuddled and our categories straight, and it is in these areas where I think this approach falls short.

The problem is one of ontology - an approach with which Frost has already taken issue. The creeds, if you recall, were in Frost's view too ontological and not narratival, thus robbing the early Church of its missional vitality. But now he wants to switch back to the ontological categories to ground his own model. That's, in my mind, a problem. The incarnation is nothing if not an ontological category - in other words, it has to do with the nature or identity of Christ. Let's leave aside for the moment the obvious methodological inconsistency. There is a glaring problem here that comes to the fore when we start thinking about exactly what it is that the incarnation represents. This is a category that can truly only be applied to Christ and is, in some way, connected to a particular space-time event. It would be improper to think of the incarnation in terms of the Father or the Spirit - in fact, to do so is dangerously close (if not outright capitulation) to a heresy known as modalism. So here's the catch - if the incarnation is our model for mission, then don't we run up against a different ontological problem? How can the Father and the Spirit be engaged in mission if mission is an incarnational category?

I prefer to think of mission as a vocational category that goes back to the imago dei. It's still ontological in the sense that it is a part of who we were made to be - but it's an ontological category that is based in God's very nature as one who goes. Creation is a missional act in this sense - it was God's gracious gift of being to a universe of things other-than-God to which he could show love. Mission is another way of describing the divine task that is represented by the image of God. As such, it's a part of who we are as human beings created in that image.

The incarnation was, in this sense, a missional event - it's a natural expression of the love of God for the other-than-God. God expresses his missional nature in Christ's setting aside his divine prerogatives and becoming human. It is also missional in that Christ is the perfect human, the perfect imago dei acting out his divine vocation as a human being. So in the person of Christ the two missional themes intertwine - God as the one who goes, and humans as those created in the image of that God. And the missional vocation is then passed clearly to the church: the Father sends the Son; the Father and the Son send the Spirit; the Father, Son, and Spirit send the church. Mission is the ongoing task to fulfill the divine creational mandate that has been entrusted to the community of those who follow the way of Jesus. It's a vocational category, and it's an ontological category in that it is a reflection of the church's identity - but I don't think it's an incarnational category. Rather, I think the incarnation is a missional category, and to swap the two, in my opinion, confuses what is happening in the narrative.

Technorati Tags: books, Exiles, Frost, incarnation, ontology

Things I Wish I'd Written...

...include this fantastic gem by N.T. Wright:

Ever since the eighteenth century, western protestantism has been pulled more and more towards a denial, explicit or implicit, of the great central truths of Christian faith - sometimes, indeed, towards watering them down while still saying the words, sometimes actually to open mockery of the idea of the Trinity or the resurrection or the full meaning of the cross. And what has happened, exactly as the eighteenth-century Deists intended it should, is that God is no longer a player on the world scene; Jesus is Lord far away in heaven, or in the secret places of my heart, perhaps, but he can't tell me how to run my business or which way to vote. And when that happens Caesar smiles his grim smile and pulls in the rope, and the worlds of money and sex and power all dance to his tune, exhibiting that tell-tale imperial pattern, the pagan pattern, the pattern that says there is no resurrection, that Herod is King of the Jews and Caesar is Lord of the world, that Mammon, the money-god, is divine and rules our pockets, that Aphrodite, the goddess of erotic love, is divine and rules our loins, that Mars the god of war is divine and doesn't mind who wins as long as people keep fighting each other. My brothers and sisters, is it surprising that, if every doctrine from the Trinity to the divinity of Jesus to his saving death and bodily resurrection and ascension has been dismissed as outdated, disproved or irrelevant, the church should then have no means of protesting against massive economic injustice, against the erosion and inversion of sexual morality, against rampant militarism - in other words, against Caesar and all his weapons? Is it not time to be grasped once more by the real authority of scripture, which is not about quoting a verse here and a line there but about being reshaped by the full story, the whole narrative, the entire drama of a book like Acts until the picture becomes clear and we see who Caesar is and how he works, who Jesus is and how he rescues God's lovely world from corruption and slavery, and who we are called to be as his Spirit-led witnesses to the ends of the earth?
(entire text here)

Dude can write like nobody's business. Amazing, challenging stuff.

Technorati Tags: N.T. Wright

How (Not) to Speak of God: Revelation (p. 2)

After a hectic few weeks, things are starting to slow down again. Time to kick the dust off the old blog and get back to more regular posting. Although I still have more thoughts that I want to post on an image-bearing praxis, at the moment I want to pick up again with Peter Rollins's book How (Not) to Speak of God. I mentioned previously that Rollins is discussing orthodoxy from the standpoint of "believing in the right way". He goes on to unpack this perspective in more detail, focusing next on a discussion of the nature of revelation as concealment:

Hence revelation ought not be thought of either as that which makes God known or as that which leaves God unknown, but rather as the overpowering light that renders God known as unknown...Revelation can thus be described as bringing to light the secret of God in such a way that it remains secret.

Here, again, I'm forced to say that I didn't initially like his proposal. But as before, the more I think on it, the more I think that he's got it right. What is striking in the OT, and Rollins pulls numerous examples from that material, is that God's revelation never exhausts his being. The ones to whom the revelation is given seem to walk away from the encounter with less understanding than before - or, perhaps put better, with God having demolished the understanding that they thought they had. The revelation of God overwhelms and befuddles, leaving the one to whom it is given without rational categories but with awe and worship and no small amount of fear instead. And, interestingly enough, faith is the result of such encounters, in spite of (because of?) the reordering and disassembling of those rational categories.

And, of course, the NT is little different. For the Christian, the NT revelation of Jesus as the second person of the Trinity is the penultimate revelation of Godself. But no Christian that is intellectually honest would claim that the incarnation has exhausted all mystery of who God is - if anything, it has deepened the mystery by revealing another aspect of God's being that is beyond our ability to comprehend.

Rollins suggests that the reason for this dialectic of revealing/concealing is that in revelation God becomes "hyper-present":

Hyper-presence is a term that refers to a type of divine saturation that exists in the heart of God's presence. It means that God not only overflows and overwhelms our understanding but also overflows and overwhelms our experience...In the same way that the sun blinds the one who looks directly at its light, so God's incoming blinds our intellect. In this way the God who is testified to in the Judeo-Christian tradition saturates our understanding with a blinding presence. This type of transcendent-immanence can be described as 'hypernymity'. While anonymity offers too little information for our understanding to grasp..., hypernymity gives us far too much information. Instead of being limited by the poverty of absence we are short-circuited by the excess of presence.

That's a lot to ponder. If you're getting the impression that Rollins is something of a mystic, I think that would be an accurate characterization. I also catch echoes of Rudolph Otto here - I have to dig out my copy of The Idea of the Holy and see how this compares to Otto's discussion of the "numinous". Still, the obvious connection that I see here is that, contrary to theological approaches that lead to pride in one's ability to grasp God (intentional or unintentional), this approach cannot but help lead in a different direction - to worship.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, How (Not) to Speak About God, Peter Rollins

How (Not) to Speak of God: Faith (p. 1)

Rollins begins the book with a discussion of faith and theology:

Christian faith, it could be said, is born in the aftermath of God. Our fragile faith is fanned into life in the wake of what we believe to have been the incoming of a life giving encounter in which we feel connected with, and transformed by, the source of everything that is...For Christians testify to having been caught up in and engulfed by that which utterly transcends them. In short, the experience that gives birth to faith, at its most luminous, is analogous to the experience of an infant feeling the embrace and tender kiss of its mother.

On the other hand, theology could provisionally be described as that which attempts to come to grips with this life-giving experience, to describe the source from which everything is suspended and from which our faith is born. In faith God is experienced as the absolute subject who grasps us, while in theology we set about reflecting upon this subject...In faith we are held, in theology we hold...To take our ideas of the divine and hold them as if they correspond to the reality of God is thus to construct a conceptual idol built from the materials of our mind.

Two pages into the book, Rollins has already set my brain to spinning. He goes on to discuss a shift from a Greek understanding of orthodoxy as "right belief" to a Hebraic understanding of orthodoxy as "believing in the right way":

Thus orthodoxy is no longer (mis)understood as the opposite of heresy but rather is understood as a term that signals a way of being in the world rather than a means of believing things about the world.

I mentioned in my earlier post that I really didn't like this book the first time through. There seems something a bit Burke-ish in this statement, a device of a sort to redefine heresy and make it a wonderful and virtuous thing. But I've sat on this and thought about it long and hard, and I don't think that's what Rollins is after here at all.

Here's what I think he's saying, and the more I think about it, the more I'm forced to concede his point: we make a pretense of saying things like all theology is provisional and all interpretation is subject to critique and whatnot. But Rollins comes right out and incorporates that stance into the very heart of his project. He's basically conceding at the very beginning that everything that he says, indeed everything that we all say, about God is at least a little bit of crap. We can never come to the point where our theology grasps all that is God. In fact, much of the Christian tradition has long held that to do so is to create an idol. We try to grasp God, indeed we must try to grasp God, so as to understand the One who has grasped us. What marks out orthodoxy, in Rollins's terms, is not so much the content of that grasping but rather the way in which it is held. Love, openness, humility - these, I think, would characterize orthodoxy in Rollins's terms.

But I don't think he's saying that what we believe doesn't matter. I don't think that's in any way his point. Rather, I think this is an understanding that orthodoxy is a journey towards truth. It begins with an understanding that we don't have it right, and it sets off towards the truth, recognizing that we will never completely arrive this side of eternity. The theology that doesn't recognize it's own provisional and incomplete character - this theology is no longer a grasping towards God, but is rather the fashioning of an idol.

You know what? I think he's onto something here.

Technorati Tags: books, How (Not) to Speak About God, Peter Rollins, emerging church

Driscoll Happens

I can't believe I'm going to wade into this one.

Probably many, if not most, of the folks who drop by here regularly have already seen the brouhaha that Mark Driscoll precipitated by his comments following the Haggard fiasco. If you need to catch up, the post is here; the relevant quote:

At the risk of being even more widely despised than I currently am, I will lean over the plate and take one for the team on this. It is not uncommon to meet pastors' wives who really let themselves go; they sometimes feel that because their husband is a pastor, he is therefore trapped into fidelity, which gives them cause for laziness.

At which point the blogosphere exploded. And, in my opinion, justifiably so - it's a stupid statement that never should have seen the light of day. Grace has some great words about it; there are other responses floating around as well. I'm not so much interested in rehashing the whole discussion. I'm more interested in what's been developing since.

The short version goes like this: people have finally had enough of Mark's often controversial and sometimes ridiculous statements about men and women. For example, Rose Madrid-Swetman, who pastors a Vineyard congregation in Mark's neck of the woods, has written a truly excellent open letter to Mark. I met Rose at an Off the Map event last year and found her to be a gracious and intelligent individual, both of which are amply demonstrated in her post. But others haven't been so well-spoken. Now, there's a protest that's being planned by a group calling itself People Against Fundamentalism. And this is where things start to get weird.

There are two polarities on this one, I think, with a lot of folks in the middle. But the stuff going on at the extremities is just scary. One perspective doesn't get why this is offensive and thinks it's a tempest in a teacup. Frankly, I don't get that response. Mark's post was an offensive statement no matter how you read it. And let me go on record by saying that I agree completely with what Bob has to say here. Bob has been tracking this discussion closely - I should really just point you to his excellent commentary. Here's a segment:

His teaching may disempower women. It may hurt emotionally. It may lead to gifts given by God to the Body of Christ not being used to their full extent. It may even lead to some women making choices in life to forgo education and live a life that is more hemmed in and constrained than necessary... But none of these things, bad as they are, are abuse, oppression or misogeny. Tragic, yes. Misogeny, no.

That having been said, Mark Driscoll is a male chauvinist. He frequently uses "feminine" as a derogatory. His version of manhood is becoming more of a ridiculous caricature every day.

Let me stress that you need to read Bob's whole comment - I think it's balanced and well-stated. And I think, unfortunately, that it is probably true. It's all gussied up with theological language, but at the heart of the matter, I think there are plenty of indications given his public statements that there are some issues in his thinking on this subject. I just don't buy Mark's take on gender, on roles, on what it means to be a man or a woman, and on what it means to follow Jesus as gendered persons. I think I'm almost entirely opposite Mark on this subject, and I'll be the first to admit that it colors the way that I read his stuff. But the fact that folks who are close to Mark can read this kind of statement by him and not see that there's a problem is beyond troubling. It's disturbed.

Having said that, I'm really mortified that this is degenerating into a public demonstration. Bob also discussed this here, posting a bit of question and response that he's had with the folks at endfundamentalism.org. And I share his concern that we're now talking about a Christian-on-Christian protest, where the body of Christ is basically tearing itself apart in public. I can't in any way see how this is power used in the way of Jesus.

Make no mistake - this is a question of power. This is violence of a sort, a confrontation that's being staged and forced by someone attempting to advance an agenda. And I say this as someone who is sympathetic to that agenda. This is wrong. This is a situation where reconciliation is not being sought, by all indications. This is not an attempt at peacemaking. This is not an act of love for the other, for one's neighbor. This is not a demonstration of cruciform service that marks the use of power in the Kingdom. This is something else, something that I find deeply troubling, particularly because it masks itself as something right, something just.

Yoder, I think, says it best in The Politics of Jesus:

Certainly any renunciation of violence is preferable to its acceptance; but what Jesus renounced was not first of all violence, but rather the compulsiveness of purpose that leads the strong to violate the dignity of others. The point is not that one can attain all of one's legitimate ends without using violent means. It is rather that our readiness to renounce our legitimate ends whenever they cannot be attained by legitimate means itself constitutes our participation in the triumphant suffering of the Lamb. (p. 237, emphasis mine).

Technorati Tags: Mark Driscoll, power

Heretic's Guide - What About Jesus? (p. 4)

I've said a number of times in the comments that I can't go along with Spencer's understanding of the Christian Story as described in his book A Heretic's Guide to Eternity. Up to now, though, I've just focused on some foundational concepts that I think are at odds in the book. It's time for me to dive in and lay out what I think is the fatal flaw in Spencer's book - his failure to deal with what the text actually says and the picture that it presents of who Jesus was and what he did. Spencer reads the text and finds a guide, a path, a messenger of love and inclusion. In his words:

It is not a question of making claims about Jesus as truth but rather one of experiencing the truth of who he is, outside the confines of a religious system. To claim that other religions are true only to the degree that their views of God are the same as Christian concepts is to make a claim that Jesus himself did not make.

This last claim Jesus made in this troublesome little verse in the book of John is perhaps the key to understanding the others [the way, the truth]. "I am the life." Jesus' life, not just his acts on our behalf but the life he lived on earth, is "the life". Living a life like Jesus' is what it truly means to live. Jesus declared his life to be the way to choose - not the way of zealotry or paganism or compromise, but a life committed to God, committed to God's ways, and committed to grace.

Jesus' vision of God is not for the exclusive use of one community. It is not just for Jews or Christians or any other group. It is for anyone and everyone - Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, whatever...The real story, the real scandal, is Jesus' promiscuous view of God. Whatever the role his religion expected him to play, Jesus ignored it and chose instead to forge a new path that included freedom for him to embrace everyone.

To be born again, according to Jesus, is to commit oneself to the kingdom of God's purposes. It is to begin a journey with God in order to make the world a place of grace. It doesn't mean "getting religion"; it means committing ourselves to Jesus' vision of God's kingdom. What did Jesus say that is? In a word, love, plain and simple.

Spencer, I'm sorry. I wish I could go along with you here. It would make my life a lot easier. It would make my task as a person of Christian faith much simpler. It would make my message as a missional believer much more palatable. It would be fun; I could be Tony Robbins or Mr. Rogers or Joel Osteen. (Oops, how'd that get in there? ;)

But I can't.

I can't go along with hippie Jesus who has smiles and lollipops for everyone. It's just not there. It's a painfully selective reading of the text. Yes, Jesus preached a gospel of love and inclusion. Yes, he broke boundaries and welcomed "all and sundry", as NT Wright would say. Yes, he broke the "rules" and did things that offended religious people. But he offended more than just the scribes and Pharisees. He didn't pull punches. He offered a choice: two ways, one of life and one of death. And, he said, most people don't really care to find the first one. (Matt 7:13-14, in case you're wondering.) He said that he didn't come to bring peace, but a sword. He said that judgment was barreling down on the nation, and yet they refused to repent. He said that, in the end, it would go better for Sodom than it would for the cities where he preached and did his miracles.

Was Jesus inclusive? He was - scandalously so. But he was also sharply exclusivistic, and no amount of polishing him up so that he won't offend our postmodern sensibilities can remove it. It's what a professor of mine has called the dark side of the gospel - the awful truth that rejecting his work has a cost, a price that we may find more than we can bear. It's painful and uncomfortable and ugly. But it's there - and to remove it or to ignore it is to do damage to who Jesus is and what he says.

The message of the kingdom isn't that everyone is in. Jesus never said that. It's the announcement of the world's true King and the coming of his Kingdom. Mark says it this way: "The kingdom of God is near. Repent and believe the good news!" And good news it is - but it has a warning as well, lurking just between the syllables, a warning that we fail to heed to our own detriment.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, Heretic's Guide to Eternity, Spencer Burke

A Heretic's Guide: Picking Good Examples (p. 2)

One of the primary challenges I'm facing in reading A Heretic's Guide to Eternity is the suspicion that I'm being faced with a false dichotomy. Ok, that's an understatement - I don't buy the principle division of the book, namely that of religion vs. grace. I touched on this in my previous post, and I thought I'd be able to move on to the first part of the book. But I find that it's a difficulty that keeps hitting me in the face. I can't get past it. A few examples may help:

Admittedly, all religions probably have a fringe element, but just the same, what is it about traditional religion that breeds dogmatic, sometimes fanatical, and even violent responses to the rest of the world? Over the years, terrible things have been done and justified in the name of God. Just look at any history book. Is it any wonder the world's population is beginning to look for alternatives? Frankly, fundamentalists of all kinds are scaring people off. The more zealous and powerful these people become, the more potential followers they drive away.

We need to move past religion. I believe the time is right for another way of looking at the Christian message, freed from the confines of religion and open to the possibility of a radical new incarnation and manifestation. The message of Jesus needs to evolve for our times.

I believe that the next phase of faith is to move beyond religion. Nowhere does Jesus call his followers to start a religion. Jesus' invitation to his first disciples was to follow him. It was a call to journey, a process that leads us away from some things and toward others. It wasn't a call to adhere to a set of rules for all time. In fact, one of the most commonly heard critiques of the Christian message is that it is out of touch with what is really going on in the world around us.

I guess I'm just not really sure what all of this means. Spencer, I think this argument is beneath you - I'm being serious on that statement. You're pitting the worst of "religion" against the best of - well, whatever else there is, I suppose. Have atrocities been committed in the name of religion? Absolutely. Please find one person of religious belief that will deny that, because I don't think they exist. And, yes, fundamentalism can lead to oppression and violence. But "progressives" have committed their share of atrocities also - let's not forget that there's been just as much violence done against religion in the past century as there has been for it. Evil doesn't need to borrow the name of God - it does just fine in human guise.

My question, though, is whether religion is the problem in and of itself. Frankly, I don't see it. Religion has just as often offered a critique of power as it has misused it. Slavery, civil rights, terrorism - all are issues where the problem might be seen as religion, and yet the resources for resolving the problem also come from religion. Religion, at its best, serves as a voice for justice, for the oppressed, for peace, and for understanding. It's simply not tenable to lay all of society's ills at the feet of organized religion as though just removing the "external and dogmatic belief systems" will usher in an era of warm fuzzies and hugs all around.

Let me offer my definition of religion, or specifically, what I take to be the core of the Christian faith qua religion. Is religion - is faith - simply an "external and dogmatic belief system"? Frankly, I hate that definition. It sounds violent and coercive - it makes it seem as though, if I were more spiritual, I wouldn't hold to my belief system. But that's untenable. Religions - faiths, and the Christian faith in particular - offer a particular view of the world, a particular story about what it means to be human, what is wrong with us, and what the solution to our problems might be. It's that story, that narrative, that forms the basis for a religion - not dogmatism or rules. Religions exist because we as people need a way to explain our experience as humans. As a Christian, I hold to a particular telling of that story. Other religions, of course, tell the tale differently. And, yes, those differences sometimes lead to conflict. But I believe that we, as humans, are storied people - we simply can't help crafting narratives in which to live. In the absence of religion, other narratives will be told as well. One currently powerful narrative is that told by consumer capitalism - it's not a "religion" in the technical sense, but you'd better believe it has the power to shape the way we think and interact with one another in ways that are undeniably religious.

So, from the beginning of the book, I feel as though I'm being fitted for Procrustes' bed - I'm given the choice between fundamentalism or freeform spirituality, and I frankly think it's a false dichotomy. I'm quite convinced that one can hold to the historic Christian faith and still offer a critique of "power-based interpretations of foundational texts". In fact, I think that the Christian story by its very nature critiques such interpretations.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, Heretic's Guide to Eternity, Spencer Burke

Heretic's Guide: The Question of Language (p.1)

I'm about halfway through Spencer Burke's new book, A Heretic's Guide to Eternity. I thought I'd go ahead and start my interaction, because I'm finding that I have a lot to say and I don't want to lose my thoughts as I go forward. Before I begin, I want to reiterate my respect and appreciation of Spencer as someone I've had the opportunity to meet and get to know just a bit. I've said previously and will say again that he's one of the nicest and most winsome guys I've ever met, and his love for and appreciation of people is profoundly evident from the moment he walks into a room. I've struggled, consequently, with this review, because I have some challenging things to say as a result of the book thus far. I want, then, to be crystal clear that my differences are not with him as a person, but rather with his ideas as presented in AHGtE. Ultimately, though, I've come to two conclusions that I must hold in order to speak with integrity: first, when I'm asked for my opinion, I have a responsibility to present it honestly and fairly and to not cover it for the sake of maintaining an appearance of camaraderie; second, respect means not minimizing the differences between two positions, but recognizing them and speaking truly about them. With that said, Spencer, if you're ever in the Philadelphia area again, you have an open invitation to call me up for a beer or coffee or dinner. My treat. ;)

So, now that I've completely telegraphed where I'm headed with this, I want to begin by expressing something of why I find this book frustrating to read. Bob has already commented on this; so has Scot. But I want to reiterate what others have said: Spencer's use of terminology in this book is maddening. Maddening as in water torture maddening. Put briefly, Spencer is using language in unconventional ways in this book - and it makes digesting it difficult. The title is a case in point, although one that I won't belabor - what Spencer means by "heretic" is not what is normally meant by the term. Read Bob's post for further interaction with this point - I don't see a reason to restate what he's already done quite well. That's not the point of language that's a sticking point for me. The premise of the book, as I'm tracking it thus far, seems to be the contrast between "religion" and "grace". But here's where Spencer begins, I think, to invest these words with something of a different sense than what is commonly meant by them. For example:

To be honest, religion doesn't really work for me anymore. Being aligned with an institutional church or a particular system of worship seems increasingly irrelevant to my ongoing journey with God. In my experience, the customs, traditions, and even language of religion often seem to get in the way of honest dialogue about God. What's more, religion's airtight explanations and all-or-nothing theological arguments seem out of touch with the complexities of twenty-first-century life.

So, as Spencer continues through the book to engage this idea of religion vs. grace, I have to ask myself to what it is that he's exactly referring. The description that he gives doesn't seem to me to be religion per se; if that is, in fact, what he's saying, then I have to cautiously suggest that the entire book is based on a false dichotomy, and I think Spencer is no doubt smarter than that. Is he saying that all religion functions this way, or only some types of religious expression? I think the latter - but I'm not sure, because he never comes out and says it. As a result, I'm left with a choice that I have to make as a reader - is he being either frustratingly imprecise in his use of language, or harmfully stereotypical in his view of religion? I'm attempting to read generously here, so I'm opting for the former - but I concede that I might be wrong on that assumption. And I'm not going to begin to tackle the question of what he means by "grace" - that's for another post.

Some will no doubt say that I'm being needlessly pedantic about the meanings of words, that Spencer is merely being creative and pushing the language in a different direction, that it's helpful and challenging and stretching and all kinds of fun stuff like that. And I concede that I may have less patience for that sort of thing than I once did; I've become used to a certain level of technicality when reading theology, and Spencer is clearly not attempting to head in that direction (not a criticism, just an observation). But at it's most basic, language is about using shared symbols to communicate meaning. There is a sense in which it can be stretched and pushed, and then there is a point after which it looses its capacity to perform its intended function. In other words, stretch the meaning of a word too far and it looses its meaning altogether, like expired elastic that can no longer maintain its shape. And what is true of language is true of an intimately connected means of communication - that of story. But that's another post.

Technorati Tags: books, Heretic's Guide to Eternity, language, Spencer Burke

Inspiration and Incarnation: The NT's Use of the OT (p. 4)

Jumping back to Inspiration and Incarnation, I want to briefly summarize Enns's third point of difficulty in understanding the nature of scripture. Enns contends that the NT authors' use of the OT is itself particularly challenging for evangelical hermeneutics, primarily because the NT authors didn't follow what is often portrayed as normative hermeneutical practices in interpreting the OT. This is something that, I think, often escapes contemporary readers - we are, unfortunately, sufficiently far removed from the OT narratives (generally speaking) that we don't catch the subtle oddities in the NT texts. As a result, when we run across something that we do recognize, we assume that the author is doing something that he may not in fact be doing. More on this in a second.

Enns supplies a wealth of information about both the actual uses of the NT by the OT. I simply can't begin to summarize it all - to be honest, I think the discussion of second Temple writings alone is worth the price of the book. An example will have to suffice. In 2 Tim 3:8, we find this statement: "And just as Jannes and Jambres opposed Moses..." Jannes and Jambres are the names that are assigned to the Egyptian magicians spoken of in Exodus 7. But even a cursory reading of the passage in Exodus will reveal that, not only are these names not mentioned anywhere in the narrative, the number of magicians in question isn't even provided. So where do the names originate? While we can't be certain of their origins, we do know that they also occur in the writings of Qumran, as well as one of the targums. What we see in this instance is that Paul is participating in an established interpretive tradition and incorporating its assumptions and conclusions into a writing that we hold as inspired. Other examples abound, some more troubling - Matthew uses Hosea in ways that, were I to emulate, would have resulted in my failing any number of theology assignments; Paul on a number of occasions quotes an OT passage, but actively alters the passage so that the quotation more adequately presents the perspective he is attempting to communicate; and Jesus himself takes passages out of context in order to prove a point, such as his use of Exodus 3:6 in his argument with the Sadducees in Luke 20.

I'm going to resist attempting to draw conclusions at this point. Instead, I want to quote something that Enns says that I think encapsulates the issue nicely, and summarize my thoughts in my next post.

Furthermore, it will not do to argue that Jesus and the apostles adopted such tainted exegetical techniques simply as an accommodation to the faulty thinking of their contemporaries. There simply is no indication of this anywhere in the New Testament...To argue in such a way reveals more about our own assumptions concerning the supposed universal validity of our own hermeneutical standards than it does about apostolic hermeneutics. But apostolic hermeneutics is not to be explained in such a way as to conform to our expectations, nor should we be embarrassed about it or make excuses for it. It is to be understood. (p. 132, emphasis added)

Technorati Tags: books, Inspiration and Incarnation, Peter Enns, scripture

Thoughts on Moving Forward

An interesting package arrived in the mail yesterday - an advance copy of Spencer Burke's new book, A Heretic's Guide to Eternity. It's already started to create some buzz; Scot McKnight shared his thoughts on the book, and some of the heretic watching sites have already begun to hammer away at it (about which I will refrain from commenting). I'm looking forward to reading the book - although, I must confess, I have some reservations about it, along the lines of Scot's critique (which, let it be noted, was a great model for how to handle differences constructively). I had the privilege of getting to know Spencer a bit during an etrek course that I took at Biblical a few years ago. Spencer is a great guy, one of the most winsome and personable folks I've ever met, and his comments on Scot's postings reflect exactly the spirit that I remember about him. Having said that, I remember at the time that he had begun to articulate some of the ideas that it appears have now developed into this book. It will be an interesting read, no doubt - I'm attempting to go into this with an open mind, but already I'm approaching with some concerns.

I think the thing that I'm wondering is the degree to which Spencer will be able to ground his thoughts in the narrative of scripture. I don't know what direction he's going to take, so I'm withholding judgment on this until I've finished the book. But I confess it doesn't look good from the back cover blurb. Perhaps I'll be pleasantly surprised - I hope that to be true. At the very least, though, he's going to have to present a very different reading than I think can be sustained in order to arrive at where the description says he's going.

Can I be honest here? My concerns aren't just about Spencer's book. Steve McCoy posted several quotes recently from a book that he's currently reading about church growth. There was some interesting conversation in the comments; I myself don't particularly care for the way the quotes are phrased, but without reading the book itself, who am I to say? Still, the conversation at some point shifted to a discussion about growth in general and whether congregations should be seeking to grow. And the more I reflect on this, the more astounded I am at the fact that we actually need to have this conversation.

What bothers me about this is that, at its most basic, the Christian faith is adherence to a story. It's about aligning oneself with a particular way of understanding what it means to be human, what has gone wrong with our existence, and what must be done to fix it. There are a number of ways to tell that story and remain faithful to the Story. But there are things that all tellings of that story must retain in order to remain the same story. My interest in the emerging church began with a suspicion that the evangelical version of the story that I knew was fundamentally flawed - and that suspicion has long since been transformed into conviction. However, I confess that I'm not hearing much of late that represents a better proposal.

And that's profoundly disappointing. It's, on one level, simply sloppy. It often represents a failure to integrate the basic elements of the story into a cohesive whole - so, for example, when I hear that particular understandings of the atonement described as "cosmic child abuse," I think it's a pile of crap. No serious trinitarian theology can ever say such a thing and remain trinitarian. It's simply not possible. It's sloppy. And, vice versa, when I hear others saying that God is some kind of macho uber-man who "crushes Jesus" for our sins, I think exactly the same thing. Where's the trinitarian theology in that statement? It's sloppy. It's an awful way to tell the story. It's nothing more than American machismo read back into what started as an articulation of the Christian faith.

I had more that I was going to say, but I'm stopping here. This is moving towards a rant, and I really didn't want it to head that way. So - here's what I'm thinking. I have a few more posts on Enns's book remaining, then I'll tackle Spencer's. After that, I want to write about something that I've been thinking about for over six months now. I want to share with you how I read the story - a reading that begins with the image of God in Genesis 1 and continues to New Creation. Hopefully along the way I can present something that might serve as the beginnings of a way forward.

Inspiration and Incarnation: The OT and Theological Diversity (p. 3)

Continuing my discussion of Pete Enns's book Inspiration and Incarnation, I want to pick up briefly a subject that I think is particularly challenging to the traditional evangelical perspective on scripture. In particular, Enns discusses the difficulty that the theological diversity of the Old Testament presents to that perspective. I think that it also bears repeating that Enns is approaching this question from firm evangelical commitments himself - his presentation of these issues isn't meant to undermine a high view of scripture, but rather to bring the nature of the written text itself into conversation with that perspective, resulting in a more robust understanding of what it means to claim that scripture is God's self-revelation. In his own words:

One way that critical biblical scholarship takes diversity into account is to say that the Old Testament is full of contradictions and, hence, a quaint record of conflicting human opinions. Such an approach will never be an acceptable option for Christian thinking. An evangelical counterattack, however, is to defend the Bible against accusations of diversity by showing that such diversity is not there, involves only minor issues, or can be resolved in theory at some future time. But this alternative creates tensions of its own, and it runs the risk of avoiding the difficult issues altogether. (p.73)

I'm tempted at this point to delve into some of the texts that Enns highlights. I've decided against doing that. Anyone who has read the Old Testament at any level beyond a surface reading has no doubt begun to encounter the issues that Enns is discussing. If you are unconvinced that such diversity exists, I would humbly suggest a reading to illustrate: compare 2 Sam 11 and 1 Chron 20. Notice the tiny slice of history that the Chronicler omits following 20:1. It's absolutely fascinating the way these two narratives are constructed. I could suggest a number of others; however, the point isn't at all about exegeting specific difficulties. In fact, that may be precisely not the point. Enns goes on to state the following:

What the diversity of the Bible tells us is that there is no superficial unity to the Bible. Portions of the Bible are in tension with each other, as we have seen. That these tensions exist is a matter of simple observation. A better question is why they exist and what this tells us about the nature of the Scriptures and, by extension, the nature of God. (p.108)

Technorati Tags: books, Inspiration and Incarnation, Peter Enns, scripture

Inspiration and Incarnation: The OT and Ancient Literature (p. 2)

The first "problem" that Enns tackles in Inspiration and Incarnation is that of the Old Testament's relationship to other Ancient Near Eastern (ANE) literature. Enns demonstrates the difficulty in three areas:

• Creation and the Flood: Is Genesis Myth or History?
• Customs, Laws, and Proverbs: Is Revelation Unique?
• Israel and its Kings: Is Good Historiography Objective or Biased?

Tackling each of these areas is far more than I can begin to attempt in the format of a blog post. Instead, I'll post a few excerpts and then offer some thoughts of my own.

To give a hint of where this discussion is going, it is worth asking what standards we can reasonably expect of the Bible, seeing that it is an ancient Near Eastern document and not a modern one. Are the early stories in the Old Testament to be judged on the basis of standards of modern historical inquiry and scientific precision, things that ancient peoples were not at all aware of? Is it not likely that God would have allowed his word to come to the ancient Israelites according to standards they understood, or are modern standards of truth and error so universal that we should expect premodern cultures to have understood them?(p. 41)

I question how much value there is in posing the choice of Genesis as either myth or history. This distinction seems to be a modern invention. It presupposes - without stating explicitly - that what is historical, in a modern sense of the word, is more real, of more value, more like something God would do, than myth.(p. 49)

I could go on - there is a wealth of information in this section. For anyone who has done any amount of reading in ANE literature, there isn't a lot of surprising information - I was familiar with most of the texts that he was referencing just from my seminary training alone. He draws on examples that are fairly common knowledge, such as Enuma Elish, Gilgamesh, and the code of Hammurabi. But the point that he makes is profound. Enns is proposing that evangelicals, by and large, have entered into the text with an assumption about what scripture is and does, and that our doctrine of scripture is shaped far more by those assumptions than it is by the text itself. This is most telling in his discussion of the ancient approach to historiography, and in particular the contrasts between Samuel-Kings and Chronicles. Enns uses the example of the differences in Nathan's challenge to David; I can just as easily see the same dynamic in the telling of the census of the fighting men. Evangelical exegesis has often bent over backwards to reconcile these passages. But the simple fact, on first reading, is that they contradict each other - the texts present different factual summaries of the same events. And this has caused no end of difficulty for evangelical interpretation - but the reason for this difficulty is found, not in the text itself, but in the approach to scripture that makes contradiction a problem! Put succinctly - the fact that the accounts in these books differ is only a problem because we make it a problem. We assume that God has the same epistemology as we do, and that his conception of truth is the same as ours. So, for example, when Samuel-Kings and Chronicles give different facts about the same events, the assumption is that both cannot be true as written - it must be explained as to how these accounts can both be true while saying different things.

But what if, for example, "true" historiography in the ancient sense isn't historiography that is factually accurate in the way that we would think of accuracy? What if "true" historiography is the telling of the tale that presents the desired perspective most compellingly? What if the interpretation of the event is more important than the event itself? And what if all of these things mean that two accounts can tell different facts about the same event and yet still both be "true"? The point that Enns is making is that the Bible isn't the word of God because it is completely different from its context. In fact, it speaks very compellingly in contextual forms, including the approach to history and interpretation of events. And evangelicals have not wrestled with the implications of that contextuality for a robust doctrine of scripture - in fact, by obscuring the difficulties, we have participated instead in a sort of docetic bibliolatry, a belief in a scripture that is so far removed from the human author that it only appears human but, in fact, is nothing of the sort.

Technorati Tags: books, Inspiration and Incarnation, Peter Enns, scripture

Inspiration and Incarnation (p. 1)

I mentioned last week that I wanted to spend a bit of time blogging through Pete Enns's book Inspiration and Incarnation. This is a fantastic book that addresses in a very honest, direct, and respectful way the difficulties that evangelical doctrines of scripture create for exegesis. In his words:

My concern is that, at least on a popular level, a defensive approach to the evidence tends to dominate the evangelical conversation...I want to contribute to a growing opinion that what is needed is to move beyond both sides [of the liberal-conservative debate] by thinking of better ways to account for some of the data, while at the same time having a vibrant, positive view of Scripture as God's word. By focusing on three problems raised by the modern study of the Old Testament, my hope is to suggest ways in which our conversation can be shifted somewhat, so that what are often perceived as problems with the Old Testament are put into a different perspective. (p. 14-15)

Enns's basic premise is that evangelical approaches to scripture, by failing to deal with the issues that he will raise in an intellectually honest way, actually contribute to a devaluing of scripture and a failure to submit to its authority by attempting to make it into something other than what it is. The issues that he raises fall into three categories:

• The Old Testament and other ancient literature: Why does the OT so closely resemble other ancient near-eastern (ANE) literature? Does that mean that the OT isn't unique? "If the Bible is the word of God, why does it fit so nicely in the ancient world?" (p. 16)
• Theological diversity in the OT: Why does the OT appear to have different perspectives and, at times, "say different things about the same thing"? (p. 16)
• The way in which the NT authors use the OT: Is the NT's use of the Old really fair? It appears odd at best, arbitrary at other times, and simply distorting at others.

The rest of the book is an attempt to place these questions in the context of other ANE literature. In some sense, it may be fair to say that what are issues for us were not issues for the ancient readers of the text - it's rather a failure to understand why the authors said and did what they said and did. More to come!

Technorati Tags: books, Inspiration and Incarnation, Peter Enns, scripture

Scripture and Theological Diversity

Recently I began an absolutely fascinating book by Peter Enns called Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament. Pete Enns primarily teaches at Westminster, but he also teaches occasional courses at Biblical. I had the privilege of taking a course with him that dealt specifically with the New Testament authors' use of the Old Testament. It was absolutely fascinating - it put a lot of pieces together for me in terms of odd things about the NT, while simultaneously opening a whole different can of worms. More on that to come - I plan on sharing more from this book. It's one that I think everyone who's serious about theology, biblical studies, contextualization, and scripture should read.

One thing in particular that I've been pondering, though, is the nature of scripture. Enns makes the point, and I think rightly so, that although evangelicals claim to take scripture seriously, we often don't. In particular, we fail to do so when we don't allow scripture to speak for itself, but instead force it to conform to a predetermined standard of what we believe scripture should be. Generally speaking, evangelicals don't do well with the diversity of theological opinion that is present in the text. Often, these various perspectives that are obviously present in the text itself are smoothed over and made to say the same thing, not in the interest of hearing what it is that the text actually says, but in an attempt to protect it from contradiction. However, the idea that scripture cannot contain divergent opinions and remain scripture is an assumption, nothing more. Forcing the text to conform to this predefined standard, rather than protecting its integrity, may instead actually prevent us from hearing what it is that the text is actually trying to say.

There are plenty of examples that I could cite to demonstrate what I mean. A classic set of divergent opinions exists between Samuel-Kings and Chronicles, for example. However, I'll leave the examples for later posts. What I'm pondering at the moment is the fact that a diversity of interpretations is not necessarily a bad thing. Scripture itself, rather than being monophonic, contains a chorus of voices that all exist in dialog with each other. Often, different authors can be read as saying, "Yes, but..." to another part of the text. And what is significant is that these tensions are not resolved, but are left to stand in the text itself. This should communicate to us in a significant way that we should be open to alternate readings of the text, alternate interpretations and emphases. To do so is not to devalue scripture - it is to take it seriously enough to allow its form to influence the way we understand it.

More on this to come...

Technorati Tags: books, Inspiration and Incarnation, Peter Enns, scripture

Worship in a Storied World (p. 2)

I mentioned in the comments on my last post that I had an interesting experience this weekend as well. I attended my parents' church, which is a large Pentecostal church in rural Pennsylvania. For the record, I don't have anything in particular against Pentecostal or Charismatic churches - I consider myself something of a post-charismatic myself, to borrow a term from RobbyMac. And this is a fairly typical evangelical church, from what I can tell - I doubt that what I experienced would be much different from what many folks from any number of traditions experience on any given Sunday. At any rate - as I mentioned late last week, I've been mulling over this question of worship for what's now over a week. I openly admit that it's a bad, bad idea to go into a worship gathering already pondering what the experience will be like - it's distracting, and it makes it darn near impossible to actually participate in the worship gathering yourself. I don't recommend it. Still, it did highlight for me again some of the concerns that I had last week, about getting lost in the whole "personal" aspect of the gospel, while missing the cosmic thrust of the Story.

My friend Kristi suggested the following in the comments on the last post:

yes, modern worship songs are in part a result of the American/Western Evangelical church's focus on a gospel consisting solely of a personal salvation message, but also a result of a postmodern generation in search of relationship. Lasting relationships, that is. Our generation longs for commitment and dependibility, and darn it if "Jesus-as-my-girl/[boy]friend" doesn't resonate with that longing.

I agree with her assessment - I agree that what's attractive about a personal, spiritual, eternal gospel for many, many folks is the prospect of spending eternity in relational bliss, finding meaning and connectedness in a divine relationship that will always endure. And there's nothing wrong with that - that is a good thing. But it's myopic. I wonder, though, if what we're really after isn't relationship at all. Or let's frame it slightly differently - those of us who identify with the emerging church talk a lot about community, and I hear a lot of folks talking about how people are looking for a sense of community and belonging in our current context. But I'm not sure that's really it, on either level. I think what many folks want - to be honest, what I often find myself wanting - are the trappings of community and relationship without all that cumbersome baggage. I want the benefits, but I don't want to pay the dues. I want commitment and dependability - meaning, I want someone (or Someone) to be committed and dependable for me. But don't ask me to commit. That's a pain in the tail.

So I was mentioning the worship gathering at my folks' church on Sunday. It was a fairly typical evangelical-type worship set, lots of songs about how I love Jesus a whole lot, and how He loves me too. Fortunately, no Jesus-is-my-girlfriend songs - there's something to be said for that, I suppose. Then they started singing some songs about how, one day, Jesus is going to come back and take us home to be with Him, and won't it be just swell? And the sermon talked about how God can meet all of our needs, and how miracles don't exhaust God's bank or something like that, and how God wants to give miracles to people today, because He loves them a whole lot. And then folks came up to pray that God would give them the miracle that they need. And then we went to lunch.

And the thing that bugged me about the whole thing wasn't that it was wrong. I mean, I don't think there was a single thing in the whole service with which I'd really take issue, theologically speaking. Even the miracle stuff, even though it sounded a bit hokey, a bit like a televangelist, was ok - I do believe that God still works miracles, and there wasn't any sort of peddling of God's power like you see on TV, so I think that was just a tragedy of language being coopted by snake oil salesmen, so that now when anyone says "miracle" what people hear is something more like "send cash to the address at the bottom of the screen".

What I didn't like about it was that it was...small. The whole gathering felt like the Story wasn't much of a story. It was as if the narrative world of our grand tradition was collapsing in on itself, until it was a sad, pale, hollow shell of a thing. It wasn't the Story of God's redemption of all creation. It wasn't about the triumph of mercy and justice and the restoration of shalom. It wasn't even about God's formation of a new people, a new community in whom His redemptive work can be displayed. It was about how Jesus loves me - which isn't wrong, not at all. But it needs the context of the grand Story of God's redemptive purposes to make it meaningful and beautiful.

Physicists talk about black holes, about massive stars that, at the end, are defeated by gravity, so that they collapse and form an object so dense that not even light can escape. I wonder if that's what we've become - little black holes, all crushed in on ourselves, with no light to be seen because it can't escape the tragic collapse of our narrative world.

Technorati Tags: worship, narrative, story

Worship in a Storied World

One of my more interesting experiences at the retreat I attended last weekend was unexpected. It was actually a small thing, in a sense, but I haven't stopped thinking about it. The format of the retreat centered on several group sessions that were comprised of a lecture preceded by a short time of singing. One of the sessions included the song Draw Me Close, which is practically a classic among some branches of evangelicalism (for what that's worth). I've heard this song probably hundreds of times now and, while I don't find it particularly worshipful, I've never really been bothered by it until this weekend. What happened? About a minute into the song, something clicked in my brain, something entirely unexpected and completely irreversible. I heard the words being sung by Peter Cetera, backed by mid-eighties era Chicago. It was profoundly disturbing on so many levels, not least because it was completely plausible.

So what to do with such a disturbing image? I've been pondering the question of worship all week - what it is, what it isn't, and what makes something a good example of it. And I'm fairly certain that Jesus-is-my-girlfriend sort of worship isn't really cutting it. Lots of folks have offered better and more nuanced critiques of current worship than I, so I won't dwell on this point. But I think it's fair to ask what else we should expect when the gospel is reduced to a spiritual, personal, otherworldly sort of message. What other form would it take? Doctrinal statements set to music, perhaps? Equally bad, I'd suggest. Neither engages the sort of worship that we find pictured for us in the biblical narrative.

For context, let's consider Exodus 13, which tells of the institution of the Passover tradition among the people of Israel. God in this text tells of the purpose of the celebration, and in the process I think gives us a picture of what it is that worship does for us as a community:

On that day tell your son, `I do this because of what the LORD did for me when I came out of Egypt.' This observance will be for you like a sign on your hand and a reminder on your forehead that the law of the LORD is to be on your lips. For the LORD brought you out of Egypt with his mighty hand. You must keep this ordinance at the appointed time year after year.

Take note here of what is happening. This is a fascinating description of the worship tradition of the people of Israel, centered on their most important feast of the year. The Passover experience was absolutely not about a personal experience or encounter with the divine - although it would certainly engage each individual who participated in it. It was also absolutely not about articulating abstract doctrinal statements - although it certainly formed the basis for much of the belief system of the Israelites. So, in other words, while those two elements are in play, they're not the primary purpose. The worship tradition here is much more about serving as the memory of the community. It's about telling the story of what God has done, of how He has acted on behalf of His people within the pages of history. It also, by extension, calls attention to how He will continue to act in the present and future. In fact, the Psalms often present this in the framework of, "Remember your people, Lord, whom you brought out of Egypt."

Worship, then, is story telling. It is about shaping our imaginations by continuing to tell the Story of God, about calling each other to remember it and inhabit it, and encouraging us to find our collective place within that Story. It's about learning to trust what God will do because of what He has already done, and about remembering and telling that Story together as a community.

Technorati Tags: worship, narrative, story

Church and Power

Scott L asked in the comments on my post on The Boy's Club, "Is the Church, and any authority within the Church, about power? Should it be a discussion of power? Should our discussions of male and female roles and any differentiation that should or should not be therein center around the issue of power?" It's an excellent question, one that deserves a full post of its own. First, though, we should no doubt define our terms. When we talk of "power", what do we mean?

Power, at its most basic level of meaning, is simply the ability to act or to produce a desired effect (Webster). On the surface, this tells us very little. But juxtaposed with the idea of community, the idea becomes much more robust. Power in a group setting is the ability to act within the group. Sometimes, of course, this is defined as influence or authority, but that's nuancing the definition a bit more than our present purposes require. Suffice to say that at its most basic level every social structure is in some way about power, about the ability to act in the context of the group, about defining what uses of power are permitted or not permitted and then enforcing those boundaries.

The gospel, by its very nature, is about power, in the sense that it is a call to a new social reality. What I mean by that is that the gospel is the message of the coming of the Kingdom and about the call to enter that Kingdom and become a part of the people of God. It's less about personal, eternal salvation (although it includes that) and more about the formation of a new people, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, to borrow from 1 Peter. And what is significant about this new people is less ideological (although it includes that) and more a new social dynamic that is rooted in the love of God poured out in Christ.

As the burden of proof is on me to demonstrate that I'm not just making this stuff up, let's think through Jesus' interactions with his followers in the gospels. Over and over again we see the normal social patterns turned upside-down in the Kingdom. Jesus' followers are to love their enemies and are not to seek vengeance. In the Kingdom, the first are last, and the last first. Those who are in need, who are oppressed, who are powerless, are the ones who are honored in the Kingdom. The rich and the powerful, on the other hand, are the ones who find it hard to enter the Kingdom. And, in the Kingdom, the greatest are those who are the servants of all, as exemplified by the God of all Creation who stooped to honor children and washed the feet of his disciples. In short, Jesus' life was full of the use of power in the way of the Kingdom - giving it away, empowering others, offering dignity and grace and hope where there is none.

This is, I'd argue, the framework that we must first enter before we can discuss questions such as gender roles. If we can't approach the question with the humility of Christ and the stance of a servant, then I think we have no business taking part in the discussion. Too much of this discussion revolves around the question of who gets to call the shots - and, frankly, I mostly see men focusing on those questions. But the way of the Kingdom is the way of empowerment and of service. To be sure, that's not to say that anything goes - I'm not an advocate of some sort of spiritual anarchy! But what I am saying is that power - the ability to act - is used, in the Kingdom, in the service of others and not in the interests of oneself.

Technorati Tags: emerging church, power, Kingdom, gospel

The Heart of the Story

We had an interesting discussion in class on Saturday about the primary narrative. Our prof listed two statements, both of which Christian theology would consider to be true, pretty much across the board. The question that was asked, though, was this: which of these is the primary statement or, put another way, which more truly describes our present existence?

• Human beings are created in the image of God. Since the fall, the image has been defaced - but not erased.
• Human beings are fallen creatures. Now, depraved in nature and rebellious in action, the human reflection of the Divine image has been seriously tarnished.

I have to be honest, I don't like the question. The point that he was making was that various traditions tend to emphasize one of these over the other. My thought is that both must be held in tension. It seems to me that failing to do so, that emphasizing one of these over the other, leads to serious distortions in the way that we approach our faith.

Take, for example, an emphasis on the image of God over against a recognition of our sinfulness. This approach can do much to explain great beauty in the world. It can help to explain why we are moved at stories of selflessness, or why we enjoy good art as opposed to bad, or why we tend towards a little virtue called hope. But, I wonder, can it explain the retched atrocities that we are capable of? Can it explain Darfur, or globalization, or slavery, or why children on playgrounds everywhere need no lessons in cruelty?

On the other hand, an emphasis on our depravity has no difficulty explaining these things. But it, I think, struggles in the other direction. It doesn't explain any of a thousand acts of selflessness in which people of all stripes participate every day. It doesn't explain loyalty, or deep friendship, or any other thing that we would prize that comes with deep costs and at times only tangible benefits.

The Story in which we participate, I'd argue, is one in which both of these premises are true. Human beings are created in the image of God; human beings are completely sinful. That is the essence of the primary narrative, I think. But one thing I would say: pushed to choose, I would have to say that, of the two, I hold the first to be of greater priority. Why? Because Christian hope is, I think, at its core the desire for a restoration to the-way-things-ought-to-be. In the end, we believe that sin, that evil, that depravity and rebellion do not have the final word - hope and a new creation do.

What does this have to do with contextual theology? I'd suggest that, at its core, contextual theology is an attempt to align our stories with the Story. The challenge that we face is that we, generally speaking, have difficulty in holding things in tension. We tend to want things to resolve, to come to completion, to be nice and neat and tidy. But our Story isn't like that. It's messy and challenging and full of tension, particularly between the now and the yet-to-come. But if we miss or ignore one of these pieces, then we're telling a story that's incomplete - and that's not the gospel, I'd suggest.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, story

An Exercise in Contextual Theology

I hit a place this week where I needed to let all this stuff sit for a bit - too many thoughts to come together into something coherent. I think this class has had the best texts so far of any that I've taken at Biblical; the Sedmak book was excellent. The problem with talking about these sorts of things is that it's really hard to be concrete. That's the point, I suppose - local theology is by nature, well, local. Start talking about it outside of a local context - especially at the conceptual level - and it starts to become rather vague. Personally, it's something of a challenge to wrap my brain around; I'm an inductive learner by nature, so I need to get into the guts of something to really understand it.

Today, though, a few of us sat around after class to talk about our upcoming group project on contextual theology. We'd settled on tackling suburban culture in our group, and as we threw ideas around I realized again that those of us in suburban contexts in America are faced with an unbelievably challenging task. How do you live missionally in a geographically decentered world, where there simply is no space to inhabit? How do you love your neighbor when the question, "Who is my neighbor," is no longer rhetorical? How do you speak prophetically in a context where challenge is entertainment and choice is the trump card of the consumer? At some point, I began thinking that what's really needed is a local theology for the suburbs.

I think it's past time that we begin to think of living missionally in the suburbs. Suburban culture needs challenged, true - but more importantly, it needs redemption. (Right, Jared? ;) David Fitch wrote a fantastic post about this a while back that's well worth a read. Todd has written about it as well. I'd like to throw my small contribution into the mix and see if I can connect some dots with my recent string of thoughts on contextual theology.

What does Jesus say to the American suburbs?

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, missional

Good Theology

I'm all over the map lately. I'm working on yet another book that's prompted a few thoughts. This one is Clemens Sedmak's book Doing Local Theology, which is a nice little volume talking about how this contextual theology stuff actually works in practice. (Anyone getting sick of this yet? My class is over in only four more weeks... ;) Anyway, Sedmak proposes three criteria for "good theology" that I thought were just fascinating. He writes this:

What is "good theology" according to Jesus? As we have seen, theology is not exclusively an academic endeavor. It is about personal and communal transformation, based on a relationship with God....Jesus emphasizes the practical consequences, the fruits. He emphasizes the spirit with which theology is done. He emphasizes the need to care for the people and to be with the people.

He goes on to discuss his three criteria for good theology:

• Realness - Realness means that the theology is true to life. Reality also serves as a check to our own thinking, to constructing systems that are intellectually coherent but practically unworkable.
• Fidelity to the founder - In his own words, this means being "faithful and honest to the mission and message and person of Jesus".
• Practical consequences - What is the fruit? What are the practices that naturally flow from the theology? Again, in Sedmak's words, "Theology is a way of following Jesus."

True to reality, true to Jesus, and resulting in true praxis - what more can we ask? I think that's as fine a definition of good theology as I've ever read. If what I write and dream and think and live could fit those three criteria, then I think I would count myself successful.

Technorati Tags: books, contextual theology, Sedmak

Culture as Meaning - p.2

One of the challenges of talking about culture is that it's so much a part of who we are that it's functionally invisible to us. We typically only notice a small part of what makes up our culture - much of our context only becomes apparent in contrast with another context, where the differences illustrate our own cultural patterns. A case in point that Hall discusses is the way in which many of us in western cultures approach time. The notion of time is completely contextual - even trying to define "time" is extraordinarily difficult. We can only grapple with its meaning by assigning context to it through the use of units and measurements. But even these are somewhat arbitrary, and the importance we place on those segmentations is a matter of context. Most of us in western cultures are used to dealing with time in a linear fashion. Each moment is perishable and unique - once it is past, it is unrecoverable. Consequently, we value our delineations of time and place a high priority on adhering to schedules and being mindful of days, hours, minutes, etc. But other cultures may not approach time in this same way - time might be viewed as cyclical rather than linear, and units of time as arbitrary. In some cultures, schedules carry far less weight than they do in mine - I have difficulty grappling with the implications of that, but it enlightens me to an aspect of my own culture which otherwise would be invisible.

Now, to get back to the question of meaning and its relation to context, let's consider this from a different angle that Hall also touches on: space. Spatial relationships and orientation is also a contextual concern - the use of space carries particular meanings in some contexts that it does not carry in others. The best way that I can think of to approach this is by way of example. A few years ago, a friend and I were discussing the arrangement of the worship gathering at our church with the pastor and another member of the church. At the time, we were meeting in a high school auditorium. The pastor was expressing concern that the worship team led from the stage, while he preached the sermon from the floor in front of the stage. Here is the significant point - the meaning that he assigned to the spatial location of worship and preaching was that we were demonstrating that we valued worship over scripture. I argued the opposite - by locating himself closer to the people, we were conveying that we valued scripture, and in particular that we valued it as a community.

In both arguments, the meaning that we assigned to the location of the preacher and the worship team was limited by our context. For the pastor, the meaning was a function of an unstated understanding that elevation conveys significance. For me, the understanding was different - proximity conveys significance. Now, bear in mind that neither meaning is inherently correct - both are contextual projections onto spatial arrangements. The question, though, that must be answered is this: which meaning is in play?

The pastor's decision was to move the preaching to the platform and to teach the reasons that we were doing so, to instill an understanding in the community that we were demonstrating significance through elevation. Here's the problem - the community didn't share that underlying assumption. The range of meanings that could be assigned to the spatial orientation was limited by context, and that meaning simply wasn't available. No amount of communicating would change this - instead, what happened was that a disconnect was created between what was said and what was done, with competing messages coming from word and deed. By distancing himself spatially from the people, he instead created a relational distancing as well - a very slight one, to be sure, but it was present nonetheless and exacerbated other concerns related to his exercise of authority.

The implications for this are huge. If we approach a context with forms already established, we risk actually damaging the message. This is why, on some level, describing the emerging church as concerned with "coffee, candles, and couches" is simultaneously both accurate and dead wrong. Forms in and of themselves are absolutely unimportant - that's why they are critically important. In other words, what is important about form is not the form itself, but what the form communicates, specifically in a given context. Forms should be seen as fluid and ad-hoc, able to change at need to convey the desired meaning in a given context.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, Edward Hall, culture, meaning

Culture as Meaning

I've been reading another book with bearings on my recent thoughts on contextual theology. The book is The Silent Language by Edward Hall - it's a fascinating discussion of the nature of culture from the perspective of an anthropologist. This is actually something of a complicated subject to approach; before picking up the book, I thought I had a good grasp of what culture is. As it turns out, I've been continually surprised by how much I take my own context for granted and how inextricably I am bound to it.

One of the questions that it's raised for me is the purpose of theology, and in particular, the purpose of a contextual, local theology. Hall argues that, on some level, all culture is a matter of communication. Culture represents the conscious and unconscious systems that represent the frameworks in which we approach and describe experience. This includes elements such as language but also includes things like understandings of time and space, to name a few. In other words, culture represents all of the shared mechanisms that people in a particular context use to extract meaning from experience.

This question - meaning - gets to the heart of theology. Theology, after all, concerns itself with questions of ultimate meaning. After all, when we talk about matters of faith, we aren't talking about experiences per se, but rather about their meanings. Theology is, in some sense, the attempt to make sense of experience in light of faith. I think this definition would be somewhat contentious in some circles; many want to remove experience from the equation entirely. But even if we hold to the belief that theology is an attempt to understand revelation, isn't the act of revelation in and of itself an experience? At the very least, we have to make sense of what we have received and attempt to put it into practice.

Hall's point through much of the book is that culture - context - frames the way in which we approach this question of meaning in such a way as to define the possible meanings that we extract from those experiences. Put another way, I can approach a given experience from a variety of angles, but those angles are defined by my context and, ultimately, do not exhaust all possible meanings.

Wow, that's horribly abstract. Here is the point - as a male, as an American, as a thirty-one year old, as a resident of suburban Philadelphia, as an employee of a large financial firm, as a theology student, etc - I can think about theology in a number of ways. But there are a number of ways that are not available to me, simply because my context doesn't make them available.

I think I need an example for this.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, Edward Hall, culture, meaning

Bevans's Models and the Emerging Church

I've put off posting this for a bit because I'm sorting through the implications of Bevans's categories as I think about the emerging church. I think I have a framework I'm comfortable with, so I'm going to throw out some thoughts and see where they land. Besides, I do my best thinking in process anyway. ;)

As I discussed in my earlier post, Bevans presents six models for approaching the question of contextual theology. I want to reiterate his thoughts that no model exists in isolation - all of the models are, to some degree or another, in play at all times. But by identifying a primary model that is in place in a given system, we can identify something of the shape of that particular model and also discuss its similarities and dissimilarities to other systems. In other words, this isn't meant to identify deficiencies in any particular system so much as it is to identify the distinctions and provide a framework for thinking through the differences. With that said, here are my thoughts: the emerging church is characterized, for the most part, by an approach that is rooted in praxis while many of the critics are more comfortable in a translation framework.

One of the common statements that seems to be heard when discussing critics like Carson (for example) is that the emerging church is primarily a movement of practitioners, not academics (and let's not have the movement/conversation discussion, k?). On the surface, I've always thought this sounded like a weak defense. On some level, practitioners are in just as much need of good theology as academics - more, in fact, given their close connection to the body-at-large. But I understand the concern that's being articulated, even if it could be framed better - practitioners have different concerns than academics, and, generally speaking, don't spend their time constructing airtight systems but rather look at theology from a rubber-meets-the-road perspective. And this, of course, is exactly what is described by the praxis model, as defined by Bevans - "acting reflectively and reflecting upon one's actions". Putting this into the context in which many of us serve, the movement (in a personal sense) towards an emerging theology was driven precisely by this reflection - reflection on the fact that the old formulations were inadequate, that they addressed concerns which no longer existed, and that they produced Christians who looked strangely unlike this Jesus who we claimed to follow. So we started to change our approach. I'm going to speak personally here, but the stories I've read lead me to believe that I'm far from alone in this. My context was youth ministry, and my problem was that the gospel I was preaching of what amounted to salvation through right doctrine failed to create followers of Jesus. So I began to change my approach. I swapped games for prayer, speaking for discussion, loud for quiet, spectating for participating, and entertainment for service. And I lost students in my ministry - but I gained Jesus-followers, a trade about which I have no regrets. And as I reflected on what had happened, I came to believe that somewhere along the line I had gotten the gospel wrong, and that what I thought was translation was actually something else, something distorting.

And there, I'd argue, is the rub. Many of our critics are firm believers in the translation model, assuming that all we do is take unchanging truth and translate it into the context. And there is a sense in which they're correct; the gospel doesn't change. But the question that I confronted was whether we ever encounter that gospel outside of the bounds of a culture - is there such a thing as a disembodied, uncontextual gospel? Can we simply translate what has come before, without doing the hard work to discern if what we received is accurate and in line with our Story as told in scripture? I think that the gospel, as we tell it and receive it and pass it along, always carries along contextual baggage - our tellings of the gospel are always a mix of participation in and critique of culture. And there, I think, is the second sore spot - both the emerging church and its critics hold to a countercultural model, and hold to it strongly. The distinction lies in defining in what way we are countercultural - but that is a subject for another post.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, contextual theology, Bevans, praxis, translation

Thoughts About Suffering

One of the things that I've been working through in my recent coursework is something of a theology of suffering. In truth, I'm not really satisfied with that description - it conveys the impression that we can think abstractly about questions of suffering, when in fact I think we always filter these things through our own experiences of struggle, loss, grief, pain, etc. But there is a sense in which we can have a framework through which we approach these questions, and to that extent, I think it's fair to think of a theology of suffering, with the caveat that it's more than an abstract reflection.

One of the things that, I think, we struggle with the most when we face loss of any kind is the question of the relationship between God's sovereignty and our pain. It's the classic theodicy question - if God is all-powerful, and God is good, why does evil/pain/suffering exist? But I've been thinking lately that part of the reason that we have difficulty with this question is because we start in the wrong place. Instead of approaching it from the standpoint of sovereignty, what happens if we begin with the incarnation, with the realization that, in Christ, God became human and suffered as well? I thought I'd post a few thoughts from a paper I just completed. I think that, as I continue to reflect on this question of suffering, this needs to be the starting point.

Even Christians, who hold the incarnation and the person of Jesus Christ to be the penultimate revelation of God’s self to humanity, often fail to start with that self-revelation in considering the question of loss. Often we instead begin with the question of sovereignty, and extrapolate our thoughts of incarnation as the derivative consideration. This, on some level, is actually profoundly un-Christian...So what does this mean for the Christian? It is my opinion that what is challenged most forcefully by this recognition is western Christianity’s conception of power. We are a culture that has the power to remove much of our suffering. We are, at least those of us from the majority middle- and upper-class demographics, well-fed and comfortable. We have readily available health care, adequate to lavish housing, and enough economic stability to indulge our desires as well as meet our needs. Our conceptions of power, then, center on its use to create and maintain these suffering-free zones in our lives. The thought of anyone willingly entering into a position of lack is inherently foreign to us – comfort and ease are the highest virtues of life and the marks of success and blessing. As a result of this conception of the use of power, we enter into contemplation of God’s sovereignty assuming these values to be universals. What is challenged when we face loss, then, is not in fact the sovereignty of God at all – rather, it is the idol of a comfortable deity who desires comfort for his creatures.

What do you think?

Technorati Tags: theology, suffering, sovereignty, power

Bevans's Six Models

So it's been over a month now since I decided to work through Bevans's Models of Contextual Theology and, while I've played around with the subject since then, I haven't actually gotten to the meat of the book yet or why I think it's significant for the emerging church. Hey - at least I've stuck with it this time! At any rate, I thought I'd post a brief description of each of the models that Bevans uses along with a few of his caveats and then, using this as a springboard, talk about why the emerging church rubs some folks the wrong way. And if I can do it without making anyone too angry, so much the better. ;)

Bevans says this about models:

[I]t is my contention that no one model can be used exclusively and an exclusive use will distort the theological enterprise. While every one of these models is in some sense a translation of a message, an adequate theology cannot be reduced to a mere application or adaptation of a changeless body of truths. Even the biblical message was developed in a dialogue with human experience, culture, and cultural and social change, and a theology that neither issues forth in action nor takes account of the way one lives one's life can hardly be theology that is worth very much. At the same time, any theology that is not in some sense countercultural cannot be a truly Christian theology. (p. 33)

So with that in mind, Bevans outlines the following models by which we can approach the question of contextual theology:

• The Translation Model - This model focuses on the gospel as an unchanging message, and seeks to translate that message into the verancular of the context in question. The context matters only insomuch as it sets the agenda for the translation.
• The Anthropological Model - This model sees cultures as the places of God's revelation, and approaches each context asking the question, "Where is God already at work here?" It emphasizes present experience moreso than received tradition.
• The Praxis Model - Bevans has a great quote here; I'm tempted to steal it for my tagline. He describes praxis as "acted-upon reflection and reflected-upon action" (p. 72). Theology arises from this interplay of reflection and action - it is a model in which thought and deed are linked.
• The Synthetic Model - Bevans describes this as sort of a middle-of-the-road model, one that tries to take seriously both the tradition that has been received while taking seriously the context in all ways, including, as he states, the fact that context sets the theological agenda in some sense. He goes on to further describe this as a dialectic in some sense between faith and culture, with each informing and correcting the other. (I think I'm doing justice to him here - this one was somewhat vague.)
• The Transcendental Model - Ok, I'm going to confess right away that I didn't particularly follow this one at all. What I gathered here is that this model is more concerned with how one goes about the theological task than it is about what is decided or understood. It seems to be rooted primarily in the experience of revelation as an event or happening instead of as something received or passed on. Bottom line - I wasn't experiencing much of anything except frustration here.
• The Counter-Cultural Model - This model focuses on the challenge that the gospel issues to every culture. But, Bevans notes (rightly, I believe), that while the gospel offends, we should take care that the offense is from the gospel itself and not from our own poor attempts at enculturation. This is an absolutely significant point, one that I'm going to return to eventually. Suffice for now to say that Newbigin and Hauerwas, two of my significant conversation partners in my own theological journey, were both mentioned here, as was the Gospel in Our Culture Network.

I'd be interested to hear of any thoughts that strike you immediately as you read through this list. My own personal excitement from reading this book was in finding language to express what I think is my own theological approach in some of these models - for me, it was sort of like a theological personality inventory, I suppose. At the least, I can talk about why I approach theology the way that I do.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, contextual theology, Bevans

N.T. Wright on Contextual Theology

Ok, not exactly - but I finished The Last Word over the weekend (thanks Jared!) and found a number of insights that are cogent for what I'm trying to think through:

To affirm "the authority of scripture" is precisely not to say, "We know what scripture means and we don't need to raise any more questions." It is always a way of saying that the church in each generation must make fresh and rejuvenated efforts to understand scripture more fully and live by it more thoroughly, even if that means cutting across cherished traditions.

Which is the bottom line: "proving the Bible to be true" (often with the effect of saying, "So we can go on thinking what we've always thought,") or taking it so seriously that we allow it to tell us things we'd never heard before and didn't particularly want to hear?

Fantastic little book - I read it in a few hours and found an incredibly helpful way of articulating some thoughts that I've had percolating under the surface for a while now. But to the point at hand - Wright reminds us of what I mentioned previously about the necessity of doing theology contextually. Critics of the emerging church (to take one example) often suggest that to consider context as a dialogue partner for theology subordinates doctrine to culture, or some such. But that's more a danger, I think, of theology that is unconsciously contextual. Our context always affects our theology. So what is better - to recognize context and attempt to consciously engage scripture from a recognized vantage point, or to ignore context and pretend to an objectivity that is impossible to realize? Isn't the one who is unconscious of culture at more risk of syncretism than one who is consciously attempting to engage scripture from a certain vantage point?

I would suggest, along with Wright (I believe), that approaching the theological task with context firmly in mind is to recognize the authority of scripture. It is to ask scripture to speak into a context, to challenge and redeem it. Failing to do so is to perhaps miss God's activity in the present and to instead seek for God's activity only in what has already been said, instead of what God is now saying.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, contextual theology, N.T. Wright

Taking Things Personally

I'm in the habit of taking small breaks from the blogosphere. It helps me to keep perspective on the whole thing. This time was different than most, though - I had a lot to say on a particular topic, none of which I would have been proud to have written. Practicing a discipline of silence for a few days hasn't really cooled my emotions much on the subject but has, perhaps, brought something of temperance to my thoughts. I'm frustrated as ever, but perhaps I've found a way to discuss it - we shall see, I suppose, if that proves to be true.

So here's the deal:
Brian wrote something. People didn't like it. Mark stepped into the mix.

And at that point things got ugly. You should be able to follow the links from there, if you missed it.

Here's what bothers me about the whole affair: at what point did sin cease to be personal and simply become a discussion of issues? Say what you will about Brian's initial post - one thing he absolutely nails is that sin is never abstract. Pause and think about that for a second - there is no such thing as an abstract sin. It is always, always, always personal and embodied. It's never a discussion of ideas held in isolation - it is always a discussion of people and their struggles and hurts and fears and anger and rebellion and failing to live up to the standards of a God who is beyond the reach of any of us.

At some point, we decided that we can talk about sin without discussing those who suffer from it.

I'm deliberately avoiding discussion of the particular topic in question. I realize that at least part of the tension is some questions about ethics, about whether a particular way of being is appropriate or not, about whether it pleases God or not. And I realize that some folks might want to have that conversation, and it absolutely needs to happen. But it can't happen in the abstract, because no matter what you believe about this particular topic or about any topic where the question of sin is raised, it involves people. People with names and faces who are loved by God and who, therefore, deserve to be treated with dignity and respect by those of us who claim to follow Him. Witness Jamie's series of posts on the topic for an example of how this could be handled differently.

We have a saying in the evangelical world. It's trite, really, and doesn't solve anything, but it's frequently trotted out as though it answers all of the problems of approaching this sort of thing appropriately. "Hate the sin, love the sinner," we say. Only - let's be honest - this is what we mean:
Hate the sin, love the sinner.
Is it possible to hate something in the abstract? I'm not sure. I can say that I've never really seen it happen. Or, let's be more specific - even if it is possible, if our energy is spent on hating sin which, by its very nature, is embodied and personal, it's going to be extremely hard to convince anyone of the love that we claim to hold.

I'm reminded of Jesus' words in Luke 11:46: "And you experts in the law, woe to you, because you load people down with burdens they can hardly carry, and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them." What if we were to become known as burden-bearers, as those who come alongside those who are weighed down and offer to help lighten the load? To walk with them in their struggles and offer encouragement, support, prayer, and yes, when appropriate, correction? But most importantly, perhaps we can point them to the One who carries our burdens for us, instead of being those who make the load even more unbearable.

Technorati Tags: sin, grace

Why Contextual Theology?

I'm finally getting to my posts about Bevans's Models of Contextual Theology. I ran into a surprise at the end - my initial thoughts were that the emerging church tends to work out of a model of praxis while the traditions often critical of the emerging church work out of a countercultural model, leading to some (but not all) of the criticisms. When I finally read the chapter on the countercultural model, I changed my mind completely. I still think that some of the differences are rooted in these models, but I think it's significantly different than I first thought. But I'm getting way ahead of myself - first things first. I want to talk about why we should be thinking in terms of a contextual theology in the first place. I then plan to briefly review Bevans's six models, wrapping up with my thoughts on how this line of thought is helpful for engaging the approach of emerging churches.

Bevans describes contextual theology in this way:

We can say, then, that doing theology contextually means doing theology in a way that takes into account two things. First, it takes into account the faith experience of the past that is recorded in scriptures and kept alive, preserved, defended - and perhaps even neglected or suppressed - in tradition...Second, contextual theology takes into account the experience of the present, the context. While theology needs to be faithful to the full experience and contexts of the past, it is authentic theology only "when what has been received is appropriated, made our own."

This line of thought to me seems self-evident. But for many people - especially some critical of the emerging church - this is not only less than obvious, it's actually offensive. A favorite verse of these folks is Jude 3: "Dear friends, although I was very eager to write to you about the salvation we share, I felt I had to write and urge you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to the saints." This actually makes me chuckle. Jude is one of the most self-consciously contextual books in the New Testament, making liberal use of such Second Temple era writings as the Assumption of Moses and the Book of Enoch.

So why do contextual theology? When we do contextual theology, we take the faith which has been passed down to us and make it our own. We preserve it, live it, believe it, treasure it, share it, and pass it down to those who come after us, encouraging them to do the same. We do so conscious of what we bring to the theological enterprise, and we do so with a mind to speak faithfully to a particular context. If this sounds unremarkable, that's because we do it all the time - the importance of thinking contextually about theology isn't because we have an option, but rather because it allows us to be conscious of the tools that we choose to bring to the task at hand.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, theology, contextual theology, Bevans

Check Out...

...a great interview with Miroslav Volf over at Jared's blog.

Technorati Tags: interview, Volf

Let Them Stand

I am going to get to Bevans's book. Honest. Jared asked a question that I want to play around with (and not just in the hopes of getting a copy of Wright's The Last Word ;). Jared asks:

Do we treat the scriptures with greater respect by approaching them with an a priori commitment to their infallibility, or by letting them stand or fall on their own... and why?

An interesting question, to say the least - I spent some time thinking on it this weekend, because I'm not honestly convinced by it. What I mean is that I'm not sure infallibility is even a good category in which to think of the scriptures - but then I thought perhaps that's what Jared was getting at in the question, so I'll throw out some thoughts for consideration. (I'm assuming here that "infallibility" and "inerrancy" are basically the same position - at times infallibility is defined as being limited to matters of faith and practice, but I think it's more often used interchangeably with inerrancy, so that's the definition I'm using as well.)

My big problem with the whole category of infallibility is that it places us in the same relationship with the text that I've been talking about - our relation and submission to the text is defined in terms of its factual accuracy. On some level, it's the scripture-as-answer-book syndrome taken to its logical conclusion. The challenge that this presents is that there are many texts that are factually accurate but that I don't consider authoritative. Scot McKnight mentioned some time ago that we expect infallibility from the phone book, but that doesn't place it in authority over us. The premise, though, that underlies the argument of infallibility is, in part, that the text is trustworthy because it is accurate. An accurate text reflects the trustworthiness of God - if the scriptures were found to contain the smallest of errors, then the entire structure of Christian belief would come crashing down like so many jenga blocks.

There is, of course, some sense in which this is true. If, for example, the biblical narrative discussed Atlantis as opposed to Israel, then certainly I think we'd have something of an issue. We do take for granted, many of us at least, that there is an historical referent for the narrative - we believe that Jesus really was a man who really lived and really died and really rose again, or at least those of us who find ourselves interested in questions like infallibility believe along these lines. The problem, I think, lies with the nature of what we mean by "infallible". I'd suggest that "infallible" imparts a twenty-first century understanding of historical reporting and factual retelling that may not be fair to premodern storytellers - in short, the human authors of scripture themselves.

What I'm suggesting is that the narratives we find in scripture are all biased. They tell the story from a particular perspective and with a particular goal, and are unembarrassed by this approach. There is no sense of impartiality or objectivity - the scriptures unabashedly describe the unfolding history from a particular perspective, offering a particular "spin", if you will, on the events themselves. All scripture carries a certain apocalyptic undertone, in which the often hidden activities of God are revealed to the reader in such a way as to present the perspective of God on human history. That the tellers of the tale sometimes play fast and loose with their material - the raw "facts" of the story - should not be considered from the perspective of modern journalism but rather from that of the authors themselves.

A case in point - compare the narratives of David counting the fighting men in 2 Samuel and 1 Chronicles. On the surface, these narratives are simply two retellings of the same events. But the devil is in the details, so to speak, and in this case literally. 2 Samuel 24 tells the story as God inciting David against Israel. But 1 Chronicles 21 recounts it as Satan. 2 Samuel counts 1,300,000 fighting men, 1 Chronicles 1,100,000. 2 Samuel says he paid 50 shekels of silver for the threshing floor, 1 Chronicles 600 shekels of gold.

Now, at this point I need to stop and ask myself a few questions. Is this a "factual" account? In some sense, yes - and a lot of ink has been spilled trying to account for the differences. Just google "David census differences Chronicles Samuel" and you'll see what I mean. But let's pause for a second and realize that, by virtually every estimation that I've ever read, the Chronicler would have had access to Samuel. So the question we should be asking isn't so much about whether the two accounts contradict one another, bringing the tower of jenga blocks tumbling to the ground. Instead, why not ask what the author intended by changing the details in the way that he did? In this case, a focus on "infallibility" may actually prevent us from hearing the voice of God through the scriptures. The gospels, by the way, are full of this sort of rearranging and retelling and have caused folks headaches for years along these lines.

This is an incomplete answer to a complicated question - good thought provoker, Jared! My answer, in short, is to let the scriptures stand on their own merits. Focusing on the minutiae often required by an a priori commitment to infallibility may actually result, at times, in missing the point that the author may be trying to make.

As an aside, I should note that I really haven't said anything here that, as I read it, goes against more nuanced definitions of inerrancy or infallibility. I don't in any way deny the truthfulness or authority of scripture - I just think that there comes a point at which continuing to nuance these definitions is no longer helpful, and perhaps we should start instead by rethinking our categories.

Technorati Tags: scripture, hermeneutics, inerrancy, infallibility

The Question of Suffering

I started class again tonight; it's a promising course called Spirit and Church. We're hitting a number of topics based on the epistles. Tonight, we started off with the topic of suffering. It is, of course, a weighty subject; I still feel somewhat subdued as I think over the various threads of conversation. One thing in particular, though, struck me as significant, particularly in light of my previous post. We were reading and discussing an article by Chuck Colson in which he was reflecting on the lack of resources that the evangelical tradition offers when dealing with issues of suffering. (He turned, interestingly enough, to the mystics such as Theresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross. I was somewhat surprised - I never thought of him as having a mystical bent.) What struck me forcefully, though, was the realization of the nature of suffering as opposed to the typical approach to scripture-as-answer-book I discussed previously.

It's sort of obvious, isn't it? The reason that the evangelical tradition offers virtually nothing in terms of a meaningful theology of suffering is that suffering, by its very nature, resists answers. Our prof read an excerpt from Nicholas Wolterstorff's Lament for a Son that is stunningly beautiful yet simultaneously tragic. Wolterstorff writes:

What is suffering? When something prized or loved is ripped away or never granted - work, someone loved, recognition of one's dignity, life without physical pain - that is suffering.

Or rather, that's when suffering happens. What it is, I do not know...I understand nothing of it. Of pain, yes: cut fingers, broken bones. Of suffering, nothing at all. Suffering is a mystery as deep as any in our existence.

I've written previously about some of my marker stones, so to speak, on my spiritual journey. Most of them are captured under this thread about hope. I think that all of us have defining moments, experiences in our lives that form us and shape us so deeply that, once experienced, change us forever. Some of these are joyful experiences; often, they are not.

What do we do when we are confronted with the wildness of God? I don't pretend to understand it. I have questions but no answers. I find myself in the position of Wolterstorff, confronted and confounded by mystery that I cannot grasp, and holding nothing but a theology that claims to have "all the answers," nicely packaged and bound in new leather and red letters. But when I turn the pages, I am not confronted by answers. I am faced with questions, pages upon pages of questions that remain unanswered. "Why do the wicked prosper?" "Why, O Lord, do you reject me and hide your face from me?" "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

But it's in the questions that I find comfort. Particularly the last, one uttered by Christ himself as he faced greater suffering than any of us have ever known. Christ who suffered, Christ who questioned, the Word himself unanswered, pouring himself out in lament.

I read these words and know that I find myself in the best of company.

Technorati Tags: hope, suffering, Wolterstorff, questions

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

Thoughts on Contextual Theology

One of the books that I've been working my way through is Models of Contextual Theology by Stephen Bevans. It's a fantastic little book that's very easy to read but packs a lot of content into the pages. Bevans's basic premise is that all theology is contextual - in other words, all theology is influenced by the "present human experience" of the person or community crafting the theology. As Bevans states:

There is no such thing as "theology"; there is only contextual theology...The contextualization of theology - the attempt to understand Christian faith in terms of a particular context - is really a theological imperative. As we have come to understand theology today, it is a process that is a part of the very nature of theology itself.

I wonder what it says for my faith journey that I take this premise to be simply a matter of course? He might just as well have said that the sky is blue. And yet, five years ago that statement would have set my teeth on edge... At any rate, I think this little volume is absolutely fascinating. Bevans sketches six models or approaches to contextual theology - or, in truth, theology as practiced in general, given that all theology is contextual - giving some positives and negatives to each approach, as well as several examples.

I'm going to follow Bevans here for a few posts. I'd like to briefly summarize the models he's suggesting and then discuss how I've seen them applied in emerging churches. One of the things that became clear to me almost immediately was that Bevans has provided some excellent language here to talk about some of the ways that emerging churches differ from more traditional bodies; some of the conflict and criticism, I think, can be traced to these distinctions. Having a language to talk about the how and why of theology is often as important as its content - I think that developing that language will be of immense benefit for those of us with connections to the emerging church.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, theology, contextual theology, Bevans

Some Thoughts on the Kingdom...

are up at via media.

A Tale of Two Stories

I've been back in class for little more than a week, and I've already submitted close to twenty pages of written work - hence my quietness here. Things won't slow down much until probably next week, when I'm past the bulk of my assignments for the current course. I'll squeeze in posting when I get the chance, but things will probably remain light for the next week or so.

I did want to throw out some thoughts on the whole intelligent design debate, which just came to a head in my home state of Pennsylvania. Normally, I'd leave this sort of thing alone; it should be quite obvious that there are enough deeper issues surrounding cases like these that it's never really just about what happens in the classroom. I've been thinking about this, though, in light of a different concern, one that's informed by NT Wright's discussion of worldview in NTPG. Wright talks about the role that story plays in shaping our worldview and about the way in which story provides what in essence becomes the grid through which we interpret our experiences.

An example is probably helpful here. Americans have a set of stories that we tell also, stories of how we began as a nation, how we became who we are, stories of freedom and independence and triumphing over insurmountable odds. Those stories shape the basis for the way that we view reality. Others tell stories about us as well, stories that aren't so kind (but that deserve our hearing), stories about imperialism and oppression and might-makes-right. The worlds created by these two different sets of stories might, for example, determine whether one thinks of 9/11 as the work of "terrorists" or "martyrs". This is a fairly large oversimplification, but hopefully it gives some idea of what I mean when I talk about story forming the grid through which we view reality.

Back to intelligent design. This debate, really, has nothing at all to do with whether evolution happened. This is far more about the stories that we tell, stories of origins and beginnings and purpose and destiny. Both sides are fighting over the validity of their particular stories - and the validity of the stories that others tell. Neither side is really interested in a discussion of "what really happened". Unfortunately, both sides believe that's what this is about - as though we simply work with uninterpreted facts that don't adhere to a story for context and meaning.

I think what troubles me about this whole topic more than anything is that I have a nagging suspicion that there's another story that's being missed here. Is the story that we tell really all about how old this rock is that we call home, about whether our distant ancestors walked upright and dressed in this season's hottest fig leaves? Or is it more about why things are broken, why we search for transcendence, why we fail to live at peace, why we have inexplicable hope through suffering? We tell stories, not just for entertainment, but for meaning. The problem with engaging in the debate in the way in which some have chosen is that, in the argument over the facts, the meaning is ignored, all to prove a point about one particular view of scripture - about how to read the story in the first place. It's ironic, almost enough so to be painful. The story tells about brokenness, and we watch the meaning play itself out in the debate over the story itself.

A Theology of Peace p. 1

In my last post I threw out a few thoughts on what troubles me about much of our approach to war and violence in Christian thought (specifically American, but I suspect that many followers of Christ in other contexts have, do, and will struggle with this as well). What I didn't do was to put any alternatives on the table. I want to give this topic a bit of a go - I think that it's something that's on many minds and hearts of late, and personally something that I've been trying to work my way through for most of the year thus far, after encountering John Howard Yoder's incredibly challenging work The Politics of Jesus. I want to talk about how I'm trying to think about this, with the disclaimer that I'm not settled on some of these thoughts and that I'm still in process on this. Along the way, though, I think I've come upon a way of thinking about ethics in general that is helpful in broader contexts, which I'm going to talk a bit about as well.

I think that any attempt at approaching Christian ethics at some point has to take into account what Jesus himself did and taught. This sounds so obvious as to be insulting - but in truth it's not. For all of the talk about relativism and situational ethics and absolute truth that gets floated in evangelical circles of late, unfortunately there is possibly no more relativized, situationalized, and subjectivized portion of scripture than what seems to me the most direct statement of Jesus' ethic in all of biblical revelation. I'm speaking, of course, of the sermon on the Mount. I'm not going to get into all of the many ways that we've found to ignore what Jesus teaches here - it's exhausting and frustrating and, frankly, not worth the effort. I think the easiest way to understand what's going on in Jesus' teaching here is to take it at face value, to believe that he wasn't being rhetorical or facetious or trying to raise the bar of Law so high that we'd realize we need grace after all. I think when he talks of loving one's enemy that he means it, and that we should probably pay closer attention than we often do.

What do we have going on in Jesus' teaching on the Mount? I think that, on its most basic level, the sermon is all about what it means to be a disciple of Jesus, to serve him and follow him and emulate him. I think that we're, in a sense, reading the Constitution of the People of God - it's a profoundly political document that talks, in essence, about how to live as exiles among people who are hostile towards us and have the power to do something with that hostility. This is Jesus the King talking about how his kingdom comes into being - or, perhaps more specifically, about how it doesn't.

What is presented instead is a profound orientation towards power, an amazing, beautiful, challenging, subversive approach that willfully sets aside a stance of hostility and replaces it with an approach of love. It's about loving an occupying enemy that has taken away the nation's sovereignty. It's about not just submitting to the demands of enemy soldiers but to exceed them in love, carrying a load twice as far as was legal to command. It's about not responding to violence with violence but instead absorbing it and subverting it. It's a rejection of vengeance and an acceptance of service in love.

We who are Christians often say that we believe the clearest revelation of God that has been given to humanity is found in the incarnation, in the person of God becoming a man and moving into the neighborhood. If that is true - and I believe that it is - then I think we would do well to allow our approach to war and violence to start with Christ. Everything else, I think, revolves around this.

War, Peace, and Christ

A few days ago I posted a bit of something about the church and politics (of the more mundane kind) that I want to revisit and perhaps expand a bit. The basic premise from which I'm approaching the topic is this: the church is first of all a body politic unto itself, and any other political expression that the church may have is a derivative of this primary self-identity. Put negatively, the church needs no other authorization, validation, or confirmation of its self-expression, other than submission to Christ in all things. So I've just thrown around a lot of big words that may or may not mean anything - let me unpack somewhat and see if I can make something coherent out of this. I'm going to put on the table something that I've been wrestling with for over half a year now - the Christian approach and response to war. I'm under no illusions of resolving this issue in a few paragraphs. I'm not even going to scratch the surface, to be honest. What I would like to do is throw out some thoughts about how this topic is often approached, and why I think these approaches are exactly the wrong approaches to the subject.

I'm writing this as a thirty year old American male. I grew up during the eighties. I remember living under the enduring threat of impeding nuclear war; I remember learning that the Soviets were the Bad Guys and that we were the Good Guys, and that the only reason we had nukes was to protect ourselves from the Bad Guys. Never mind that we carried the dubious honor of being the only nation to have actually used the things on another country, and civilians at that - sometimes the Good Guys have to do tough things to stop the Bad Guys from killing more people. (It's amazing how crazy this all sounds now.) I tell you this so that you will know the perspective from which I'm writing, and my baggage that I carry as I do so.

I think that, in American culture, most of the discussion around war centers on a few common viewpoints. The most common statement I hear, usually cited in the defense of a posture of war, is that war is necessary to defend our freedoms. Freedom is a big thing for us as a people. It's the reason grown men cried at Braveheart; it's the reason all of our holidays revolve around shopping - sad but true. I'm not particularly interested in discussing the ups and downs of this cultural fetish here - what I am interested in, however, is the argument that's advanced when someone dares to advocate a position of pacifism. Most frequently, the response is that the ability to embrace pacifism is only granted by the freedoms that have been achieved through war. The quote is roughly this: "That's fine, son, but talk to the terrorists about peace when you're living in an Islamic regime. Our troops are what stand between you and slavery, and the only reason you can hold that opinion is because our boys died so that you can be a spineless coward." And here's where I have to voice my objection, because this statement could not be more wrong. We as the people of God do not embody our faith because the state gives us permission to do so, or provides space in which to do so, or defends our right to do so. We embody our faith because we follow Christ, and for no other reason.

I could take this the other direction as well, because there's a pragmatic approach to pacifism that, I think, embraces it for all the wrong reasons (speaking from the position of someone within the Christian tradition). But the point is this - the people of God do not need the validation of the state in order to enact what we believe. Weapons and troops do not buy us the freedom to believe or to worship or to pray or to serve or to act in the ways in which we do. Living in a free society certainly makes it less costly than in other parts of the globe - but we do not exist at the mercy of the state. Jesus' approach to power was to submit to Rome's authority, not in order to participate in it, but to subvert it and transform it. That's what makes his ethic so radical.

I'm not settled in how I think about this topic. I think there is something to be said for the just war approach (although there's been an interesting series of posts at Icthus on that position). The point of my thoughts here is more to illustrate what I take to be a bad approach to the subject, one that actually prevents the church from being the church and instead subordinates the church to another authority that exists in opposition to Christ.

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.

Politics of a Different Kind

I'm going to play around with this thought of politics for a bit. My current course deals with the book of Galatians, and we've been having a fun row discussion about what exactly the thrust of the book is and what Paul is arguing against. I raised the whole question of gospel and what implications are carried by understanding the gospel in a political sense, meaning that to proclaim the gospel is to proclaim Jesus as Lord. The more I think about it, the more I believe that this framing of the gospel cracks Galatians wide open as a radical political text - but that's going to be my next post. For now, I think I want to lay out what it is I mean when I speak of the gospel, Jesus, or Paul as political. It's not in the normal sense of the word, at least as it's used commonly in American English (one of my favorite oxymorons).

Typically when we think of politics, we think of governments, of parties, of voting and legislation and such - at least those of us whose contexts are first world democracies. Persons from other cultural contexts might think in various other frames of reference, some of which might also carry over into particular groups within democratic societies, namely those of oppression, of violence, of corruption or possibly even revolution. (I've heard it said, and I don't recall where, that democracies are governments that simply plan their revolutions. In America, we have the potential to overthrow our government every two, four, or six years, or at least we would if the candidates weren't always cut from the same cloth, no matter the label. But I digress.) My point is that the active frame of reference for the term "politics" is typically government - but that's not the sense in which I'm using the term, at least not broadly, although government is certainly subsumed in my larger reference.

There are two specific definitions identified at dictionary.com that I think are helpful for describing the terms in which I'm attempting to position the gospel (references available at the site). Politics can be thought of as the often internally conflicting interrelationships among people in a society or similarly as social relations involving authority or power. It should become immediately evident what I'm getting at by referring to the gospel as significantly, perhaps even fundamentally, political. It's my contention that the intent of Jesus as demonstrated repeatedly in the gospel was not only to face death on the cross - although his death and resurrection certainly provide the central event around which we can interpret the rest of his life and ministry. But my point is that the life and ministry of Jesus were not incidental to his purposes, that he wasn't simply biding time until the cross. I think that it's fairly self-evident by even the most cursory readings of the gospels that Jesus intended to create a new community, a new people, marked by a new approach to being people in community and characterized by a radical, subversive approach to authority and power. If this contention is true, and I am fairly confident in it, then what we must recognize is that the gospel calls us, as participants in and members of that very community, to follow in the footsteps of Christ in our relationships, in our approach to authority and power, and in our understandings of citizenship and politics in the more traditional sense.

Jesus, Gospel, and Politics

I read an interesting article in USA Today this week about the changing face of evangelical politics (thanks to Stephen for the link). It's a fascinating read, especially in the insanity that passes for American politics these days. On the upside, I think it's good to hear from evangelicals that are able to see beyond the platform of one party, and the causes mentioned in the article are some excellent ones that should be in most cases no-brainers for those who would consider themselves followers of Christ. On the other hand, this drops into my lap in the middle of some deep reflection on the relationship between gospel and government, church and state, Democrats, Republicans, and Jesus - reflections that have left me somewhat unsettled. So I throw out my nascent thoughts for some comment and critique, in hopes that I will hear some wisdom that will settle my mind and soul.

First, let me just say that if you can read John Howard Yoder's The Politics of Jesus and not find yourself somewhat unsettled, then you're either a far better follower of Jesus than I or you didn't read it very carefully. I read this book a few months ago, and I sort of feel like my mental software's been invaded by a virus that's slowly but surely rewiring my neurons. Add to that a lot of recent reading of N.T. Wright and his take on the gospel (great articles here and here for a start), and a picture is starting to emerge that is entirely unexpected, and truth be told, somewhat disturbing, at least in terms of implications.

What both of these authors propose is a Jesus who was surprisingly political and a gospel that was proclaimed specifically as a challenge to the ruling powers of the day. On some level, it makes perfect sense in a profoundly simple sort of way. If you agree with Wright's proposal on the substance of the gospel, and I've read enough by now to say that I'm leaning strongly in that direction, then I think it has to reshape the common understanding of both content of and response to its message. Wright's proposal is that the primary content of the gospel is simply that Jesus is Lord. All the other stuff that usually gets mixed up in the package (justification, grace, faith, etc.), while immensely important, are not the content of the gospel per se, in his understanding. This should strike an immediate chord with what Jesus' primary message seemed to be - the Kingdom of God has come. This simple proposal solves all sorts of problems for me, not least of which is what can seem at times like a rather odd relationship between the gospels and the rest of the New Testament, but I'll resist the urge to chase that bunny.

So what about that makes the gospel political? It's actually quite simple, and all the more profound for being so - if Jesus is Lord, then Caesar is not. Even the word gospel suggests this connection, a borrowed word from the political realm that was used, not of the sort of good news like the brownies are ready to eat, but rather specifically of good news such as the birth of a king or of victory in battle. The gospel represents, then, not simply a message of forgiveness of sins, although it is certainly not less than that. It represents a public challenge to the ruling powers and the formation of an alternate community ordered around a different authority.

So my questions in conjunction with this line of thought - and I'll be the first to admit it's not very well developed, and my summary here is woefully inadequate - are simply these: are we overly concerned with political activism, so much so that we abdicate our responsibility of crafting an alternate community practicing alternate politics? What does it mean to be both a good citizen and a follower of Christ, and is it even possible to be both at the same time? Do we look too quickly to government to solve our problems, whether through legislation or funding or, yes, even force and violence? And, perhaps the most difficult, are we simply too close to the system to realize how much we are indebted to it?

I don't have answers to these at this point - I'm throwing these out for consideration and discussion. Thoughts anyone?

Rethinking Apocalypse

Jared's recent thoughts on preterism have gotten my own wheels turning a bit on the topic of eschatology. I like Jared's well-stated summary, and I'll admit to having leanings in that direction. But in truth I'm not really settled on how I think about it - I have an uneasy relationship with the whole affair, to be honest. Eschatology is one of those topics that I think a lot of normal people who are trying to follow Jesus spend a lot of time avoiding, sort of like an embarrassing uncle at a family reunion. We all know it's part of the family, but none of us wants to admit that we're related. Unless, of course, you buy into the whole Left Behind scam series, in which case you probably have other issues.

Personally, my ambivalence towards the topic goes back to childhood. When I was around four or five years old, someone in the church that my family attended at the time got the bright idea to show the scare-the-hell-out-of-you 70's-era Tribulation movie series - Thief in the Night and all that. First of all, anyone that thinks those movies are appropriate for four year old children needs to be taken out behind the church and slapped - decapitations and whatnot are just not the stuff I plan on showing to my kids in the name of Jayzus. But on top of their generally gruesome perspective, I can in all honesty say that these movies caused some serious damage to me spiritually. It took years, and by years I mean close to twenty, to come to the point where I didn't live in fear of what that perspective represented. Fear is probably not the best way to develop one's spiritual life, at least not when it's at the terror end of the spectrum as opposed to awe.

Somewhere along the line, I think, we in western Christianity forgot the whole point of all of the New Testament apocalyptic language. In reality, it doesn't really matter how you interpret the scriptures in relation to times and fulfillments and all if you miss the whole reason for the talk to begin with. Christian eschatological language should be the language of hope. And this, I think, is what bothers me so much about the LaHayeification of apocalyptic speech in the western church. Christian apocalyptic language is the speech of free people in defiance of a social order that claims absolutism. In the face of Roman domination, John could write of the fall of Babylon and his readers knew that he referred to the oppressive regime that persecuted them, tortured and killed them - that he was speaking of the inevitable fall of Rome and triumph of the Lamb and his people. It shows things for the way they truly are, instead of how the powers would like to portray them. It pulls back the curtain, just for a moment, to let us see the impotence of the wizard and the futility of his attempts at control. It is a language of HOPE, of triumph and victory and celebration. What have we to fear?

But fear is exactly what this sort of approach has engendered, fear and loathing and an avoidance of certain chunks of scripture. Where is the hope? It is difficult, if not impossible, to locate. A fearful people cannot help but view the present age as something destined to pass away and therefore not worth the effort of preserving. Ironically, such a fear only binds one closer to the very reality of death that the language of hope desires to overcome. A hopeful people need have no fear of death - it has already been conquered. We can live boldy, daring much, giving all.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I've been reading David Dark's The Gospel According to America. It's a pretty good read, if somewhat dense at times if you're not familiar with the stuff he's interacting with (everything from Melville to Elvis). One of the images that he uses that I think is just fascinating is Waffle House Conversationalism, which he describes as:

No appeal to the court of fact has more resonance than another, everybody has to let everybody else finish speaking, and nobody's allowed to talk too terribly loud, because people are trying to eat in peace. You're welcome to bring the Bible or the president into it, but if you don't keep your ego at a reasonable volume, you can take your conversation elsewhere.

The main thrust of the book is the loss of Waffle House Conversationalism, at least as it pertains to most of what passes for rhetoric in America today. The end result is entrenchment of views, enthronement of perspectives, and indictment of any voice that doesn't reassure and reinforce our own self-baptized take on The Way Things Ought To Be™. In other words, we look for conversation partners so that we can mutually reassure each other of our own right-ness. (I'm thinking of Virgil's comment on my earlier post as I write this.) We don't approach difference from a healthy place; in fact, we find it unsettling and somewhat frightening.

Juxtaposed with this is the wonderful news that a good friend of mine is regaining health after a very difficult couple of years. My friend owns a comic shop about a mile from my home. It's a place that I've frequented for nearly ten years. I've spent countless hours in his place playing strategy games and discussing everything and nothing, making friends with the oddest of people. (We're all gamers, so odd comes with the territory, I suppose.) Unfortunately, two summers ago complications from a health condition nearly caused him to go blind. While preparing for surgery on his eyes, he also discovered that he was in need of a bypass operation on his heart. It's taken him nearly two years to recover from open heart surgery and work on his eyes. His shop is now open only six hours a week, and only recently did he start to come in himself. Yesterday we had the chance to talk for the first time in over a year. I really miss the place; our gaming community pretty much collapsed along with his health. It was what I referred to as my Cheers - a place where the rules were simple and everyone was welcome, as long as you weren't a jerk. It was somewhere that I could be myself with no fear of judgment or rejection.

This morning as part of the worship service we participated in communion. It was one of those fascinating moments for me when, just for a moment, I stood outside the proceedings and looked on things as though I were disconnected from myself as a participant. I thought of the church community that we enjoy as a family but where we haven't really developed much in the way of relationships. I thought of the comic shop, of the impromptu community that just sort of sprung up there around card games and comic books that I miss terribly at times. And I thought of the symbolism of the ritual, of how through the bread and the cup I am in some mysterious way connected to these people in a way that I never was to my friends at Heroes Universe.

It's an odd sort of community that we have, isn't it? I think the New Testament writers chose a beautiful metaphor when they wrote of the body of Christ as family, brothers and sisters every one of us. Family, when it is healthy, is where I know that I will always be home, where I do not have to fear rejection or shame, where room will always be made at the table for me. But it is often not healthy, and we bring our own dysfunctions with us as well. Family, when it is not healthy, can be the most damaging place on earth, and unfortunately that is often true of us. We don't handle difference well; we sit entrenched and enthroned in our own self-righteousness while lobbing hand grenades at the wounded who stumble to our doors. We don't partake of one loaf and one cup - we're too busy identifying everything wrong with our brothers and sisters at the table.

I hold to the hope that all things will someday be made new, that we will have family, true family, with no empty seats at the table and no food being thrown at our siblings, where there will be no shame or hurt but rather trust, dignity, and love. I confess that I don't really know what that looks like - but I'd like to. Sometimes you want to go...

Truth, Perspective, and Arithmetic

I try to avoid abstract philosophical or theological reasoning on this site. This is not because I don't think it's important or because I can't do it, but rather because I try to ground what I write and think about here in the context of experience, primarily because my experiences shape everything that I think or do. To say otherwise opens the door to deception, I think - there are often few things more frightening or destructive than a self-assured person convinced of his or her own objectivity. The minute I replace my perspective with an assumption that my thoughts are actually quite objective and impersonal, I dance along the dangerous line of equating my perspective with God's, and I'm screwed up enough to realize that there is often quite a gap - hopefully a shrinking gap as the image of Christ is formed in me, as Paul wrote, but real nonetheless - between the two perspectives.

I realize that this view is not held by everyone, and that the desire for objective knowledge is alive and well in many Christian circles. I try to respect this position. However, I've happened on a few arguments lately that I find frustrating and, frankly, naive in relation to the notion of "absolute truth". I've been pondering one in particular that seems to often serve as the absolutist's trump card, when, in fact, it's a great illustration of why I firmly believe in the necessity of identifying one's perspective. The argument: 2 + 2 = 4 is an example of an absolute, universal truth that cannot be argued.

Let me throw out a contrary opinion. 2 + 2 most certainly does not always equal 4, and our failure to recognize this simply illustrates why we are in troubling epistemological waters when we fail to consider carefully how we speak. And, for those of you who are now assuming that I am quite insane, grant me the liberty of demonstrating why 2 + 2 will sometimes equal 11 and sometimes has absolutely no meaning whatsoever.

Any talk of mathematics assumes a particular radix or referent number around which all of its symbols revolve. This number is also known as the base, and for most of us the only system that we consciously use is base 10, or the decimal system. (This should start to make sense in a minute, if you're wondering where I'm going with this.) However, the decimal system is not the only system that we use. Although we don't realize it, we use a base 2 system literally every day - it's called binary, and forms the basis for virtually all electronic programming. Similarly, base 16 (hexadecimal) is sort of like binary on steroids, and often shows up in html as color references (for example). There's also a base 3, or ternary, system that is occasionally used; functionally, there can be pretty much an endless number of systems with different radixes so long as symbols exist to refer to the number, because the numeral "10" in our written system is always used to refer to the base. So...what is the significance? From wikipedia (emphasis mine):

A numeral system (or system of numeration) is a framework where a set of numbers are represented by numerals in a consistent manner. It can be seen as the context that allows the numeral "11" to be interpreted as the Roman numeral for two, the binary numeral for three or the decimal numeral for eleven.

In other words, when does 2 + 2 = 4? In most systems - but not ternary, where 4 is nonsensical (because the numeral 10 represents the decimal number 3) and the actual correct response is 11, and not in binary, where 2 is nonsensical, and not in quaternary (base 4), where the correct response is 10. So the correct response to the formula 2 + 2 = _ actually depends on one's frame of reference, making it a perspectival statement and not an objective one. It all depends on one's context for interpretation.

I'm all done now. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Scandalous Inclusion

I was mentioning in my earlier post touching on McLaren's book about a surreal conversation that I had some time ago with a good friend about whether God loves everyone, or whether he just loves the elect. (To be clear, I have nothing but the highest regard for this person; he's one of my closest friends in the world and loves God like few people I've ever met. I just don't buy this particular piece of his theology.) I mention this because one of the statements that I found most insightful about The Last Word was that we should be "universalist-sympathetic". In other words, we may not buy the universalist position that all will be reconciled to God in the end, but shouldn't we hope it could be true, somewhere deep down in our gut, in that part of us that whispers to us late at night when we can't sleep? Shouldn't we want it to be true?

Something tells me that not everyone would agree with this desire. And, frankly, that scares me. There was a particular piece of logic presented in the book that I've never heard. McLaren presented one of the characters advancing the viewpoint that, in heaven, the righteous will be rejoicing at the punishment of the wicked for their sins against a righteous God. I sincerely hope that this is an exaggeration, a caricature designed to make a point, but I somehow doubt it. I'm not sure what disturbs me more - the picture of God that I'm left with from this perspective, or the arrogance of assuming that a given person will be in one particular group.

Taking a step back, I want to put on the table my prevailing assumption about understanding God. The most clear revelation we have of who God is, of what God is like, is the view that we get in the person of Jesus. Part of what it means to be a Christian is that everything we know about God is viewed through a Jesus-shaped lens. And Jesus was scandalously inclusive. Jesus hung out with lepers, ate with prostitutes, brought tax collectors into his inner circle, touched dead people and seemed to get along just fine with Romans, Samaritans, and other folk. Jesus turned the religious establishment on its head, threw out all semblance of propriety, and routinely did things that by all rational thought should have made him unclean - only it never did, and instead the "unclean" was routinely transformed in his presence to something beautiful and holy. When this man talks about God loving "the whole world", I can't help but think that he means exactly what he says.

Let's take this Jesus talk a step farther. I'd argue that you can't really get a handle on what Jesus was about until you start to wrestle with what's going on in the Sermon on the Mount. A lot of people don't seem to know what to do with all this stuff that Jesus said - was it hyperbole? Was it to demonstrate that the true requirements of the law are so far above our heads as to make any pretensions of keeping them absurd? Or was it just Jesus talking about how he wanted his followers to act? I tend to think the latter - when he says, for example, love your enemy, I sort of believe that he wasn't being facetious, that he would look a Roman guard in the face and forgive him for the beating he had just given, for example. And here's where, I think, the picture of Jesus that I have pushes against the view of God that I grew up with so strongly that one or the other has to give. When Jesus says to love our enemy, I have to think that he doesn't mean we get to pick and choose which enemies we'll love. And so I have to think that to love an enemy is a God-shaped act, that there's something of Jesus in the embracing of one who deserves condemnation and judgment. And I read these words and think of this amazing love that has been poured out for us and I have to wonder how anyone can question whether this God actually loves everyone, or just a select few. And that question means that I have to start thinking about hell in a different way than perhaps I ever have before.

Sovereignty of God

What does "sovereign" mean to you? Perhaps more importantly, what does "sovereign" mean as it relates to God? I'm trying to work my way through this question this week after reading what I found to be a rather disturbing chapter in a book I was reading for class. (I hope to have everything nicely wrapped up by Saturday at the latest. ;) The premise that set my wheels turning was the prototypical trump card of Christian response to suffering: "God is in control. God is sovereign. It all happens for a reason." Said with a nice pat on the head, now run along and play and quit asking so damn many questions.

At this point, I'm left to accept the premise promoted by the book or bring my own set of questions to bear. Is this truly what we should think of when we think of a sovereign God? Some grand cosmic Newtonian cause-and-effect machine who personally pulls the strings on each and every event, incident, interaction, happening, and goings-on? Do we really mean that? Does everything happen for a reason, or do some things just suck because the world is broken? (This is turning into a rant. It didn't start out in my head that way. Pause for breath.)

Here is why I wonder these things: when the biblical authors write about God and his sovereignty, what models do they use? They use the models for authority available to them - King, father, shepherd. Personal models, relational models. Not cause-and-effect models influenced by Newtonian physics and a view of the universe as one grand machine with laws and rules and predictability and control. No wizard behind the curtain, no puppeteer pulling the strings. When something goes wrong in a kingdom, is it because the King ordered it to be so? Most probably not, unless we're talking of a miserable king. But it remains under the king's authority, and a just king will bring the wrongful situation back into alignment with his will. Does a shepherd control the sheep in his or her flock? Most certainly not - but he or she guides wayward steps back onto the proper path. Is a father in control of the actions of a wayward daughter or son? Not typically, but he is (speaking ideally) responsible to bring discipline to rebellious children.

Here's the question that I asked quite some time ago, when I was still involved with student ministry, that ruffled a number of feathers. Does God always get his way? Is everything that happens according to his will? Before you answer, think on this: Why should Jesus pray that God's will be done on earth, if it is already happening?

I don't really have answers tonight, just some questions that I'm wrestling with. I have some thoughts, some opinions held tentatively that perhaps bear more exploration. So I throw this out to those of you kind enough to drop by on occasion - am I making any sense, asking any questions of value? Or am I just nuts?

To Take Up the Cross

Ok, I've decided the question I posed (previous entry) is less obvious than I thought it was, but that's because I framed it wrong. (That's why I don't typically post half-baked ideas - they only make sense in my head.) Here is the genesis for my thought: theology that emphasizes God's sovereignty to the exclusion of His love inevitably degenerates into legitimization for control, powermongering, and corruption. On the other hand, theology that emphasizes His love to the exclusion of His sovereignty likewise inevitably degenerates into therapy and tacky greeting cards. And nobody wants tacky greeting cards.

So what does the cross represent then but a challenge to both positions? Theology that legitimizes control and abusive leadership must confront the reality that Christ made himself nothing and became subject to death for the purpose of accomplishing the redemption of His enemies. On the other hand, theology that is nothing but therapeutic feel-goodism must confront the reality that the very creator and sustainer of life itself came under judgment and died because that was what was required to put things to rights. And so there is tension that cannot, and should not, be resolved - the tension is actually mutually corrective.

But to take this a step further, I'm going to agree with Yoder that the cross is not simply a metaphysical transaction but it is also a social reality. As Yoder rightly points out, although we like to think of imitation of Christ as a biblical concept, it is always discussed in relation to the cross. To imitate Christ is to take up one's cross. And here is where I think the common formulations of atonement theory, specifically penal substitution, falls short - it carries no social implications and as such cannot be imitated. (Somewhere, D.A. Carson's eye just started twitching.) Now, before the evangelical swat team busts through my front window, I am not denying that there are forensic dimensions to the cross. For what it's worth, I think the penal substitution model makes a lot of sense when looking at one particular dimension of the atonement, and I'm certainly not saying that it isn't true. But I am saying that it is in no way the whole picture, that to take up one's cross is a social action and that in some real sense Christ challenged the powers by demonstrating love through self-sacrifice.

So how does this apparent rabbit-trail connect with my earlier thoughts? Imitating Christ by taking up the cross is an act of love, not of judgment. If we as the body of Christ sit in judgment on the world, we are not imitating Christ. So while there is tension between sovereignty and love on the cross, the tension exists because God stands as both judge and judged. For us, there is no tension in practice if we seek to imitate Christ.

The Paradoxical Cross?

I had a thought that struck me as odd, and I need to ponder some more. But I wanted to throw this out and see if anyone has any thoughts on it as well. I'm thinking on the tension between power and love, or as it relates specifically to theology, between sovereignty and love (speaking of course of God). So here is my thought - and maybe this will be just a statement of the obvious - but it's something I'm at least going to think through.

I'm thinking that the cross on some level represents the tension between sovereignty and love that by its very nature is paradoxical. Consequently we must absolutely maintain that tension in our theology, or we misunderstand and misrepresent the significance of the cross.

I'll unpack that some more in a day or two - and, as I said, it may just be a grand statement of the obvious.