Ron Hansen

I read Ron Hansen's Marietta in Ecstasy and was swept away. It concerns a nun who is gifted with the stigmata -- or is she? -- and the complex psychological and sociological reactions that spawns in the nun and her community. It's a profound and lovely book. And, while I have had him on the back burner, I have intended to read others from his pen (ok: word processor).

I was interested, then, to see this interview with him on Christian Century's website. I knew that he is a Roman Catholic deacon who teaches at Santa Clara, but there's a nice look at his church involvement and the faith that undergirds his writing. (You will note that he promotes both 100 Years of Solitude and Lolita, which titles Virgil correlates with smart people at smart schools -- in short, the top 2 books that make you smarter! I've been trying to tell my reading group at Church that we need to read Lolita, since we've already read Garcia Marquez. So far, no takers. But that's another story.)

A Word for the Faithful on Judging

In clearing out some files, I found that I had copied this from Dietrich Bonhoeffer. For a variety of reasons, into which I need not go here, it seems a timely find. In fact, this caution about judging is timely at all times, I think.

When we judge, we encounter other people from the distance of observation and reflection. But love does not allot time and space to do that. For those who love, other people can never become an object for spectators to observe. Instead, they are always a living claim on my love and my service. But doesn’t the evil in other people necessarily force me to pass judgment on them, just for their own sake and because of our love for them? We recognize how sharply the boundary is drawn. Love for a sinner, if misunderstood, is frightfully close to love for the sin. But Christ’s love for the sinner is itself the condemnation of sin; it is the sharpest expression of hatred against sin. It is that unconditional love, in which Jesus’ disciples should live in following him, that achieves what their own disunited love, offered according to their own discretion and conditions, could never achieve, namely, the radical condemnation of evil.

If the disciples judge, then they are erecting standards to measure good and evil. But Jesus Christ is not a standard by which I can measure others. It is he who judges me and reveals what according to my own judgment is good to be thoroughly evil.
-- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, pp. 170f.

Feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos

For the Dormition of the Theotokis:

Apolytikion (First Tone)
In birth, you preserved your virginity; in death, you did not abandon the world, O Theotokos. As mother of life, you departed to the source of life, delivering our souls from death by your intercessions.

Kontakion (Second Tone)
Neither the grave nor death could contain the Theotokos, the unshakable hope, ever vigilant in intercession and protection. As Mother of life, He who dwelt in the ever-virginal womb transposed her to life.

Today is the Feast of the Going to Sleep of the all-holy, ever-virgin, most blessed Theotokos, the Mother of God. An Orthodox friend asks why Lutherans are so skittish about Mary. And she also asks why the Lutheran propers for today are essentially the same in content as those for the Annunciation in March. I don't have a liturgiologist's answer to her questions. But, as you might expect, I do have some ideas that don't treat of the liturgical history.

First of all, contrary to the teaching of Luther, Lutherans have all but cut Mary out of our church's celebration and life. Oh, we have a few "Mary" or "St. Mary" Lutheran Churches (Europe has vastly more, at least in part, I suspect, because they were inherited from pre-Reformation times). But we look in vain for much evidence that she figures as prominently in piety as the Apostles and St. Paul blocks all hint of glow that may attach to her.

Part of it, I'm sure, is an earnest effort to remain Biblical, and there just isn't much to go on in the New Testament if you're trying to build a biography or hagiography for the Virgin. Lots of "traditional lore" has built up -- as a sometimes misguided response, I think, to the promptings of the Spirit to keep her prominent. And so we have holy legends about her parentage, her early life, her post-resurrection doings, and her death. But the Scriptures themselves don't give much of a toe hold for those seeking to integrate her into the life of the Church.

But Scripture does witness to her importance: "Henceforth, all generations shall call me blessed, for He who is Mighty has done to me great things." And that is an evangelical witness. She is, in her own words, blessed and importance because of what God has done (and does)to and through her. The witness of the early centuries of the Church also testifies to her importance. She has been declared the "Theotokos" over some objections -- the "God-bearer" or "Mother of God." So we can't and ought not ignore her.

I also hear a lot of concern raised from good Lutherans that we "don't need" Mary because we have a straight shot to God through Jesus. But I think that's a sign of a very low ecclesiology among most Lutherans. If these folks think that asking Mary for her intervention is a way to approach an essentially unsympathetic Jesus, then they don't know the Gospel of Christ. (But then, they may be projecting their own unacknowledged use of Jesus to approach an unsympathetic God -- just at another step removed.) But come on: We ask fellow Christians to pray for us all the time. And asking the heroes and heroines of the faith to join with our here-in-tangible-form saints to pray for us only makes sense if you have a good sense of the Church.

The Church is the gathering of believers where the Gospel is preached and practiced. As such it is synchronic and diachronic: That is to say, it transcends the one location where I stand to include all Christian gatherings going on in this era AND it comprehends all Christian gatherings through all time. Thus, in St. Paul's language, "we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses" who join with our prayers. That I call on my wife to pray for me makes no more or less sense than asking Mary -- and Matthew, Mark, Stephen, and Dietrich, for that matter -- to join her prayers to ours.

I think the Orthodox have a better handle on this than the Western Church. When I attended vespers for St. Seraphim of Sarov, I was stunned (finally!) by how much the Orthodox take for granted that the saints are with them. Leave it to the West to layer on issues of "merit" and "standing": We don't pray to the saints because they have special merit -- on this the Lutheran Confessions are correct. We pray to them because they are remembered more directly (and probably for good reason) by the Church catholic and are available on a more general basis to the consciousness of a greater number of the faithful gathered in one place. And pray to them we may and should -- and on this the Lutheran Confessions get it wrong when they discourage praying to the saints. (Given their time, there may have been warrant for such advice, but it is advice that doesn't hold up. But once again, the Confessions don't offer much in terms of an ecclesiology.)

The Reformation, the Enlightenment, scientism, and various other influences have given Lutherans problems with saints. It would be a worthwhile endeavor for the Church -- certainly the Lutheran branch -- to reclaim her heritage and integrate saints more completely into her life.

Fasting

This comes from a mailing from the Ekklesia Project (begin here), specifically Co-ordinator Brent Laytham. It's short and to the point and summons me to join in the practice.

FASTING AGAINST A DIVIDED BODY

by Brent Laytham

One of the great joys of our EP Gatherings is eating together. We break bread with friends old and new, discovering at a common table our common life in Christ. That makes it all the more painful that many of us who endorse The Ekklesia Project cannot come together as one body at the Eucharistic table of our Lord. Several years ago, we spent an entire Gathering exploring that pain.

This year our Gathering explored another division that scars the body of Christ—race. Both visibly and invisibly, race and racism have divided us from sharing together at our Lord’s one table. Confronting that reality for three days has renewed my commitment to the Friday fast that EP endorsers commit themselves to. Heretofore, I have fasted because that’s what Methodist pastors do, and because it was a simple practice of solidarity with my sisters and brothers in The Ekklesia Project. But now, committed to “Crossing the Divide,” I am also fasting as a practice of judgment—judgment against my ongoing racism, judgment against our racially segregated churches, judgment against every failure to receive what Christ has already done—broken down the dividing wall of hostility (Eph. 2:14).

Today I fast, not just to be in solidarity with you all, but especially to hunger for the full unity of Christ’s church.

I am not a faster: I find that working in an office makes the growling of my stomache and the light-headedness that comes quite quickly do not make for good performance. But Brent's brevity and correctness give me pause, and I think I may have to explore this spiritual practice more. (After all, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus assumes that his disciples will fast.) Divisions within the Body of Christ are an ab0mination, and if anything is worth fasting about, that would be at the top of my list.

More on "The Ministry"

There's a nice opinion piece over on the Touchstone discussion site that relates directly to issues we've discussed here on ordained ministry. It expresses, inter alia, chagrin over what has become of the office of the pastor in the modern Western Church. I encourage you to read and reflect on it. It's time for a new Reformation in our understandings of the Church and her ministry.

Flexodoxy

Here's the latest from Marty Center -- this time on spiritual practices. (In Theological Discussion -- a monthly reading and discussion group I facilitate at my church -- we're reading David Augsburger's Dissident Discipleship, an analysis of Anabaptist spirituality. If only for that reason, spirituality is on my mind, and I find that when coupled with the Matthew study, it makes for a rather unsettling examination of conscience with respect to how I live my life.) I quite resonate with the (implied) criticism of "flexodoxy," which I think is the predominate form of Christianity in this country. (Roman Catholics have long called it "cafeteria Christianity" -- take what you like and ignore what doesn't fit your taste.)

Sightings 7/31/08

The Order of Saint Oprah

-- Aaron Curtis

Is there incipient within the modern cult of the self a desire for a more constrictive way of life? Have those of us who live comfortably within the lax constraints of secular humanism discovered that we long for some rigorous "rule of life"? Some means by which to order a welter of consumer choices (including religion) into a more cohesive lifestyle? One might be inclined to pose such questions in light of the recent spate of "rule of life" experiments, such as A.J. Jacobs' year of "living biblically" or Barbara Kingsolver's year lived as a "locavore" (both of which were turned into bestselling books), or, most recently, one Chicago woman's self-imposed challenge to "design her life" in strict accordance with all of Oprah Winfrey's advice. But what this last experiment reveals, surprisingly, is not so much a desire for a more disciplined lifestyle as an inadvertent reaffirmation of a reigning brand of cultural orthodoxy.

At first glance, it would appear that the experiment undertaken by "Lo"—a pseudonym for "Living Oprah"—has, at best, only a tenuous connection to religious practice. This impression is reinforced by the blog she keeps to track her progress and by a July 10 Chicago Reader article on the project, which features an image of Oprah in a pose and garb resembling Chairman Mao, above the title "The Great Commander." Both the article and Lo's blog emphasize the political and socio-economic implications of this particular cult of personality, opting to leave unexplored the suggestion left by one blog visitor that Lo wear a "WWOD" bracelet, as well as Lo's own impression, after attending Oprah's show, that "it was like a church revival."

But there are two crucial respects in which Lo's "practice" bears an interesting resemblance to more traditional devotional practices. First of all, Lo has chosen to relinquish her power of choice entirely (what she eats, watches, reads, et cetera) and is committed to a faithfully neutral obedience (however much her initial intent may have been critically motivated). She asks, "Will I truly find bliss if I commit wholeheartedly to [Oprah's] lifestyle suggestions?" The true value of the experiment has less to do with the effectiveness of Oprah's advice taken piecemeal than with the change effected on the life of so absolute a follower. Secondly, the project's "faith" is invested in the possible results of predominantly physical practices—that is, without need of an attendant belief in their effectiveness. This bears a certain similarity to a strain of ascetic practice that insists on the power of bodily regimentation to bring about a desired change in one's "spiritual" orientation, rather than vice versa.

However weak these similarities may be to what some would deem "authentic" religious practice, they nevertheless serve to reveal the nature of the "religion" of Oprah's followers. Aside from some supportive advice for the struggling neophyte, the most revealing reaction to the "Living Oprah" project has been that of suspicion and even defensive hostility. On the one hand, Lo is violating an unstated but generally assumed norm of the community: Oprah is beloved as a personality at the center of an alluring communal identity and her authority is to be taken on faith; to test it in such a systematic and empirical fashion is to commit a form of sacrilege, or, at least, to miss the point entirely. On the other hand, and far more significantly, Lo's practice is suspect precisely because it diverges from the orthodoxy of this community. One visitor to the blog responded, "Why would you try to take someone that is only trying to do good things on this planet and make a mockery of her? … I watch Oprah. And take what is important to me and what touches my life. Whether it be medical advice, inspirational stories, her own personal actions or experiences, it's up to you to take from it what you need at that particular time." Here we have a perfect articulation of a prevalent form of modern spirituality that some, especially in orthodox and evangelical circles, have labeled "flexodoxy" —what theologian and scholar N.T. Wright describes as "free-for-all, do-it-yourself spirituality."

The prevalence of flexodoxy is not news. But it is surprising that, with Lo's experiment, the culture of flexodoxy should end up asserting its own orthodoxy—deciding for oneself what one needs, when one needs it. Those aspects of Lo's project that do resemble more traditional religious practices are precisely the ones that are most threatening to this particular "faith community", in which membership is based more on belief than on rigorous practice, and absolute obedience violates the norms of flexodoxy. By refusing the right of choice and by failing to see value in a sense of belonging rather than in practical effects, Lo is failing to live by Oprah's "rule of life" in its most fundamental sense.

References:

The Chicago Reader story on Lo's project can be read at: http://www.chicagoreader.com/features/stories/oprah/

Aaron Curtis is a PhD student in Religion and Literature at the University of Chicago Divinity School.

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Sightings comes from the Martin Marty Center at the University of Chicago Divinity School.

Note for those concerned: My understanding of Marty Center policy on re-publishing is that it's OK with proper credit, which I think I've provided.

The Ministry

Lutheran Zephyr rightly takes on a situation in which a Lutheran pastor is touted, in the recent issue of The Lutheran, as the tour leader for a pilgrimage to Las Vegas. You can find his comments here.

This issue of Lutheran pastors' remaining on the clergy roster even though they are working at jobs or in positions that have nothing to do with word-and-sacrament ministry seems to need attention. According to the Augsburg Confession -- that quaint little document that doesn't have much to say to the modern church's structure, I guess -- the Lutheran Church ordains pastors to the ministry of and to word and sacrament. That is, the sole distinguishing mark of pastors vis-a-vis "the laity" is that pastors preach the orthodox faith and minister the sacraments in a accord with the orthodox faith. And as I understand matters, this was in response to a theology of ministry that placed those who were ordained on an ontological plane higher that a mere layperson. While we do not hold a merely "functional" understanding of ministry, neither do we subscribe to any notion that work done by a pastor is holier, more professional, or any other -er than the same work performed by a layperson.

I have found that the Confession is observed as much in the breach as in the observance. We all know all kinds of people working in secular positions, who are not serving ministries of word and sacrament in any sense that makes any sense, who are nevertheless carried on the clergy roster of the ELCA as "pastors." (Note: I don't have any problem with various kinds of lay people's being including under pension plan. It's a matter of the doctrine of ordination.) We have editors at publishing houses, teachers in colleges (I guess it's OK if it's a Lutheran school, but not OK if it's a state university?), "counselors" in social service agencies, various kinds of tent-making "ministries" where there is no congregation in the worker's line of service.

So my question is what is up with that?

The Lutheran Church has never had a very clearly defined doctrine of the ministry (even aside from whether ordination is properly confirmed without a bishop's hands). But I have understood that there is, in Lutheran theology, no provision for the "indelible mark" of ordination: Once one is not preaching and presiding, one is not a pastor. (In my own case, I specifically correct anyone who says that I'm a pastor who works as a lawyer or the like. I was a pastor; I am no longer a pastor. On the other hand, I do not believe that my "derostered" status relieves me of the my ordination vows -- and this is contrary to what some say. Thus, I feel that I must be careful not to teach anything that is at odds with the dogmatic heritage of the Church. If I get to the margins, I have to acknowledge where I'm getting on thin ice.) It is no disgrace to be a "former pastor." But, to the contrary, I think there is something unseemly in (whether literally or figuratively) continuing to wear a collar when one is not ministering to a congregation by preaching and presiding (and more than once or twice a year!).

Implicated here are all those synod and Chicago bureaucrats who maintain the title "pastor" but couldn't preach their way out of a simple Gnostic trap and who wouldn't know an anaphora from a spittoon; "youth" or "associate pastors" whose job is scheduling youth events and hosting overnights or programming hook-up events for young marrieds; congregational "administrators" and "visitation pastors" whose call does not involve preaching and presiding full time. All of this causes me to laugh derisively whenever I read old Lutheran attacks on the Roman priesthood: There was nothing in the pre-Reformation Roman Catholic clergy pool that has not been taken up by the post-Reformation Lutheran corps.

Heck, Lutheran pastors' lending their names -- on an occasional basis -- to treks to Las Vegas seems small change compared to all the collars I see running around -- full time -- doing things just as secular.

Still to come: My take on the failure of Lutheran ecclesiology. (I just have to reduce the manuscript from 50 pages!)

Ruth Manz, May her memory be eternal.

I have been remiss in not expressing my sorrow at the death of Ruth Manz, wife and collaborator of musician-extraordinaire Paul Manz. My friend Cha has posted a most fitting and inspiring tribute to her at her site, here. Be sure to listen to "E'en So, Lord Jesus, Quickly Come," for which Ruth Manz organized the lyrics.

Rest eternal grant her, O Lord;
and let perpetual light shine upon her.

Passivity vs. Participation

I'm contemplating closing down my blog because I don't pay close enough attention to it. But then along comes something, like Tuesday, and I'm glad to have a place to think things through in black-and-white.

I wrote in the "Acknowledgements" section of my family studies thesis that "an acknowledgements page is an author's place to boast of the quality of his friendships." I think that this blog, too, serves that purpose for me. Let me show you.

Tuesday evening Brother-in-Christ Paul paid a visit. We keep in touch by e-mail, but because of the geographical distance between us, we may see each other about once or twice a year. Returning from a holiday trip, he stayed over in the Twin Cities and spent an evening with my family and me. (The family went to be a lot earlier than Paul and I wrapped up our conversation!)

Paul has been ordained about 4 years now (I was the assisting minister at his ordination, so I feel a special investment in his ministry), and since then he has come to occupy a significant space in my heart and head. We differ, I think, fairly radically on matters of theological expression, but we are kindred spirits in our desire to uphold the classic faith (he's a little less interested in the ecumenical aspects of that faith than am I) and to articulate church's theology in clear, orthodox, serious terms. Paul is a modern-day Gnesio-Lutheran (I think he even styles himself that sometimes, but always with a twinkle in the eye, to which I reply that he sounds more like a Gnesio-Melancthonian than -Lutheran), whereas I am -- what? A dilettante, I suppose. Paul has the makings, and the initial training, to be a first-rate scholar (though I hope he stays in the parish because we need more scholar-pastors); I am a hobbyist. Paul is pastoral, friendly, and diplomatic; I am brash, too-old-to-care-much, and far-from-pastoral.

This time's conversation turned to the issue of grace in the Christian life -- something we both acknowledge is the beginning point for any conversation about the Christian faith. (In fact, I think I caught some Barthian sympathies for a reversal of the law-gospel order into gospel-first-then-law. But I won't press the lad on that quite yet. He did admit, of course, that his great hero and guide, Gerhard Forde, was influenced by and a great admirer of Karl Barth. So there you have it: Jolly good.)

Paul insists on a kind of classic Lutheran, though not an exclusive, emphasis on the forensic aspects of God's grace. I, as I make all too unclear on these "pages," think that an over-played theme. Paul dismisses my fondness for concepts of "participation" in Christ (and consequently, in the Trinity), which I note to him is Biblical-Paul-ine language, and instead urges Apostle Paul's talk of being "conformed" to Christ. On the surface, as I discuss below, that seems to be a wide divide -- and I think there are some pretty serious implications for opting for one or the other (which one, of course, need not do -- by my lights, anyway). But after reflecting for a couple of days, I think I'm beginning to see that Friend Paul and I may be divided by a common language. (Tip of the hat to Mencken.) We use a common Lutheran vocabulary, but we neither use the terms in ways the other person quite understands. And the more we talk, the more I realize that, while we have real differences, the differences are often at different places than I expect.

Of course, that latest insight is precisely the experience of those who engage in theological dialogue -- Episcopalians and American Lutherans; Roman Catholics and Lutherans, Lutherans and the Orthodox traditions. (I'm eager to see reports of the dialogue between Roman Catholics and the Disciples of Christ. That ought to be fascinating.) We need, on the classic debate model, to define terms and concepts carefully; we can't assume that "justification" means "justification" or that "no law" means "antinomianism."

But on to one issue that I'll continue to raise with Paul. I think there is a tendency in "classic" Lutheran theology to make two mistakes, missteps, or something of the sort. (And remember: I'm in this camp, so I speak out of love, not triumphalism.) First, I think the classic expression of Lutheran doctrine (and this is the result, I suppose, of battles in the Lutheran scholastic period) is too static to do justice to the Biblical revelation. And second, I think Lutheranism doesn't really have a theology of the Church (an ecclesiology), and that lack makes it difficult for us to speak of salvation in any but in rather static terms.

First, Lutheran talk is often static: Justification, grace, forensic judgments, and the like conjure up a universe in which human beings just sort of sit there and take it. We are acted upon for the sheer point of being acted upon. And so we are declared justified; we are showered with grace; we are assured of forgiveness. And certainly I have to problem with that kind of language as far as it goes. But "as far as it goes" is precisely my problem: I don't think it goes far enough to capture the biblical witness. This grace business, this justification stuff, this salvific action is not static; it is a dynamic power or process (not in the sense of process theology) that -- according to Jesus and Paul and significant others -- effects (not affects: in this, effects -- i.e., makes happen) what it offers and says.

Often I think of Lutheran "gospel" in these terms: (I didn't get a baptismal certificate; instead, mine is contained in a wonderful little booklet -- very fancy and very classy.) But suppose I got a nicely caligraphed baptismal certificate, such as are common today. I frame it and hang it on the wall. Now I know that I'm grace-filled; the certificate hangs on the wall as a nice reminder and as evidence. It's all done now; I'm free to go about my way, confident of God's love regardless of what I do. It's a sign of status: Dwight is a child of God, and he can prove it. And in this case, the status is permanent and irrevocable (at least, that's the point of most Lutheran preaching I hear). Grace is something done to me -- usually explained in past tense. And it's all very narrowly prescribed, very nailed-down, not very dynamic.

Oh, it's good news, of course. How really amazing -- one might say, big -- of God to reach out to me, a sinner. What wonderful news that he loves me and has taken me to himself (whatever that's supposed to me), contrary to all reason and justice, over the contradindications of my sin. So I will of course worship him every Sunday, firmly announcing my "Amens" to the prayers and singing the hymns with gusto.

But it's still rather one- or maybe two-dimensional. The certificate is a metaphor for my life of faith: It's a photograph, a snapshot, a painting on a wall. It's not a life; it's not a challenge (except to "believe" it so that it's true -- we won't go into the legalism of that kind of talk); it doesn't go very far. Oh, with due respect to my friend, we may be "conformed" to Christ: The Apostle talks of that, yes. But the sense I get from that language puts me in mind of a statue: It's molded to stand eternally on its pedestal; the clay or marble has been conformed to the sculptor's vision or intention. But where does it go?

I counter with what seems to me to be a more dynamic model for/of salvation. I can variously describe it, but an exciting word for me right now is "participation" in Christ -- especially in contrast to "conformed" to Christ. I suppose it roots in my affection for Eastern theology (where sin figures into the picture in different way), my respect for Anabaptist traditions, and my reading for the Matthew class. But this is a major theme in Apostle Paul, too, and I don't know why it doesn't get more play in Lutheranism.

I am drawn to this theological perspective, aside from its coherence with the Biblical narrative, because it excites me, it seems to have a point, it makes sense of all that "growth in grace" talk in the Bible and the liturgy. Instead of God's granting me a status, he inducts me into his life and mission. Instead of my baptismal certificate's hanging on the wall as a status marker, it is rather a draft notice, an induction order. (Of course, it is more invitation than "order" -- but put the best construction on what I'm doing.) This all carries more existential bite than the old preaching.

Following is an excerpt from an evangelical's book on the life of faith (Scot McKnight, A Community Called Atonement). At this point in his analysis, McKnight sets forth his idea that salvation involves being restored to the imago dei of Genesis. He uses the Greek work eikon to substitute for the Latin phrase (and the English equivalent, "image of God"). And here he sets out a description of what being God's eikon means:

To be an Eikon means, first of all, to be in union with God as Eikons; second, it means to be in communion with other Eikons; and third, it means to participation with God in his crating, his ruling, his speaking, his naming, his ordering, his variety and beauty, his location, his partnering, and his resting, and to oblige God in his obligating of us. Thus, an Eikon is God-oriented, self-oriented, other-oriented, and cosmos-oriented. To be an Eikon is to be a missional being -- one designed to love God, self, and others and to represent God by participating in God's rule in this world.

Now I find that really exciting talk. To be so graced by God as to be drawn into this life "in this world and the next" is, to my ear, total Gospel. That this graced-ness has a form also makes perfect sense for continuing to live in the world. It sounds like the Sermon on the Mount, and Bonhoeffer, and Hauerwas. But for that to make sense as Gospel, we must move on to a second practical weakness in Lutheran theology -- that of the lack of (or at least a diminished) ecclesiology. But that is for the next post.

A Summary of the Witness of Jesus

Everything gets run through the prism of Matthew these days: You can probably imagine how I'm dealing with sermons on the Matthew pericopes. And my reading, too, gets the Matthean hermeutical lens.

Here comes Scot McKnight from North Park University in Chicago, and he nicely summarizes the questions, concerns, and conclusions in my own current thinking:

Christians believe that God really did atone for sins in Jesus Christ and that God really did redemptively create restored relationship with God, with self, with others, and with the world. Christians believe that this all took place in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ and (the silent part of the story) in the gift of the Holy Spirit. The atonement, in other words, is the good news of Christianity – it is our gospel. It explains how the gospel works.

The bad news, the anti-gospel as it were, is that the claim Christians make for the atonement is not making enough difference in the real lives of enough Christians to show up in statistics as compelling proof of what the apostle Paul called the “truth of the gospel.” Does this new relationship with God really transform the individual? Does this work of Christ and the Spirit to forgive sins and empower Christians make them forgiving people or morally empowered people? Does the claim of the gospel extend to what can be observed in the concrete realities of those who claim to be its beneficiaries?

- Scot McKnight, A Community Called Atonement (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2007), p. 1

Are Many Christians Just Plain Dumb?

Here's a sad little tale, courtesy of the Marty Center and its Sightings newsletter. (Note that the author has a joint appointment in theology and computer science. I don't even want to think what that might mean -- even at St. John's!)

Sightings 7/17/08

Left Behind or Left in Cyberspace?

-- Noreen Herzfeld

As a teenager, when a friend first told me about the rapture, in which Christians will be miraculously transported to heaven while sinners remain on earth to suffer a variety of tribulations, I was quite sure that, sinner that I was, I was destined to be the one member of my family and friends who would surely be "left behind." My psychology teacher later assured me that considering oneself the "chief of sinners," as the apostle Paul did, was a normal response, since we each know our own peccadilloes far more intimately than we know those of others. Apparently, however, not everyone shares this proclivity. For forty dollars a year, those who are relatively assured of their own salvation can now leave a final e-mail to less fortunate loved ones who might be left behind during the rapture. A new web site, Youvebeenleftbehind.com, allows users to compose a final message that will be sent to up to sixty-two recipients, six days after the rapture occurs. These messages might be used to pass on information, such as bank account numbers and passwords, but the site stresses the opportunity to leave a letter begging those who remain to accept Christ, a last chance with one's loved ones to "snatch them from the flames."

This raises a host of questions, both practical and religious. Is it safe to store sensitive financial information on such a website (answer: no)? Would the web still function after the rapture? Why not play it safe, save the forty dollars, and simply leave a stack of letters on your desk? Youvebeenleftbehind.com is one of the latest attempts to market religion in cyberspace. Sites abound hawking a variety of religious books and wares. Beyond the crassly commercial, there are web sites for a wide variety of religious faiths and denominations where one can access religious texts, share experiences and prayer requests, initiate new spiritual friendships, or engage in ecumenical dialogue. As a resource for finding a quick answer to a religious question, the Internet is unbeatable. Web cams let one make a virtual pilgrimage to Mecca, the Wailing Wall, or Chartres Cathedral. Avatars in Second Life build virtual churches and synagogues and participate in religious rituals with one another. Each of these draws on the strength of the Internet as a medium that overcomes distance or physical limitations. The computer enlarges the neighborhood, giving opportunities to connect with or learn from a wide variety of people and traditions.

However, what computer technology gives to religion in terms of speed and broader access, it takes away through lack of physical presence. The sacramentality of the Christian faith, for one, calls us to move away from our keyboards and into the real world. In this world we cannot dismiss those with whom we disagree with the click of a mouse. We are asked to taste and feel and smell the world around us in its elemental richness. We learn what is, not what we wish were. Cyberspace is, in the end, an ambiguous place. We do not know if people in chat rooms are who they say they are. We do not know if an e-mail will really get forwarded on. As philosopher Albert Borgmann points out, "ambiguity is resolved through engagement with an existing reality, with the wilderness we are disagreed about, the urban life we are unsure of, or the people we do not understand." Computer applications may seem like a simpler alternative, but they are rarely as satisfying as the real thing.

So I think I'll save the forty dollars. A sealed envelope in my desk and power of attorney documents will cover my much more likely demise from natural causes. And as for worrying about myself or others being "left behind," Jesus' promise that "I will never leave you nor forsake you" is far more reassuring than any web site.

Noreen Herzfeld is professor of Theology and Computer Science at St. John's University, Collegeville MN.

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Poor Archbishop Rowan ...

As if he didn't have enough on his plate, now his own gathering of the Anglican Communion, the Church of England in England, has ratified the consecration of women to the episcopacy. Lambeth looms and he must now face threats of an angry schism within English Anglicanism along with all the other rumblings of splits in the worldwide communion. (Thank goodness similar things don't happen in other communions, specifically my own branch of Lutheranism!)

I must confess that, for the life and salvation of me, I cannot penetrate the arguments against a female clergy and episcopacy. I've seen theological, sociological, heretical (especially gnostic), good-faith blathering, et. al., arguments against the ordination (and consecration except to diaconal service) of women. I was told by one prominent Anglican (not episcopalian) theologian (a woman) that she can understand and accept ordination of women to the presbyterate (priesthood or ministry), but that she can discern no similar charism for women to the episcopate. (I know I'm a protestant and can't possibly have a feel for the deep structure of ordination, but her claim completely baffled me!) I've read Alexander Schmemann, may his memory be everlasting; I remember some of the uproar in American Lutheranism over the issue; I've tried to read Benedict on the subject.

And I just don't get it.

Most of it seems to come down to an ontological argument that since Jesus' Twelve were male, then all the ordained must similarly be male. That there were women available apparently makes clear that Jesus did not choose any because he did not want women in positions of the hierarchy (used in the holiest sense, of course, not in any value-laden or power sense). But that doesn't make much sense to me. After all, the early church clearly seems to have had women who presided over their congregations (apparently with an emphasis on much more in keeping with the Lord's intention for this church's operating than did many of the men in similar positions). And besides that, the Apostles were also all Jews. There were Gentiles available, and Matthew ends his Gospel with a mandate for the Apostles to extend the community of salvation to all nations. So the fact that Jesus didn't call any Gentiles to follow him seems to mandate a Jew-male-only clergy, by the reasoning of the "Traditionalists."

I'd welcome any reference to a well-reasoned, non-inflammatory exposition of the theology underlying the extreme reaction to women's ordination. Because I'm just flummoxed!

As a Lutheran, I have done my homework, I think, and I consider this issue to be a classic case of adiaphora and of the genius the Church has to turn an issue of adiaphora into status confessionis. I think that the Church may structure her ministries in any way that serves the Gospel. But I also think the catholic witness has been that a three-fold order best represents Christ's will for the Church. Nevertheless, the lack of same within Lutheranism does not invalidate claims of "legitimacy" for either Lutheran ordination or the Lutheran Church as church. But tell me that the Gospel requires foregoing the three-fold orders (as many Lutherans do) and I go to war.

In this case, I do not believe that the ordination and/or consecration of women is a matter of justice (equal opportunity under the law) or of practical necessity (there aren't enough men willing to serve) or any such misguided nonsense. And so I'm very sympathetic with a traditional stand on the matter. But the minute you tell me that women may not (that's the adiaphorist claim) and cannot (that's the ontological argument) be ordained to the presbyterate and episcopacy, you get my dogmatic juices flowing.

But as ready as my jaws are to sink into a good, meaty argument against women in orders, I bite and find lemon curd. If you've got heartier fare, let me know.

As We Near "The 4th"

As we approach the 4th of July, listservs are all atwitter with conversation about how appropriately or whether to mark the occasion in church on Sunday. (I am reminded that in the year of my graduation from Seminary and of my ordination, 1976, the 4th of July in the Bicenntenial Year fell on a Sunday. I still don’t know whether that was an act of God’s prophetic power or a sign of his sense of irony.) Those conversations are rather more intense this year, I expect, for various reasons: The debate about whether the “religious right” is in decline, the notoriety of parsons of particularly poor sense lined up with presidential candidates, the fact that it is a presidential election year and that the Democratic candidate seems more comfortable talking about his Christian faith than does the Republican. Nothing like a good dose of caesaropapism to get people stewing: What is the proper balance between our loyalties and commitments as “American citizens” and our baptismal rebirth. (If that doesn’t cause the Lutherans out there to begin salivating over two-kingdoms theories, nothing will.)

I personally accept no second place to anyone when it comes to disdain for formalistic displays of "patriotism" -- and no more so than in church. I totally agree with those who argue that we are citizens of heaven and that our "allegiance" is to the One Lord, not to a flag or a President or a country (which is a social construct, not a "reality," anyway). I don’t “believe” in allegiances to things or to constructs: I invest my allegiance in people. So, in what has become a related issue, I don’t care a whit about “the family”: I am committed to my family members and our relationships; I will do what I can to support our friends in theirs. But my graduate degree in family “ecology” makes me skittish about generalities about the “institution” of marriage, family, or anything else.

At the same time (and here I may betray a subconscious Lutheranism that I am often accused of trying to leave behind), it seems to be most appropriate to pray for all of creation -- in thanksgiving for and for vindication of what is good; for amendment and redemption of what is not. And so I pray for clement weather -- thanking God, e.g., for beautiful days. (I've never done so in a Sunday liturgy for which I’ve composed prayers, but others have and I have not been the slightly offended). Conversely, I pray for the amelioration of "natural disasters" (which is a common issue in Sunday prayers at our place). Just so, and by the same logic, for the blessings of liberty, I think it appropriate to give thanks; for the ability of governments to meld the individual efforts of many into service to a common weal I think it appropriate to ask. And just so, it is appropriate to pray for the repentance of all in positions power so that they use their powers in ways consonant with the will of God.

The key, for me, is to allow the liturgical heritage of the Church to lead us. The secular calendar will most often be put to good use by being ignored: We do not look to the secular calendar to tell us for what to pray; we take our leadership from the Scriptures and the liturgical year. Thus, we don’t celebrate Mother’s Day in May, but in August, when we commemorate Mary, the Theotokos; we have a Father's Day – if at no other time then at Christmas, though the festival of Joseph, Guardian of our Lord, provides similar opportunities to learn about fatherhood; we have a day for prayers for our particular governments which is the Sunday when the Gospel text is "render to Ceasar" (the chief point of which lection seems to be that ultimately NOTHING belongs to Caesar, and that may be just the tone we wish to sound in church-state relations).

And the related issue of how flags relate to this, my thinking is quite clear: They don't belong anywhere near a Christian church building, longstanding traditions notwithstanding (and here I include the most elegant justifications that exist for the cozy church-state relationship that have arisen in and out of Anglicanism). Flags are symbols of division -- of human-designed divisions, at that, which will ultimately be overcome. In Christ there is no American or Briton or Zimbabwean, and neither are there flags.

The so-called “Christian flag” is just as objectionable. The “standard” of the kingdom of God is the cross, not a blaze of fabric that parallels territorial banners. I think the deep structure of the “Christian flag” betrays the real meaning of the animal, too: It can’t be a mistake that the colors of the “Christian flag” are red, white, and blue – with no green, black, brown, orange, purple, or other colors that might underscore the variety of the creation. No, I suspect that the inspiration was the almost-natural human inclination toward triumphalism. Flags by their nature serve that impulse. And if for no other reason, that is reason enough to ban them from the premises.

CCET Conference a Success

OK, all y'all missed a really fantastic conference this week. I am just back (and really tired and fuzzy brained) from the annual conference (sounds Methodist, doesn't it?) of the Center for Catholic and Evangelical Theology, which was held in beautiful, hot-as-Hades Baltimore, MD, this year. The issue: A Christian response to Islam. Presenters dealt with a general approach to dialogue with Islam (and, actually, to all intra- and inter-faith dialogue!); with the approach of 9th century Christian theologians who wrote maybe-apologetics (Mark Swanson raised a keen question about whether it was in fact apologetics at all!) in the face of the new appeal of Islam; with the practical realities of engaging in dialogue with Islam and Muslims (to be more specific). Such notables as Sidney Griffith (probably the dean of Islamic scholars in the theological world of USAmerica), Mark Swanson (Lutheranism's own terrific contribution to the tribe of specialists in Islamic-Christian studies), Nelly van Doorn-Harder (Valparaiso's expert on how dialogue between Christians and Muslims can actually occur -- based on her experience in Indonesia), and others presented papers and engaged in intra-Christian conversation about those papers with conference attendees and one another.

I was able to dine with each of the scholars, but one, and can testify that they are serious, brilliant, and wonderfully humane people -- not just intellects. They were generous with their time with us average-Joes; they didn't clump together with just the other scholars.

For me, the second greatest challenge (after that of wringing out -- see below) was to get my mind around the historical stuff. I knew absolutely nothing -- and still know virtually absolutely nothing -- about the 9th century and the scholarly interchange between Christian and Muslim thinkers, both of which groups wrote in Arabic. Further, David Burrell finally noted for me the difficulty in Christians' talking with Muslims about the Quran: For Muslims, the Quran "fits" in the scheme of faith in the way that Jesus "fits" for Christians; it is a false relationship to deal with the Quran as though it were the Bible for Muslims. The relationship must be noted (and I'll try to say more when I clear it up in my head a little) if any fruitful conversation is to occur. That is one illustration of the way I experienced a "paradigm shift" (with all due respect for Thomas Kuhn) in my conceptualizing the issue of Christian-Muslim theological relations.

There were, for me, two problems with the conference: First, I think it was a little heavy on the history. (Three scholars dealt with the 9th century theological "interface" between Arab-Christian and Arab-Muslim theologians -- and then Mark Swanson kind of wrapped up with an alternate analysis of the three theologians that the earlier scholars had focussed on.) Second, the Center has no control over weather or mechanical problems. As a result, some of us were in constant pools of sweat (high-90s temperatures, with air condition's not working well in either the conference center or the motel where some of us were staying). I'm back in Minnesota, which once again proves itself God's chosen land by its temperatures in the low-to-mid 70s.

I'm going to try to pull my notes and thoughts together and set out -- for my own satisfaction and illumination -- something of a precis of the conference presentation. (If nothing else, there was sort of a "theme" or "lesson" in each talk, and I'll try to epitomize that. They all had something notable to contribute to our understanding of what may be the second-greatest challenge to Christianity, after modernist-secularism, in history.)

Next year's conference will be on the East Coast again. I expect to see more of you there.

In the meantime, Brian Bennett was at the conference, and it was good to put a handsome face with a keen mind (evident from his blogging and responding). I'd like more of that. And Brian, feel free to kick in here.

One last thing, the Center's chair, Prof. Dr. Robert Wilken, gave the banquet talk. It's always a good experience, but his meditation on the place of the communion of the saints in the life of the Christian was positively lovely! It will appear in the Center's newsletter, and I hope it inspires millions to contribute money to secure the future work of the Center. If you do not receive the newsletter (it's pretty much a once-a-year thing, but it's worth the paper it's printed on), e-mail me (djp4law@aoll.com) with your mailing address, and I'll begrudgingly add you to the elite list!

Lutherans (especially) and the Sermon on the Mount

I don't mean this to be a question just for Lutherans; I think the discussion will benefit from its not being an intramural contest. But my question arises from my Lutheran perspective: It is rendered acute by the Lutheran emphasis on "justification by grace through faith." And so I guess it is as a Lutheran that I raise the issue. But at the same time, I have benefited in thinking about this question from the on-going conversation at Mount Olive Lutheran Church of the Gospel of Matthew. We continue to meet (and will through the summer) and hope to finish the book -- probably late next year!

As any quick read of the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew's Gospel will reveal (and I'm not going into parallels and other practices of textual criticism), Jesus speaks repeatedly in terms that don't sound very Lutheran. In addition to the entire Sermon's reaffirmation of the Law and the Prophets (5:17), there are numerous threatening logia such as these:

• "For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." (5:20)
• "I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; ... and if you say, 'You fool,' you will be liable to the hell of fire." (5:21f)
• "Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven." (6:1)
• "[B]ut if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." (6:15)
• "For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get." (7:2)

So here's my question: How do all y'all understand these sayings of Our Lord? (That implicates the general question of judgment at the end times, of course, too.) If you are a Lutheran (and also if you're not, but nonetheless don't subscribe an outright works-righteousness theology), how do you square these straightforward logia with the Lutheran "sola gratia" -- i.e., we are saved by grace, not anything we do? What is the reward that the Father will withhold unless we are discrete in our charity? Is there really room for a tit-for-tat in the Gospel?

I rather assume that no one will suggest that the Sermon on the Mount is simply idealistic language that Jesus knows no one can obey: That seems, even from the mouth of Reinhold Niebuhr (who I'm told held to that view) too facile and too unbiblical. But if that's your position, prove me wrong.

We've had some good times in the Matthew class with this, and I'd like to see what happens here.
Happy posting.

Long time no write

I think I have been in some sort of cave -- if not literally, certainly in terms of my ability to get anything done or anything put on this blog. I reached one of those swirly times (as I call them) when I have forty different themes swirling about in my head, smacking against each other, knocking each other in and out of orbit. And I can't nail anything down. (I feel sort of like a c-string player of quidditch, of Harry Potter origin -- one who can't figure out the game, let alone snare the Snitch!) But before heading off to Baltimore for the (as usual) exciting CCET conference, I set out a short bibliography of books that I'm reading and enjoying or have read and enjoyed -- without saying much about why I like them yet, because I'm trying to figure that out.

By accident, I ran across Karl Barth: Theologian of Christian Witness. I have been looking for a pretty basic, introduction to the thought of Karl Barth. I intend to return to Robert Jenson's Alpha and Omega (which, I am happy to crow, was a gift of the author!), but I ran across this on a list and sent for it. It is written by Joseph Mangina who teaches theology at Wycliffe College and Toronto School of Theology, and that's impressive enough, but -- get this -- he's the incoming editor of Pro Ecclesia, so he's reallllly important. Best of all, he writes with utter clarity and with a good eye to answering questions that we less-than-competents might raise in our minds as we read. I'm by no means well into the book yet, but based on the work, I seem to confirm that I have distinct Barthian sympathies.

On another entirely different tack, I have just finished Tracy Kidder's portrait of an astounding doctor, lobbyist, teacher, researcher, gadfly, humanitarian. It is Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Cure the World. Paul Farmer is an infectious disease doctor out of Harvard Med and Brigham and Women's Hospital and a medical anthropologist (PhD) from Harvard, who quite some time ago (and before he was a doctor) got inspired to try to cure people through a visit to Haiti. He began working with a missionary (even before he began medical school) and with his partners there and his companion Ophelia Dahl (the daughter -- for the gossipmongers among you -- of Roald Dahl and Patricia Neal) and with the financial support of Thomas White, a multimillionaire who stated his goal in life was to give away his fortune eventually set up Partners in Health. Farmer himself eventually became, at least according to Kidder, the single most important force in the fight against tuberculosis and advocate for funding for health care in the world. There is some really inspiring stuff in the book, even though I generally eschew hagiography. (You can read about PIH here.)

Dissident Discipleship: A Spirituality of Self-Surrender, Love of God, and Love of Neighbor is David Augsburger's stab at analyzing Anabaptist spirituality. He calls the best of Anabaptist spirituality "tripolar" -- integrating as it does a (very Matthean, if I may say so) call to forget self-interest, to look to God, and to see the impossibility of faithfulness without attention to the well-being of those around us. Aubsburger, too, is an excellent writer. I noted to one of my friends that he amazes me because just as I formulate a "yeah-but" to something he's saying, he raises the same issue in order to rebut or integrate it. Along with my Barthian inclinations, I'm definitely not very Lutheran in my utter respect for the Anabaptists. They can be cerebral and rigorously logical, but it is infused with Spirit and commitment to the life of faith, not just to the life of the mind. This is a good read.

I have also picked up a new -- to me -- novel by E.L. Doctorow, whom I really enjoy. This one, The March: A Novel is placed within Sherman's March to the Sea, and it draws in characters from all walks of life in that horrifying era. Doctorow's fictionalized history always sings, I think, and this is no exception. One of my friends was once (and may still be) absolutely taken with W.T. Sherman, and he as much as the author inspired me to pick up the volume. (It was $3 at the library used-book sale.) I had intended to send it to him when I was finished with it, but I'm not sure, now, when I'll be "finished," since I may want to return to it.

With the Saturday Book Group at my church, I recently read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. By all accounts, this is a book that every literate person (at least those aspiring to some sort of snobbery) should read, and I'm very happy to have read it. Of course, I'm even happier to be done reading it! But it is a really splendid melange of myth-making (it is a re-imagining of the Bible narrative, I think -- though with different themes), theologizing, satire, poetry, absurdism, fantasy -- and what else? I read online that of the "Books that Make you Smart," this is the second most important, so now I'm duty-bound to read number one -- Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.

OK, enough. This is a sampling from the last couple of months. (And it doesn't indicate the important journals -- pre-eminently Pro Ecclesia, but also Lutheran Forum, Word and World, Theology Today, National Geographic, and The Atlantic Times.) Now it's your turn to suggest good stuff -- what you've liked recently.

And I'll try to make some sense of the buzzing in my head in the future! That old Snitch can't get away every time, can it?

Not To Be Missed

You must plan to attend this conference this summer:

"Christian Theology and Islam: A Conference for Clergy and Laity" will be held at Loyola College in Baltimore from June 9 (evening) through noon on June 11. It is sponsored -- ta-da -- by the eminent theology think-tank, the Center for Catholic and Evangelical Theology (CCET). Of course, you know that I sit on the Board of that august institute, but that in no way influences my recommendation. You may view the conference brochure (and, of course, arrange to register) at the Center's website. The presenters are first rate (and I know some of them personally, so I am confident in that assertion), and the topic couldn't be more relevant.

Here's a teaser from the brochure:

How should our reflection on Jesus, on the Trinity, on truth and tolerance proceed against the background of a greater presence of Islam in North America and the more intense global interaction between Christianity and Islam?

This year's [CCET] conference will ask how does a theology committed to the classical traditions of the Church think about the issues raised in the discussion with Islam. The conference is not an exercise in Christian-Muslim dialogue, but an intra-Christian conversation about the Christian faith against the background of Islam. ...

I will be there, d.v. And I look forward to meeting anyone who reads this blog. Dust off your 3-ounce liquid containers (no: I mean shampoo; you can buy the other stuff in Baltimore). Maybe we can have our own reception? (And then we can follow that up with a colloquy on this site! I hereby issue an invitation to anyone attending the CCET conference to post as a guest. Maybe then, some of the multitude of all y'all who read and never comment will be inspired to become an author! But enough foolishness -- except for the invitation to post.)

Is Rowan Williams Wrong?

I have just started Rowan Williams’ charming little book, Tokens of Trust: An Introduction to Christian Belief (Westminster John Knox Press, 2007). It presents edited-for-publication “talks” that the Archbishop of Canterbury gave during Holy Week in 2005. In the talks, Abp. Williams summarizes the fundamentals of Christian faith to an era in which the long catechumenate of early Church history (which would have filled the current void in basic pre-Baptismal instruction) has been long abandoned.

Now an excursus: I would give money to have available to me such a series of homiletical lectures by a scholarly (or even remotely theologically astute) bishop. Such an experience seems to me to be what bishops and Lent and Holy Week are for. It is, to my eye, a measure of the degradation of the Church that we (and here I include most “denominations”) have allowed the office so to deteriorate that bishops are more comfortable discussing terms of 401k plans (or whatever they are in the non-profic sphere) than Christological controversies.

But back to Abp. Rowan.

In his first talk, the Archbishop sets the fundamental theme of his talks – viz., that Christian faith is trust in God. The title of the essay is “Who Can We Trust?” (OK, a complaint: Abp. Rowan is a good thinker and pretty felicitous writer, but he has some nasty habits resulting in errors of grammar and punctuation. These should have been corrected by his editors. I mean, I know that we are always to treat God as “subject” and not as “object,” but I don’t think the rule extends to our grammar. "WhoM can we trust?" – that’s what it ought to have said. And there are several other misuses of the objective case already in only the first chapter.)

At page 12, he says this:

A word of caution here: some modern thinkers have been very tempted by language that seems to suggest that God is in some way in need of having something else around in order to become more fully himself. … But I think we have to face a challenge here; we must get to grips with the idea that we don’t ‘contribute’ anything to God, that God would have been the same God if we had never been created. (Italics added.)

And it’s that last phrase, “God would have been the same God if we had never been created,” that brought me up short. My initial reaction was, “Wrong!” And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became in my original reaction.

I readily admit at the outset that I am no philosophical theologian (I can’t even play one in Sunday School). And I am not particularly facile in the arguments surrounding the Theopaschite controversy. And I figure that with the heft of his tome on Arius, the Archbishop is fluent in the controversies of Christian polemics. But I can’t figure out how one -- i.e., he -- squares the claim that Jesus was God and that he died with the claim that God would have been the same had that not happened. Here’s my reasoning.

God is what happens among the Father and the Son and Holy Spirit. The Father is not God without the either the Son or the Spirit – and the same holds for the others. (And I think this stands up whether the Spirit proceeds from the Father or from the Father and the Son.) God is dynamic, relational -- an event, even. He is not static or reified in the way a statue or a photograph is.

God created humanity (as a part of the creation of all that we know) ex nihilo. There was something new brought into being and, thus, already something must have changed in the nature of the relationship among Father and Son and Spirit -- which is to say, in God --, because the love that binds them in their eternal perichoresis was in some sense adjusted or opened to include what had not been there before. Doesn’t that mark a difference already in God – not exactly an evolution (I’m not that daft!), but certainly a change (as in a change in the dynamic)? Admittedly, I suppose, it represents no fundamental change in the essential nature of God (if one wants to go all Aristotelian). But it does change God. Does it complete God in some way? No, but it does complicate his existence.

Take it to the next step: Only because God created humanity did Jesus become human. (Obviously, that is speculation, but it does seem naturally to follow from the Christian reading of the "Fall" which followed from the creation.) The Son took on flesh and lived, suffered, died, and was buried in both his human and divine “natures.” Now look: If Jesus was both fully human and divine, then when he died, the Son died, didn’t he? And if the Son died, God died – because God is what happens among the Father and Son and Holy Spirit. If there is no Son, there is no longer God -- at least in the sense that there was God when the Son was alive. Because of the contingent nature of the Christian narrative, are we not compelled to say that had humanity never been created, God may never have died. But since God did die, was God not different from what he would have been had he not died never created humanity?

Did God not weep over Jerusalem? Did God not mourn Lazarus’ death? Did God not revel in the wedding banquet at Cana (OK: that’s an embellishment on the pericope)? Did God not feel the scourging done to him? Did God not suffer on his cross? If any and all of these are true of Jesus, and they are, are they not true of God by nature of the infinite perichoresis among Father and Son and Holy Spirit? And were not all of these contingent on the creation of humanity?

My reading of Heilsgeschichte is that God regularly changes his mind, alters his course. These changes are perfectly consistent with his fundamental identity, which is love. But are we so to isolate God away from human experience that we can – or that we want – to say that God was affected by none of this?

Fundamentally, we I don’t see how we can continue to hold that God did not change, did not experience different things differently, did not suffer as a result of the contingent event of his creating humankind – that is, unless we want to put everything on the level of pagan myth. It seems to me, without knowing what I’m talking about, that I must be a heretic of the Theopaschite variety. The immutability of God may have served an importance at one point in history. Now it seems to be to be something better ignored.

In my defense, I think that I can find support for my position in a number of big-wig theological thinkers who are not talking through their hats: Barth, Bonhoeffer, Moltmann, and others (don't I remember something from Jenson's Systematic raising this point?) seem to be on board with a new reading of that old problem.

I suppose, from the Archbishop’s perspective in his lectures, it makes sense to stress the unchangeability of God to underscore God’s reliability (although that's not what the context suggests). But I think his assertion goes too far and ultimately undercuts the theme he pursues.

My Belated Easter Proclamation

This is overdue. I only recently realized that I had filed this in "draft" and had not posted it. But as I am an observer of the Great 50 days, it is not too late to resurrect it.

John Donne, for all his complexity, magisterially got one of the great points of Easter in his sonnet (called "Sonnet X" or "Death, Be Not Proud") which follows.

All blessings be to the Lamb who, though he died, yet lives! "And what does this mean?" Read on:

Death, Be Not Proud
-- John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Amen!

Among the Signs of Hope

Eastertide, it seems to me, is a time to be especially awake to the signs which encourage our hope. An empty tomb, a mistaken identity set straight, a broken loaf and shared cup that set misunderstandings straight -- why not look for these in our own day?

Through the graces of my friend Bjoern (I haven't mastered umlauts on this site) comes this news report. The Israeli Knesset (parliament) changed the law to allow a foreign head of state to address the Knesset, and it did so to accommodate Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany. That the first-in-history should be granted to the leader of Germany is, I think, just exactly one of those empty-tomb signs that ought to lift us up.

Now, if we could get Abu Mazzan up there ... !