"Jesus Died for You"

Nothing highlights my theological naivete and incompetence better than intramural Lutheran disagreements. But I'm going out on another limb today. At the urging of a dear friend, I have been reading (and in some cases, re-reading) Gerhard Foerde, late professor of theology at Luther Seminary and one of the most consistent and persistent exponents of a view of Lutheran theology that I find problematic. (Foerde's name should be spelled with that Norwegian vowel that is an "o" with a slash through it, but I don't know how to transliterate that. In my experience, most publishers simply print it as an "o," but the Norwegian in me takes umbrage at that. So I've done my best by using the convention for a German o-umlaut.) Now I have already admitted that I think there is much of value in Foerde's thought, but I am troubled by a insistent lack of room for "sanctification" or "growth in grace." It seems to me that his writing portrays the life of faith as a kind of Sisyphean circle of sin-forgiveness-sin-forgiveness, always returning to point "O" every day. But my friend (dare I name you, Paul?) insists both that I am being somewhat unfair and that there is, nevertheless, every reason for seeing things precisely that way (although he has denied my charge that Foerde runs close to antinomianism -- which is a very un-Lutheran path to trod). Comes this sermon that I read last night: "Jesus Died for You" from the collection of Foerde's writings, A More Radical Gospel: Essays on Eschatology, Authority, Atonement, and Ecumenism, edited by Mark Mattes and Steve Paulson. I read the sermon because it's short and I thought that, because it's a sermon, it might give me insights that I miss from the more academic stuff I've read. Well, it gave me an insight all right, but not one that I am at all comfortable with. Let me quote: "Jesus died for you. This is all he really did in the days of his flesh that is truly for you. He died. He refused to do anything else. ... So his mission was -- finally -- to die. And it was -- for you." Surely, I immediately thought, that is not right! Oh, I have no problem with "and it was -- for you." Pro nobis, pro me -- what Christian thinker will deny that? But is it true that all the earthly Jesus (and there was no other Jesus, it seems to me -- although I'm wrestling with how to fit the human-Jesus into the Trinity after the Ascension) did that ultimately matters is to die? Even if you give it the spin I did in the previous sentence, it's still all wrong, it seems to me. While the shadow of the cross lands across the manger, the birth of Jesus was "for you," too. The teaching, and healing, and exorcising, and excoriating, and eating with outcasts and sinners, and making wine, and forgiving sins was also "for you." And all of that is of a piece with his dying. The face of God shone forth in all of his life -- not just in his death. Oh, we cannot overstate the importance of the death, but we cannot divorce that death from the rest of his life -- any more than we can overlook that his death was ultimately meaningless without the Resurrection. (Foerde also seems to suggest in the sermon that the meaning of the Resurrection was simply to put the imprimatur on the death -- not on the man and the life!) Lamentably, I think later paragraphs of the sermon highlight that he can't make his claim stick. He implicitly acknowledges that the death of Christ was perhaps an inevitable outcome of his life and living. "He dies. That is all he can do in the end." And that isn't nearly so problematic as the dogmatic statement at the beginning of the sermon. Foerde concludes this way: "... So now, he alone gives us life, life triumphant over the law, sin, and death that threatens [sic] always to consume us. Jesus died to give us this gift. Jesus died for you." But did not he also live to precisely that point? And if that "life triumphant" is a reality, does it not begin in the world where we live? Isn't it more than some airy dream "in the sweet by-and-by"? I'm tempted to raise the question asked of me by my favorite skeptical interrogator while I was a pastor: "But of what earthly good is this Jesus?" On what seems to me to be a similar line (and I don't mean to be utilitarian): Why do the Gospels spend so much time on Jesus' life, if all that matters was his death? And similarly, doesn't this give credence to the claim that for Lutherans, what really matters is the crucifixion -- with the Resurrection as a kind of add-on? Sorry, dear one, but I'm not convinced yet!

A Literary Interlude

In anticipation of discussing the work with my fiction book group, I have finished my third or fourth reading of Robertson Davies’ masterful Fifth Business, the first novel in his “Deptford Trilogy.” (I am terribly conflicted about whether Wendell Berry or Robertson Davies, among the people I read regularly gives me the greatest joy. But perhaps I don’t have to choose.) I expect to have some more things to say about it, but this weekend as I was reveling in the story, my eye and mind were drawn to one particular passage that I have failed to pay much attention to. I think that oversight indicates some really sloppy reading on my part, because I think the paragraph I cite below highlights and focuses one of the major themes of the book. But I don’t want to say more than that now. The speaker, Padre Blazon, is an ancient Jesuit priest who is a member of the Bollandist Society. (This is a real-life group that is dedicated to the collection of virtually everything there is on saints. The main character of Davies’ novel, Dunstan Ramsay, is a boarding-school teacher whose (a)vocation is research into saints, and so it is only natural that he should eventually be attracted to the Bollandists.) Padre Blazon charges himself with imparting some aspects of wisdom to the younger Ramsay (“Ramezay,” as he calls him). And below is one paragraph of his instruction. Somewhat defensively, I suppose, I acknowledge up front that Davies is not a theologian (which makes him even more fun to read); that, in fact, Davies threw out much of the baby with the bathwater when he rejected the sour Calvinism of his youth; and that some of my own enthusiasm for the quote is that is comes from a character that Davies paints in a way as vivid and bright as Shakespeare paints Falstaff. (Having studied with Father Godfrey Diekmann, of blessed memory, at St. John’s Abbey and University, I rather hopefully picture that Godfrey might have been a little like Padre Blazon, had Godfrey lived well into his 100s.) I’d be curious to hear/see what you make of it. I hope and think the paragraph makes sense on its own, cut from its context. Thus Padre Blazon: My own idea is that when He [i.e., Jesus Christ] comes again it will be to continue his ministry as an old man. I am an old man and my life has been spent as a soldier of Christ, and I tell you that the older I grow the less Christ’s teaching says to me. I am sometimes very conscious that I am following the path of a leader who dies when He was less than half as old as I am now. I see and feel things He never saw or felt. I know things He seems never to have known. Everybody wants a Christ for himself and those who think like him. Very well, am I at fault for wanting a Christ who will show me how to be an old man? All Christ’s teaching is put forward with the dogmatism, the certainty, and the strength of youth: I need something that takes account of the accretion of experience, the sense of paradox and ambiguity that comes with years! I think after forty we should recognize Christ politely, but turn for our comfort and guidance to God the Father, who knows the good and evil of life, and to the Holy Ghost, who possesses a wisdom beyond that of the incarnated Christ. After all, we worship a Trinity, of which Christ is but one Person. I think when He comes again it will be to declare the unity of the life of the flesh and the life of the spirit. And then perhaps we shall make some sense of this life of marvels, cruel circumstances, obscenities, and commonplaces. Who can tell? – we might even make it bearable for everybody. Although I didn't intend to add this, I can't resist one more paragraph. Later in the novel, Ramsay looks up Padre Blazon, who is in a kind of hospice, cared for by some nuns. At their parting, Ramsay asks his friend whether he has found a God to teach him how to be old (confessing that he himself had not yet done so). Padre Blazon responds with his old insouciance, Yes, yes, I have found Him, and He is the very best of company. Very calm, very quiet, but gloriously alive: we DO, but He IS. Not in the least a proselytizer or a careerist. like His sons.

Lutheran Ecclesiology -- Part 1

I intend a couple of posts that will pick up on my earlier post, "Theological Exegesis: Part I," in which I tried to argue that the Bible is the Church's book. In order to make some sense of that for myself, I've had to look at my problems with the assertion. It makes perfect sense to me on an intellectual level, but I've discovered some inner-hidden-deeper-secret discomfort with it. And after some reflection I realize that it's not all my fault: I'm a Lutheran, and we don't have much of a base for dealing with "the Church" in any concrete way.

That realization intersects with my other complaint about the Lutheran tradition -- viz., that we don't really have a good way to talk about living out the life of faith in ways consistent with God's will. Here, the problems are two-fold: First, as I suggest above, we have a heritage built on an inadequate ecclesiology. Second, we have an almost rabid fear of calls to "holiness." It has become clear to me over the last few months just how interdependent these two weaknesses are.

I propose to vent a little on both of these issues, my venting's being prompted by my reading L. Gregory Jones' book Embodying Forgiveness: A Theological Analysis (Eerdmans, 1995). In that book, Jones convinces me that he speaks the truth. In fact, of course, I have long held the main principles he advances. But he does so in an almost systematic way that lays out the logic in a pleasing way. In addition, some nosing around in Liberation Theology has my mind swirling -- as does a quite challenging book barchbishop-future Archbiship of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, Resurrection: Interpreting the Easter Gospel (Pilgrim Press, 1984).

First, let's talk about the Church. Then, when work permits me some time to think, I'll pick up holiness. (That sentence is a study in potential misreading.) And then I'll try to pin the two together. Ultimately, I hope that this line of writing will help me to spell out some issues I have with "salvation." But we'll have to see whether I can get more specific than that!

The official documents of Lutheran identity, the "Lutheran Confessions" contained in the Book of Concord, say very little about the Church. Oh, with the creed, we confess that there is a Church and that she has been summoned into existence by God and that she is something of some importance and that for one "ecclesial body" (to use a modern term) to recognize another as "church," it is sufficient that the preaching be orthodox Gospel and that the celebration of sacraments be a faithful witness to (or a visible acting out of) the Gospel.

But while we Lutherans claim that "The Church" exists and we seem to claim that we know it when we see it, we never have set out just what that "thing" called "church" is. Oh, we sort of joke about Jesus' promise (taken, in my view, out of context) that "whenever two or three are gathered, there am I in the midst of them." (The context deals with discipline, not a worshipping disciple community, doesn't it?) And we play with the "metaphors" -- e.g., the Church as the "Body of Christ." (Not all of us believe that that is a metaphor, incidentally, in case you haven't picked it up!) And at least some of us will talk about her characteristics -- e.g., the Church's "synchronic" and "diachronic" character. And finally, some of us (lamentably, some of them have now gone to other churchly traditions) have wrestled with the so-called "marks of the Church." (There's a good CCET book available from Eerdmans on that.) But on a day-to-day basis, the identity and even existence of "the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church" make very little practical difference for most Lutherans.

Now I know next to nothing about history and even less about the history of Reformation theology. But I suspect that the reason that the confessions donÂ' make more of the Church is that there wasn't much to perorate about: The Reformers pretty much agreed with the Romans, or at least operated within the same thought sphere, about the nature and mission of the Church, and so they spilled little ink on that. They spent their time and resources on the disputed questions. Oh, that indulgence thing was an obvious insult to the nature of the Church and the Gospel she is intended to announce. (I'm going to get my friend Jim to recount the later Lutheran practice, however, of selling absolution.) Then, those nasty little Anabaptists and Schwaermerei caused some problems from within the ranks of the Reformation, and that required the mainstream Reformers to draw some lines (not always in such pretty tones, I'm afraid -- and not always fairly, either). But, again, those lines were inspired by challenge to the taken-for-grantedness of an understanding of the Church. Over all, there was disagreement over how to live in the Church and what to say about that living, not over the fact or nature or divine institution of the Church. (Just check out the placement of articles dealing with the Church in the Confessio Augustana: You'll see how early they are dealt with -- a clear indication that there was not much disagreement there. It's only abuses that get the ink later on in the confession.)

But that got us Lutherans into trouble when we had to come to grips with a world in which "Church" could not be taken for granted. Especially since the Enlightenment, with its meteoric elevation of the "individual" over against the collective, the nature of the "one, holy, catholic, and apostolic" has become a major problem. And Lutherans, who look first to the Confessions (well, the good Lutherans do, I suppose, anyway) to find counsel (at least when the Bible seems unclear -- although there are those who look to the Confessions to figure out precisely what the Bible means), could find nothing to help. So with typically fallacious reasoning, they decided that the issue was not all that critical. It's a kind of odd argument from silence.

We Lutherans -- and other Protestants, I think -- tend to do that. We did that with the mass, too: We overlook or ignore the fact that the reason Luther and his heirs didn't carry on constantly about the centrality of the mass in Christian life is that that wasn't in issue; it was abuses relating to what happened and how it happened that required attention. We have come to the conclusion, to the contrary of Reformers' intent, however, that what matters is preaching and singing; the mass itself is sort of a nice exercise in historical memory. I know of a major so-called "Lutheran" congregation in the Twin Cities where the eucharist is celebrated as a congregation once or twice a year -- and one of those events is Good Friday. If one "feels the need" for it more frequently, I guess you can go to a chapel for an after-the-fact add-on. It was like that when I worshipped at Duke University this spring, too: communion was an additional service after the "main service" -- which in that case, irony of ironies, included baptism and confirmation! (There, the new dean of the chapel is an Anglican, so perhaps he'll bring some sense to the project. But the chapel is Methodist, and so, even though the Methodist statement on the means of grace is remarkably clear and orthodox, the sacramental practices look to be on the loose side. Thus, I won't hold my breath.)

Back the to point: If Lutherans followed our own claims, we would look first to Scripture -- and as I have indicated earlier on this blog, that would mean reading the Bible with the eyes, ears, and commitments of the Church through history, not as a literary document that can be deconstructed in 21st century style, using "modern" philosophical inquiry as the critical apparatus to learn about the Church. And we would learn that "Church" (or in other synonyms, "the body," fellowship, community) is central to what it means to Christian. Looking at Corinthians, for example, highlights that the Christians there were not being Christian because they were broken up into little cliques. In the Ephesians segment for a recent Sunday (13 August) liturgy reminded the Ephesians that they were "one with each other." And deeper study reveals that the Church (oh, how like Hauerwas and Willimon this will sound) of Biblical times was its own culture -- not merely a convenient gathering of like-minded people, but an organism (to uses Paul's image, a "body").

Paul claims that failure to discern "the body" during the eucharist is a step toward eating and drinking damnation unto oneself. And I think that that's the situation we're in now. We Lutherans (especially of the Norwegian stripe in which I was raised) get all uptight about challenges to our congregationalism; we have little respect for and no little suspicion of a wider definition of "church." Lutherans more generally may acknowledge some wider reality than the congregation, but its title will be prefaced with the adjective "Lutheran." But, in defense of my fellows in the faith, we Lutherans are not alone: Roman Catholics, for example, will argue that they are the true church to which the other traditions may return at any time -- but in the meantime those traditions are of questionable merit. (Yes: I am accusing Roman Catholics in general, with their long and detailed history of ecclesiological study, of having an inadequate ecclesiology, too. That's one of the reasons that I both lament and question the recent rush to Rome by some of America's brightest Lutheran minds.)

Until we correct our ecclesiology -- repent and believe the Gospel as it applies to the Church -- we will have no success in developing a "theological exegesis" or gaining insight in to "holy living" or, in the final analysis, professing Christ faithfully. And I am not all that hopeful -- except that the Gospel requires me to hope. Thus, even though the new ELCA "worship resource" (with its TEN settings -- or supposed settings -- of the mass) is designed to sell to a pluralistic culture, so that every congregation can develop its own "style" and "sing with its own voice" (comments I've heard about the book), I remain skeptically -- even desperately -- hope-filled that the Spirit will not allow that further to diminish the low ecclesiology of the ELCA.

Part 2 awaits, but for today I fear I've made another long diatribe. I hope that doesn't prevent someone from clarifying what I'm trying to say or taking issue with what I do manage to get out.

At Ease in Zion

In an essay, “God’s Revelation and Proclamation in History,” Gustavo Gonzalez (a theologican of the "Liberation Theology" mold) writes, “It is time to open the Bible and read it from the perspective of ‘those who are persecuted in the cause of right’ (Matt. 5:10), from the perspective of the condemned human beings of this earth – for, after all, theirs is the kingdom of heaven. It is for them that the gospel is destined, it is to them that the gospel is preferentially addressed.” I really like that thinking, and I’m inclined to agree with him. “God’s preferential option for the poor” is a controversial idea, one loudly condemned by the neo-cons (especially among Roman Catholics, but not unheard among Lutherans) , but one affirmed (if memory serves) by more than one recent Pope. I like that it seems to take the Sermon on the Mount seriously (an address that I find an awfully good summary of the Gospel), and it seems to comport with the witness and example of Jesus. It gives voice to my complaint that much of modern theology is either too academic, anemic, and bodiless or too touch-feely, hand-holding, chaplaincy-like. I wonder whether it might be time for the well-off Church to recall the witness of the liberation theologians. (It's a crock that they were all Marxists -- though no one condemns most modern theologians for being capitalist.) I wonder whether it is time for the Church to realize that most of us (her members) are not among the lost, the oppressed, the poor, the powerless, the condemned. I wonder whether it might be time for some of us to be disquieted by a Gospel that changes lives and situations, rather than affirming, comfirming, and giving comfort to the status quo. (And when I say "I wonder," of course I don't wonder at all: I think it's way past time.) I see evidence for an effort to avoid the Gospel in a lot of the church’s preaching. It seems to me that a lot of -- if not most -- preaching that gets done is a not-very-refined effort either to show those of us who, by a straightforward reading of God’s word, ought to be discombobulated that we have nothing to fear, that we are “OK,” that God loves us “just as we are,” no change necessary; or to so “spiritualize” the Gospel as to disincarnate the message, which then leaves us just as we are, but affirmed nonetheless. Most sermons I hear (and not just at my own church, but there too) seem to strive mightily to identify us, who sit in the pews, with those very humble and down-trodden ones to whom the Gospel is addressed. And I frankly find the attempt amusing – when it is not maddening in the extreme. Of course, we are not poor in resources; we are among the richest civilization the world has known. And the gap between us and the poorest in the world is so vast that even science fiction writers can’t really describe it adequately. But, in order to make the Gospel "relevant" to our situation, if we are not poor in money or power, then we can be “poor in spirit.” Thus, we talk about our anxieties, our disappointments, our hopes-deferred – and see in them a moral equivalence with physical poverty and being "disappeared" by some political regime. “Charity begins at home” and so we must “love ourselves first, if we are to love others.” And it goes on. Kathy, my wife, says that there are times when she wants to scream – that if she hears one more sermon anywhere that tries to portray all of us middle-class respectables as “suffering,” she will stand up and yell “Enough!” She has helped me to see (not for the first time, I readily acknowledge) just how far we have come from orthodox faith -- where genuine suffering is addressed and woe is addressed to those "who are at ease in Zion." When worship becomes an exercise in avoiding responsibility, in being enabled to forget that we sin and fall short of the glory of god, in ignoring that “repent” is the first word of Gospel preaching (not: “Don’t worry; be happy.”) – then it ceases to be worship. I think the rationalism that has taken control of theology in the Western Church – probably feeding into “constantinianism” and nurtured by the incredible wealth of Christians – has worked an inversion in the Gospel’s effects. And we need to be recalled to the path of faith. It may go without saying that, at least one function of preaching ought to be “comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable.” But it has become clear that preachers also need re-education in what constitutes “affliction” and “comfort.” We need more preaching that tells most of us to “get a grip” and come to terms with reality – the reality of the Gospel, which may require that we give up our wealth and security in order to follow Jesus. Hmmm: This is sounding sort of like Bonhoeffer, isn’t it? That’s not too surprising, given that Gonzalez expressed an appreciation for Bonhoeffer as one of the few theologians of the West who “got” what the Gospel was about.

Personal Note

My dear friend Paul and his beloved Katie will, on Saturday, exchange vows and rings and, in the presence of God and before the face of his congregation, declare their intention to live faithfully together for the rest of their lives. They will, thereby, become husband and wife. I invite you all to pray that they will enjoy with each other and will be to all who know them the very model of the love that binds the Heavenly Bridegroom to his Bride.

To stay or not to stay? And if not, where to go?

A new article in The Christian Century treats of notable once-Protestant scholars who have swum the Tiber to "enter into communion" with the Roman Catholic Church. In part because I know five of the nine people who appear in this article and in part because I think that anyone inclined to a serious consideration of the State of the Church needs to consider the issue, I provide a link to the article:

http://christiancentury.org/article.lasso?id=2290

I have had to return to this issue time and again. I think it is no secret that I am not satisfied with the state of theological reflection and faithfulness in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. But I come around, again and again, to the question friend John Setterlund asked me twenty years ago: Where else is there to go? Is it any better someplace else? And I don't know that I have an answer yet.

Carl Braaten has also wisely said that one dare not leave one's tradition -- in our case, Lutheran -- because of dissatisfaction or even ideological umbrage (that last one is mine); she then just becomes an angry, disaffected Lutheran in the Catholic Church (or the Orthodox or the ...). I admit that I am attracted to the profound sense of mystery, of "rightness" in prayer and worship in Orthodoxy. But that, too, raises issues of its own.

I am somewhat shaken by the exodus from "mainline Protestantism": I have enormous respect for Jaroslav Pelikan, Robert Wilken, Reinhard Huetter, Leonard Klein, Al Kimel (of Pontificators fame and fortune), and many others. Their moves require me to re-think. But at this point, I'm still with Radner and Braaten and Hauerwas (now there's a trinity for you).

I intend to read the CC article again and to tease out the problematic claims. It's time to do some more thinking about this again.

The Feast of Mary, Mother of Our Lord

Today is the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of Our Lord.

At my desk, I am watched over by an icon called “Theotokos Great Grace.” The icon features the Theotokos holding a very adolescent-looking Jesus. The two look at each other in evident adoration, and Jesus has extended his right hand to point to his mother’s lips. (It's a rather modern icon, written in the classic style, I think. It also appears to be signed, but I can't make out the signature and date.)

To me that gesture represents a kind of delicious irony, a kind of circularity to the Gospel’s witness. Aside from her magnificent Magnificat, the only words of Mary that I can recall Scripture’s reporting come from the wedding at Cana: When the wine has run out, Mary tells the servants to “do what [Jesus} tells [them].”Along comes this icon to reinforce that we should listen to Mary. And what does she say? “Listen to him.”

Mary is the first evangelist; she bore the Word of God into human form. We are well advised to listen to her. For some of us, the Magnificat is THE summary of the Gospel which came to fruition in her womb. As her Son indicates in my icon, we ought to listen to her. And what does she say? “Listen to him.” The irony in my icon is that whereas most of the Mother and Child icons show Mary pointing to Jesus, here the gesture is the other way around – and yet in so doing, it witnesses to the same truth.

Unfortunately, Mary gets short shrift in my corner of the Christian world. Perhaps in reaction to perceived excesses and abuses in the Roman Catholic Church, against whom most protestants still seem determined to define themselves, Protestants – and even, somewhat surprisingly, Lutherans – ignore the Virgin, the Mother of God. We do this despite evidence from the earliest days of the Church that Mary was held to be “special” even among the apostles and martyrs.

I confess to a lingering trace of discomfort myself. So much of Marian devotion seems to be the Catholic equivalent of Jesus-piety in Protestantism: They/we are so afraid and unworthy to approach God the Father, that we work through a mediator. Marians need the intercessions of the Lord’s mother to move a distant and judgmental Jesus; Lutherans need Jesus to intercede to an angry, judgmental Father. Needless to say, perhaps. rumors that the immediate past Pope wanted to name Mary “co-mediatrix” with Jesus drove me up the wall (mostly because I could never make any sense of what it was supposed to mean).

But I also cannot escape the most blessed Theotokos. Luther advised us to pray to her: Call on her; “Ave, Maria,” he urged. And scripture reports that she was present at virtually every major turn in Jesus’ life and ministry. So I call on her, just as I call on other fellow members of the Body of Christ, to pray for me.

We will worship tonight at Mount Olive in a festive Eucharist celebrating the life and witness of Mary, Mother of Our Lord. This is an event of Gospel history and of the Gospel. It is good news that by her consent, “Fiat!”, the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Hail, Mary, full of grace;
the Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Pray for us sinners
now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

R.I.P., Elizabeth Schwarzkopf

I may write more later, for now, I regret to note that one of the finest voices in the history of music has been silenced until the New Day: Elizabeth Schwarzkopf has died at age 90. Ms. Schwarzkopf established the "gold standard" for the performance of almost anything she sang -- Mozart's grand dames, Anna and Elivara and the Countess; Strauss' Marschellan (one of her greatest roles); Strass' "Four Last Songs" (who Renee Fleming told me was also her favorite singer to record the part); I could go on.

Schwarzkopf distinguished herself (in part because of the very able support and guidance of her husband, the legendary record producer Walter Legge, whom she adored) by her obvious intelligence, the depth of her insight into the roles she undertook and lieder she chose to sing, the ability to incarnate the persona and not just sing the notes, the beauty and flexibility of her voice (which she always controlled immaculately), her own physical beauty (which made her acting the parts of countess and marschallin even more touching!) . In her memoir, she recounts a wonderful story of dining when Maria Callas came in. La Callas came over (Legge was her producer, too, so the women knew each other somewhat) and asked Mdme. Schwarzkopf how to solve some vocal issue. She said that she knew Schwarzkopf did it better. But when Schwarzkopf demurred, preferring to take the matter up later, Callas insisted and proceded to sing, full voice, so that Schwarzkopf could guide her to the proper technique. It was apparently quite the scene.

When Mdme. Schwarzkopf retired from the stage, she continued to guide and mentor some of the finest singers around today. (I think Thomas Hampson, e.g., was her student.)

Even though she had not performed for decades, her albums continue in press (yes, as CDs, though the vinyl is still better) -- and with very good reason. Hers was an artistry that will not be denied.

Eternal rest grant her, O Lord;
and let perpetual light shine upon her.

"Books, Not Bombs" for Lebanon Campaign

I simply cannot begin to write about the Israeli-Hezbollah disaster. I sweat bullets over it, but if I begin to speak, I will not be able to stop -- and my reputation as a knee-jerk hot head will only be enhanced.

One thing I cannot overlook, however, and to which I ask your attention is an approach to salving the incredible scarring inflicted on the children of Lebanon. "Faithful America" is sponsoring a campaign to provide school supplies to Lebanese children -- you know, the ones whom cowardly Hezbollah hides behind from Israel's retribution and through whose bodies war-criminal Israel shoots to try to take Hezbollah out. Here is their site for making contributions to the effort: FaithfulAmerica . And here is a cooperative site with Church World Service that tells how to make your own or buy through that organization: CWS .

Surely we can dip into our "luxury accounts" and help a little.

Book Notes

This is a call for contributions -- with a special challenge to my theological colleagues in the Twin Cities and environs.

Pontificator has a book thing going over at his blog. He asks questions about favorites, etc. (I'm not quite sure what a "meme" is, but this seems like it can be an open game. So let's go on this front.

I'll supply answers off the top of my head (I don't suggest that this become a competition in "The Great Books" I've read -- after all, I used to work for the Great Books Foundation in Chicago; I can't afford to be one-upped.) and then you respond with yours. (We can also comment on each others' choices.

1. One book that changed your life:
Honest to God by Bp. JAT Robinson (I'm not saying for better or worse, but this book woke
me up)

2. One book that you’ve read more than once:
Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry (4 times and counting -- it is simply one of the most beautiful
books I've ever read)
(I'll cheat and add that I've read most of Robertson Davies' novels more than thrice)

3. One book you’d want on a desert island:
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare -- annotated, of course

4. One book that made you laugh:
Moby Dick by Herman Melville

5. One book that made you cry:
Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving

6. One book that you wish had been written:
Do This In Remembrance of Me: A Rubrical Guide to the Celebration of the Mass by Jesus,
Foster Son of Joseph and Son of Mary

7. One book that you wish had never been written:
The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown (not for its controversial subject, but because it simply
sucks)

8. One book you’re currently reading:
Embodying Forgiveness by L. Gregory Jones

9. One book you’ve been meaning to read:
Summa Theologica by Aquinas

There you go. I await your replies. Keep in mind (he says defensively) that this is not a result of long meditation. I may give it some more thought and enter the names of books that I think were better answers -- but this is what came pretty much to mind right out of the chute. You may go either route: profound or knee-jerk.

Peace

For those of you interested in the Desert Fathers and Mothers, in "ascesis," in spirituality (at least of the early, desert variety), comes this interview with my friend John Chryssavgis. It's very short, but perhaps it will tease enough that you will read his books. (Beyond the Shattered Image continues to inspire, haunt, and instruct me. Heart of the Desert is worth every penny.)

As I understand Zenit: It's a kind of unofficial press voice for the Vatican -- all things Vatican all the time. But it's not the official press office. They provide daily updates on things papal. It's a cool site.

One contrarian note, however: I am a great proponent of the serial comma. (You know: When there are three or more items or phrases in a row, there should be a comma between the last and the penultimate items in the list.) Zenit is not and look what happens: "Author of several books, husband and father of two, Doctor Chryssavgis ... ." For the lack of a comma Fr. John is made the husband AND father of two [sons] -- a moral and theological, if not biological, impossibility (especially -- ? -- since his offspring are sons). See? Rules matter!

Charity

I strongly promote use of one's financial resources and of one's time and talents to support those people and causes who and which need it. But I think too many of us often overlook unspectacular, almost anonymous ways that we can help. So many of us will support living-wage effots while we shop at WalMart (where, incidentally, I do not shop). It would be unremarkable to drive over to Target or -- better -- the local or neighborhood grocery and hardware store.

Here's another way to do some good -- and it doesn't cost extra: Go this site, The Breast Cancer Site, and click on the box that says "Fund Free Mammograms." By clicking on that, you contribute to providing free mammograms to women who otherwise couldn't afford them. You may return to the site once a day and do the same thing. (The commercial sponsors of the site kick in something for every "hit" the site receives. If you follow the sponsors' links and actually buy one of their products, as I understand it, a measure of the proceeds from the purchase also goes to the fund. But you don't have to buy anything for this site to provide something like a dime for each daily hit.)

After you have hit the "Fund" button, you're taken to an advertising page. Scroll down a bit and find the other sites of the same kind, promoting help for children's literacy, food for hungry people, animal rescue, rainforest protection, and children's health. Click those icons in turn to donate to other causes. (The left-wing, knee-jerker in me makes me hit them all, but you can pick and choose.)

I think it's an easy, valuable thing to do. And I encourage everyone to go to the sites every day. It's a small gesture, but I have read that the sites actually accomplish a lot of good. (Now someone can tell me that it's all a right-wing plot that does not good. But for now I'm on board.

Priests or "Priestesses"?

It was bound to happen: The Episcopal Church selects a woman to be its Presiding Bishop and the Anglican world goes into yet another tizzy. Is it her gender? Is it that she is a "liberal"? Is it that she is an oceanographer? Is it that she was "fast-tracked"? (I share the concern that she has little parish experience -- as a pastor, anyway).

I have long been perplexed by the fight over the ordination of women to the clergy -- either the presbyterate (the office of pastor) or the episcopate ( the office of bishop). I have tried to understand the issue from both sides, but I'm frankly incapable of seeing it from more than one.

I don't look at it as a "rights" issue. There is no "right" to be ordained. To claim so is completely to misunderstand the ministry of and to word and sacrament. "Rights" is a secular word and concept which has no place in discourse about ecclessiology.

Instead, I look at it as an issue of ecclessiology (theology of the Church). What, who, why, how, where, when is the Church? What is the point of ministry? On what grounds do we make determiniations as to our life together as the Body of Christ?

Along comes Pontifications, where is posted some reflection on C.S. Lewis' article on the ordination of women. You may read it here. Some of you will get very angry reading this post and the replies. (I got confused and miffed myself a couple of times.) But it seems a place to start.

I confess that I do not read much C.S. Lewis because I frankly don't find him very interesting, insightful, or helpful. That may be my problem. But the excerpts (and even the entire essay) set out no intelligible argument except that "[o]nly by wearing the masculine uniform [i.e., only by being male] can (provisionally, and till the Parousia) represent the Lord to the Church: for we are all, corporately and individually, feminine to Him." Now it may be my involvement in the feminism of the 60s and 70s, but I haven't a clue what that means: God is masculine? Well, Jesus was masculine, but the Christ, the Lord of the Church ... ? We are all "feminine"? Well, receptive makes sense -- but in what sense is that "feminine"? Is it all built on the anatomy of sex? Is that ultimately dispositive? If so, did the natural religions get it right -- only with the name of the deity (and perhaps his number) wrong?

I realize that I stray into sarcasm, but my intention is pure. I don't get the argument. (It's sort of cagey of Lewis to argue that rationality is the opponent of this principle of male-only clergy, isn't it? How do you argue with someone who says that disagreement is precisely proof of his rectitute?)

I mean, if Christ can be present in and as bread and wine, why can he not be "represented" in and through a woman? Does not the argument run perilously close to confirming Mary Daley's adage that if God must be male (at least in His representative), the male is god? I absolutely don't deny that Jesus' maleness is historic fact; I wonder whether it is ontologically dispositive of much else (I think). Certainly, it doesn't seem to matter ontologically for ministry. I am apt to criticize the Church for baptizing the social orders of its days, and I am apt to buy that women's leadership in the Church was problematic from the very beginning because of the possibility of confusion with pagan cults, within many of which women "priestesses" held sway. (There is not reason to adopt that designation -- and in the literature, whenever anyone uses it of women ordained into the Christian ministry, it is a a baldfaced attempt to slant the argument with pejorative terms.) But those seem to be prudential, not ontological or even theological, reasons for decisions in the past; they do not dispose of the issue in the present.

I don't want to get into any shouting matches about woman-haters or radical feminists. But if someone can suggest a good read on this issue -- one that is solid in its Biblical and theological foundations -- I'd be happy to receive it.

"Editing" movies

OK, an interesting new day.

A federal judge has determined that it is illegal for a company to edit motion pictures and then rent the edited versions to people who are sensitive about language and violence and sex or who don't want their kyds exposed to it. Here's a story.

Now comes a commentary by Mark Moring at Christianity Today. He concludes that the decision is a correct one, and he discusses why, as a relatively conservative Christian parent, he thinks so. It's a good reflection, and he says most of the things I would want to say.

I heard a story on NPR this morning about the hubbub. And the illustration (maybe, "example" is a better word: it's hard to do an illustration on the radio unless you're Garrison Keillor) they used was an edit of a scene from Steven Spielberg's Munich. I was speechless that that movie would even be in the mix.

Munich is one intense movie, and there's no way that I'd allow my thirteen-year-old daughter see it -- even if she were inclined to ask to see it. But what the edit-rental place found distasteful was the language. They edited out the "f"-words (of which there were plenty) and I expect some others (at least according to the report). But that left unanswered my question: Where on earth would you start and stop editing Munich? The movie comprises, far more sinister than bad language, some of the most gruesome intentional violence you can imagine -- murder, bombings, mass murder, gratuitous sadism. Why would that edit-rental shop even carry the thing at all? What is in it that a sensitive parent would want her child to see -- about 3 minutes of conversation with Golda Meir?

It has seemed to me that lots of whom I consider to be misguided parents are absolutely pernikkety over the use of the Lord's name and scatological sexual references, but are blind to the violence contained in modern culture. That immunity and insensitivity constitute a much graver threat to the well-being of youth and adults than a few "f"s and "G-d"s.

Pro-Life Progressives

I hope I have made it clear in this blog that I am a proud and committed political progressive. (You can decide whether a conservative theological commitment rhymes with a progressive political agenda, but for me that is my calling, and it seems firmly biblically based.) As such, I feel that what is commonly called a "pro-life" posture is mandatory: We are called to "choose life" and to work for well-being in our own lives and in the lives of all whom we can affect. We are messengers of Our Lord, who came that we "might have life and have it abundantly." I think that Christians must constantly strive to establish and live a "consistent ethic of life."

Unfortunately, the terms I placed in quotation marks are often highjacked and claimed exclusively by a less-than-progressive branch of the political family, who refuse to grant the terms any other meaning than "anti-abortion." This pro-birth movement ignores or opposes programs and policies which enhance or protect life, broadly and logically construed, contributing to the decline in the integrity of political discourse. For them, pro-life has nothing to do with the life of the child after birth, with issues of poverty and disease and inequities in access to health care, with war, with near-abandonment of public education, with capital punishment. It is purely a matter of getting a baby born -- period. That is as cheap and illusory a use of the term as I can imagine. (As a consequence, I am inclined to call most "pro-life" movements, pro-natalist.)

As a progressive who is a member of no political party (and no, I am not quoting Mark Twain, who said "I'm a member of no organized party. I'm a Democrat."), I have had my curiosity piqued by the arrival of the organization styled "Democrats for Life." Friends who are pro-life Democrats (in the broad sense of the term, as I use it here) are excited to have a vehicle for making this point of their progressive agenda move. But I have been skeptical: I haven't spent much time on the matter (after all, it's easier to remain curmudgeonly and cynical with fewer facts, you know), but I have feared that it would simply be a bunch mostly of conservative Democrats who have a problem with abortion.

Well, this brief by the head of the organization, Kristen Day, allays some of my resistence. In her paper, she lays out a broad perspective on "life" -- one that is much broader than I had expected to see. Oh, it is evident from the specificity and the amount of space given over to abortion, that that is a primary focus of the organization's work. That, in and of itself, is not a reason for either surprise or rejection. But there is the suggestion that this group may actually get it -- that abortion is a symptom of and contributor to greater problems, including (as I noted above) poverty and the general lack of political concern for children whose parents are poor. (That an incredible number of abortions are intended simply to make life easier for well-to-do woman who can't be bothered to have a baby right now is a manifestation of other cultural problems.)

I am now inspired to look more closely at this group. I have a little hope that there is a movement that will lobby for a full slate of life-supporting and -affirming legislation. (Hope springs eternal, I suppose. Contrary to most people's opinions, I really am an optimist -- I'm a Christian, after all.)

In any event, it is way past the time when self-styled "liberals" (not a very helpful term, it seems to me, given its heritage), "progressives," "Democrats," "leftists" (where I count myself when I want to be blunt), and the rest begin seriously to grapple with a consistent politics. That the Democratic Party has been captured by an unreflective, knee-jerk pro-abortion(-rights) philosophy is an irony that I can't overlook. And neither should they!

"Democrats for Life" may be a welcome voice in the debate and a force for bringing the Democratic Party to its senses.

One request, though: Can we find some other way to deal with babies who face abortion than "pre-born"? I have no ideal what that phrase is supposed to accomplish (and I have heard and seen it used by people who should know better). "Unborn" or "in utero" or something -- but "pre-born"? You can be moral and literate.

More on Preaching

I've always had trouble with sermons -- listening, not delivering, mind you. I get distracted; I wonder what I'd have done with the text/s.

Here's another posting that gets at some of the things that really make me hate sermons. It nails them down with appropriate irony and even sarcasm.

Hoorah and amen.

Another word on Confirmation

I have run across a few other blog postings about Confirmation. Here is one from Thomas at "Without Authority." Without meaning to cut off the discussion on my previous post, I am reminded of how an earlier form of the Lutheran rite of confirmation supported my vision of confirmation as a way which the congregation (on behalf of the Church) and the individual Christian mutually affirm, support, and confirm their relationship.

The blessing of the confirmands in the current rite (per the Lutheran Book of Worship) has the pastor lay on hands and offer a prayer, referring to the confirmand in the third person:

Father in heaven, for Jesus' sake, stir up in (Name) the gift of your Holy Spirit: confirm her faith, guide her life, empower her in her serving, give her patience in suffering, and bring her to everlasting life.

It's OK, but it's kind of non-committal, it seems to me. Contrast that with the previous rite (in the Service Book and Hymnal -- which I cite here from memory, so it may not be word-for-word perfect, but it's close because I pray this prayer, turning it into a first-person petition, about 4 times a week). This pronounced as a blessing on each confirmand, accompanied by the laying on of hands:

The Father in heaven renew and increase in you the gift of the Holy Spirit, to your strengthening in faith, to your growth in grace, to your patience in suffering, and to the blessed hope of everlasting life.

That speaks, I think, to a view of confirmation as process, not end product (not a 'graduation' from church school -- or even church). "[R]enew and increase" speaks, certainly to sanctification.

The Church should endeavor to live out that vision.

Confirmation

A slow day at work (so far) allows me to reflect on some of the past few, very busy weeks -- filled with visitors, events, a family holiday, and lots of work. One of the momentous events of the summer was my daughter's confirmation of her Christian faith. This followed two years of "confirmation instruction," in which she was (supposedly) instructed in the basics of Lutheran doctrine and history.

It's an odd thing, I imagine, to have an arm-chair (and curmudgeonly, at that) theologian as a father. It must, too, be odd to have that same father as one of your "confirmation instructors." But Erika bore the cross with aplomb, seeming even to enjoy some of the interaction. And for my part, I tried not to interfere unduly or to be too nosey or critical. For example, as a part of prepartion for the rite of confirmation, each confirmand had to write an individual "faith statement" for reading during the liturgy. The understanding was that parents were to keep their hands off the composition, and I did. I didn't even see Erika's until after she had submitted it (I expect for both her benefit and mine). (It was quite good, actually -- witty, sincere, and, contrary to her father's wishes, not ponderously theological.)

Of moment for me in all of that was the relative meaninglessness of the exercise. What is the point of confirmation? (Now there's an ages-old question.) Why do we do it? Why do our youth submit to it (aside from their legal inability to refuse)?

Confirmation, in the words of Frank Senn (noted liturgical scholar and pastor), is a rite in search of a theology. It really doesn't do anything original. It's not the completion of baptism, as some of us were taught, because the baptismal rite does everything to initiate one into the Body of Christ. We are not half initiated by baptism. Witness that in our congregation, one is admitted to the Lord's table upon baptism, as full members of the Body of Christ. (That, of course, is an entirely different thing from admission to the voting membership. We haven't really faced that issue. Thus, for example, if a newly confirmed person wants to be counted among the quorum to vote on the congregation's budget, would we allow that? What about if there is a vote on property acquisition, which in most congregations and states requires the votes to be cast only by people who have reached their majority?)

As I (only begin to) understand matters: Confirmation has a long and uncertain history. Fundamentally, however, it was the bishop's (later, in Protestantism, the presbyter's or pastor's) conferring of the Holy Spirit, marked by "chrismation" -- i.e., by anointing the person with oil and invoking the blessings of the Holy Spirit. This would take place following the interrogations and "washing" of the individual catechumens at the Easter vigil. The bishop -- who in earliest times, was simply the pastor of the congregation -- did not participate in those washings. Deacons (male deacons in the case of men and female deacons in the case of women, because the candidates were likely naked when they were baptized) handled that part of the process. Following the washings, the candidates were dressed in white robes and led to the pastor for the completion of the rite -- the anointing with the Spirit.

The rite was separated from Baptism, in history, at that time when bishops started "overseeing" more than one congregation. He (yes: in those days, only "he") would travel around to the various congregations and "confirm" (i.e., complete) those baptisms that had occurred at the Easter vigils in the individual congregations. The lag, of course, between washings and anointing (or confirmation) was relatively short -- nothing similar to what it became. Apparently, at least in the Western Church, the issue of confirmation got all wrapped up with notions of personal appropriation of the grace of God, of rational acceptance of one's place in the Church, and similar concerns. And slowly the rite of baptism deteriorated.

Cut to the twentieth century. While I was yet in Seminary (in the late 70s), the Lutheran churches in the US began to re-think the whole complex of issues regarding the raising of children in the church. So we checked out the ancient sources and liturgies, we thought theologically, we integrated insights from psychology and sociology (not always a good thing, I've learned). And we began to re-think our received notions about the fullness or incompleteness of baptism, the nature of Christian education (there was some really fascinating stuff from a British catechist named Goldberg or Goldman), confirmation, first communion. And it got complex.

Confirmation was recognized for the vague thing it is, so the church (at least, the predecessor bodies of the ELCA) lost any unanimity in practice and theory (theology actually had little to do with it, frankly). It now often was seen as a ministry to the confirmands -- assuring them of the Church's/congregation's care for them. (How that could be manifest in special requirements that they undergo a kind of boot camp not required of adults or younger children was not answered.) It was recognized as a rite of passage, not necessarily theologically inspired, but culturally warranted. (There was little serious consideration of when it might be best to schedule such a thing -- or actually there was a lot of consideration, but no consensus.) The intellectual side of preparation for confirmation was discounted, but that left a void that was never, in most places, adequately filled.

And the confusion continues to this day.

At root, I would like to see an abandonment of confirmation -- at least for a generation -- in favor of closer attention to and major emphasis on education for Christian Lutherans of all ages. The educational level of the average Lutheran congregant is depressingly low, and we need to undertake a major effort to convince adults that they don't know what they don't know and that they need to learn it and to pass it on to their children. Further, that education needs to be in the fundamentals of the faith, not in the latests comings and goings of the local alderman or mayor or hunger project. (Those are, of course, important and should be a part of a rich education program. But I suspect most of our members know more about the current political bluster than they do about the importance of the formulation "Father, Son, and Holy Spirit," and that should change.

Having cut the Gordian knot, we can then examine the propriety of rites of passage vis-a-vis the growth in grace to which we are called by the Gospel. We might, I think, too, recognize that confirmation-like personal affirmation of faith might be called for a various points in a person's life. The liturgy books of the ELCA certainly provide for the "Reaffirmation of Baptism" -- under which title "confirmation" now is classified. But how about college kids who may have strayed from the faith and now wish to return or who, because of a good teacher or campus pastor, are brought to a new and existentially meaningful appreciation of the historic faith? Should we not provide for them (as the ELCA rites theoretically do) an occasion for the public affirmation or re-affirmation of their faith? (I'm not really hot on personal testimonies. But with the proper education and training, such things can be a meaningful part of even Lutheran conversation, it seems to me.)

Underlying this post is my sneaking suspicion that we have so psychologized the life of faith, that we need a major shaking to bring us back to reality. And what that means would make this post too long. (I have already indicated something about the psychologizing of sin, I think.) So I'll work on that and try to figure out what I mean.

In any event, we confirmed my daughter. She received some lovely gifts to mark the occasion -- among them an LBW from the congregation, the "magazine Bible" (that I tore my hair out about some time back and that she thinks is pretty cool) from the neighbors, a lovely prayerbook (Roman Catholic in origin, of course) and icon from her parents, and lots of things I don't remember. And I was once again reminded in a most graphic way of the importance, some times, of just grinning, gritting, and bearing discomfort.

Perhaps we both marked a transition. But I'm not going there.

Sin

My intention here is to celebrate one conection that I have made after reading John Zizioulas’ Being is Communion. That work has become one of the four or five books that have had the most influence on my thinking. I intend to keep this short and, thus, cryptic -- Jim, I hope it's not too long. But things do have a habit of flowing forth!

Zizioulas has sharpened my sense of “sin” as a state of disrupted relationship. We live in sin as much as we “sin” (or so I draw from my reading). The individual “sins” that we commit – and certainly ought to confess – are themselves manifestations (or “instantiations,” as the philosophers like to say) of that wider problem of “sin” as a condition that insinuates itself into the very depths of the human heart. But the Lutheran “general” (liturgical) confession (per the Lutheran Book of Worship) is dead on: “We confess that we are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves.” Sin is more than peccadillos or discreet misdeeds; it is a state of general disruption and alienation between and among human beings as a result of the disruption and alienation that has resulted from humanity's trying to set an agenda for itself separate from the commands and intentions of God.

What wonderful sense that makes of the story of the “Fall” in Genesis. I (along, I suspect with many others) have long struggled to resist reading an anti-sex theme from that story: Eve eats the fruit and Adam eats the fruit – and voila! They realize they are naked and they are shamed. Suddenly sex rears its ugly head (its surprising how many people don't think about Adam and Eve's sex life pre-Fall – and it’s very bad.

But this story isn’t anti-sex or even about sex per se. Instead, it is a portrait of what has happened to human life – including sex – since humanity (in the “persons” of Adam and Eve) first tried to live outside the intentions and commandments of God. Whereas the First Parents began in total harmony with each other (bone of bone and flesh of flesh, and yet distinct) and with God, the instant they leave God’s world for one of their own making (eating of the forbidden fruit was the original act of the Enlightenment, in which they set themselves up as their own gods) their relationship with each other is disrupted, just as is their relationship with God. Their now-instinctive reaction is to hide – behind fig leaves from one another, and out of sight from Him. The discovery of nakedness telegraphs that what was once a source of joy and harmony – their nudity and presumably uninhibited sex life (check Song of Songs for confirmation of this inference) – has now become, for them, a source of potential exploitation, hurt, and abuse.

Whereas once their differentness had been the cause of joy, it has now become a source of shame – something that can only be experienced before another person and that carries with it the knowledge of antagonistic difference. God created male and female different from one another so that they might love: One needs an “other” in order to love. (That is part of the meaning of the Trinity: God exists in relationship among Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.) When creation was very good, this differentness was an unspoiled complementarity. But with the disruption of the relationship with God, occasioned by willful disobedience of his command, came differentness, otherness as a sign of worry, threat, blame, and all the rest.

And it was all downhill from there: First, there was the lying to God and trying to shift the blame: “The devil made me do it.” Then there was fratricide, and then the founding – horror of horrors! – of cities. And the story went on to Babel and beyond.

The Orthodox, it seems to me, have a better vision of the breadth of a doctrine of sin than have we Western Christians. It provides a context within which to take seriously the varieties of sin – even a priority of sinfulness, which a reasonable theology ought to have, it seems to me. (I mean: Does anyone REALLY believe that the odd four-letter word is every bit as offensive to God as the decisions made by Adolph Eichmann? If so, we need to talk.) That makes meaningful a serious discussion of sanctificiation.

And such a vision of sin begins to do justice to a proclamation of the Gospel, the news of salvation. The meaning of the Incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection does not devolve merely to the guarantee that I may be free from eternal fire – though that is a part of it. It is finally a grand statement about the unavoidability and unevadability of the power and authority of God – whether that power and authority focuses on a seductive apple tree (cultural license, here) or the machines of global capitalism. The re-ordering of the universe to unmake the effects of sin, the ultimate conquest by God of systems of oppression, the end even of death as a great divider of people one from the other: This is something worth Easter. And the assurance that we can grow into that new life even now, by virtue of God’s own re-creative activity in the Person of the Holy Spirit, is a message not heard often enough.

It is because of the truth of that message that we are enabled even now to overcome – in an admittedly incomplete way – the condition of sin into which we were plunged by our First Parents: We are again able to see each other, not as threat, but as promise and present joy. We are free to be faithful to each other -- a fidelity in which sex and sexual differentiation are genuine gifts of God, a fidelity free of seeking or worrying that the other seeks advantage or exploitation.

Lutherans need to hear about sin. And as the former post and comments suggest, it needs to be substantive talk. Sin is real. And a more seriously relational understanding of sin might well enhance that preaching.

Ten Commandments for Preaching

It's been along time since my last post: A busy schedule at work, visitors at home, and two weeks' vacation on Puget Sound have kept me away from the blog. But I'm home and, once I'm settled back in, I'll come back with more.

For now, I urge you to consider these ten commandments for preaching, together with Pontificator's comments on them.

I think the principles are sound. But I tend to agree with Pontificator's quibbles with them.

For instance, I have suffered through enough untrained speakers' sounding forth from the pulpit to deny the importance of rhetorical skill in a preacher. It is something that can be taught and improved, and more can and should be done in that area. (I don't mean that preachers should be great rhetoriticians or orators -- that tends to gripe me, too. But I mean that preachers should be adept at the use of their voices and knowledgeable in the means of getting meaning across.)

I'm evidence of what good can come from serious attention to this point: At one point in my career, I was serving as an interim pastor in a congregation where I belonged. (It is a long and strange story.) After a couple of weeks of my preaching and presiding, I was taken aside by a member who was a drama teacher and director at the (Big-Ten) university. She explained, in an unsolicited critique, that I was using my voice in rather odd ways that made for a less-than-effective presentation. She then suggested what the issues were and how I might correct them.

Now, some of my friends think it was an audacious -- and less than gracious -- thing to do. But I interpreted it as an act of pure grace: Her criticism made me more self-conscious, for a time anyway, but it also gave me insights that I wouldn't have had and enable me to improve my skills in ways that enhanced my preaching and presiding. (I'm not claiming to be that good at preaching -- just better than I would have been without the intervention by my sister-in-the-faith.) I think how good it would be if preachers had someone like that to offer their assistance.

On another point, however, I'm not sure how to interpret what the Pontificator says. It relates to the preaching of repentance and forgiveness. He suggests that there are times when repentance must be preached "in order" for God to offer forgiveness. I'm not sure that's correct.

I'm convinced that repentance and grace exist in a dialectical relationship. When I am offered the love of God, I can only lay hold on it in faith, which includes repentance (turning around from my self-driven direction to move in God's direction). Does that mean that, ala Barth (and, I'm discovering, also Bonhoeffer), that the preaching of grace must precede the call to repentance? Certainly, I believe that "I cannot by my own reason or understanding believe in Jesus Christ my Lord, or come to Him. BUT the Holy Ghost has called me through the Gospel." In other words, the preaching of salvation enables me to repent and to come to faith. Without meaning to impose a "pattern" on preaching, ought the Gospel be proclaimed first and terms of repentance thereafter? The Gospel enables me to repent, to participate in the amendment of my life, and to join in the communal existence of the Body of Christ.

In contrast to that, I understand some Lutherans to say that the call to repentance (or the preaching of Law, which may or may not be the same thing, depending on the theologian) sets the terms for hearing the good news. Must I be brought to a knowledge of my sin before I can be receptive to knowledge of my salvation? Frankly, in my most recent years, I have noticed that this kind of preaching tends to limit sin to a psychologized state. (Bonhoeffer was especially critical of that kind of preaching -- as was Karl Menninger, in his book Whatever Became of Sin?) That doesn't do much for me, I confess. It also posits the Gospel in terms of the sin/lack of reconciliation that is set out in the beginning of the sermon. Doesn't that tend to make salvation reactive, instead of proactive? (And I think the Gospel is not an answer to our needs until those needs are defined precisely by the Gospel.)

To be frank, I think not enough preachers take seriously the dialectic, capitulating to one model of the act of salvation or another. I think, too, that not enough preachers take seriously that their preaching IS an act of salvation. Salvation comes by hearing, and hearing by listening to the word of God -- yes?

But is part of this dilemma that preaching is too focussed on the individual? The Enlightenment gave us a new lens for reading life -- one in which I-me-my is the fundamental level of meaning. (I'm really quite delighted to echo others' critiques of the Enlightenment, but this is my own.) As a consequence of the Enlightenment (and of the liberalism it spawned in theology), "faith" has become a personal-individual thing. We have lost the basic, necessary, Trinitarian understanding of faith, salvation, the Church, ... .

Thus, there may be a need for an eleventh commandment (can there be 11?): Preachers ought, at least more than they do, preach to the community qua community and less to the community as aggregate of individuals. That would make for some interesting changes in emphasis.

Have I gone on too long again?

Theological Exegesis -- Part !

I have just returned from a conference at Duke Divinity School that was co-sponsored by my own Center for Catholic and Evangelical Theology (our website is here). I am renewed, exhausted, and frustrated -- as is always the case with our conferences. This conference was distinct in having nearly uniformly excellent presentations. I have now learned in person from scholars who have taught me previously only in print -- e.g., Ellen Davis and Richard Hays. I have re-met guides whom I admire -- e.g. Rusty Reno and "my own" Robert Jenson (who demonstrated again that he can merge preaching and teaching into a work of art unrivaled by any). I met a new-to-me and absolutely exciting young scholar, J. Kameron Carter, for whom we all ought to keep out an eye. And that doesn't list all the presenters!

There was also a personal aspect to the Conference, as well: I also re-united with good friends -- notably, Jim (about whom I have written here), Steve, Erma, and fellow members of the Board of the Center (alas, my friend Gabe Fackre has seen fit to resign from the Board, and I was not able to see him). I made the acquaintance of new friends (I hope) who are eloquent, committed, earnest witnesses to the Gospel. I finally met "virtual friends" -- fellow disciples who speak regularly on an Internet listserv: What a treat and a challenge (and in some cases, what a surprise) to put faces and bodies to vocabularies and attitudes. And I ate new kinds of foot (why do grits taste better south of the Mason-Dixon line?) and drank only a little too much. (I'm told the liver transplant list is difficult to get on, so I try to moderate -- a difficult task for one with an addictive personality.)

Over the next couple of weeks, I'll try to articulate some inadequate summaries of what I learned, why it excited me, where I feel fed and challenged, and where I feel led and urged to push. In response to this, I eagerly invite questions and contradictions. And to that end, I've e-mailed some of those new friends whom I met at the Conference and invited them to either submit their own impressions or to expand on some of the stuff I post here. If they don't have their own blogs, I hope they will supplement my meager gruel here.

Center conferences are always exciting events. Presenters are selected for tscholarshipnt scho0larship, the dedication of their work to the well-being of the Church, and their ability to get their ideas across in ways that even we non-scholars can grasp. We usually avoid the brilliant-on-paper-but-snooze-inducing-in-person scholars. Follow-up questions and discussion enhance those presentations. I, of course, enjoy meeting scholars whom I've read but never had a body or person to relate to. And I especially enjoy the opportunity for "fellowship" with other thinking Christians committed to constant discernment of how to walk and talk the life of faith.

Shameless plug: Y'all -- all y'all -- ought to come to our conference next year. "Freedom and Authority in the Christian Life" will be held at St. Olaf College, Northfield, MN, 10-12 June 2007. You will find nourishing meat to feed on. You heard it here first.

Shameless plug 2: If you are interested in the particular issues that I reference in this conference, you will have available to you the printed papers of the conference published as a book in about 18 months. The Center has an arrangement with William Eerdmans Publishing to publish all of our conferences' papers, and they make them available in a timely (and relatively inexpensive) way.

So on to business: This year's conference "Preaching, Teaching, and Living the Bible," focused on what we might (and did) call "theological exegesis" of the Bible. (I decided that I prefer the phrase "churchly exegesis of the Bible for reasons that I hope to make clear over time on this blog.) "Exegesis," in case you ask, is the work of teasing meaning out of a text -- for our purposes, the text of the Bible. It involves, inter alia, study of the sources and styles of the Biblical text, consideration of the linguistic content and possibilities, reflection on sociological and cultural circumstances of the text's production and use and of how those factors might affect the intention and interpretation of the text (alas, not one presenter used one of my favorite phrases from seminary: "Sitz im Leben" -- the text's "place" in the life of the community that "used" it -- or perhaps even composed it), and accounting for the relation of a particular passage to the whole Bible. So far, that is pretty standard stuff for Bible reading by anyone with any contact with historical-critical study of the Bible.

What distinguishes "theological (churchly) exegesis" from what, say, Marcus Borg practices is its foundation upon this principle: "Readings" (or interpretations) of Scripture must or should not be discordant with what the Church teaches and lives. The Church's dogma, liturgy, theological traditions, and the like have a pride of place among the other "tools" or considerations in deciding what a given Biblical text means.

The implications of this approach are, I suspect, legion. But a couple of them excite me.

First, when a reading of the Bible contradicts what the Church teaches, then there is still a lot of work to do: It is not simply a matter of saying, "Bible trumps doctrine." The reader must examine further -- double- and triple-check the methods that yielded the interpretation, re-read the theological tradition to determine whether we accurately perceive a conflict between our reading and the Church's teaching. It is a matter of constantly maintaining conversation between the life of the Church and Scripture study. The point is that our reading of the Bible can never be meaningfully undertaken outside the context of the Church and here traditional teachings and practices.

Now, this doesn't mean, conversely, that Scripture must bend to the "magisterium" of the Church (which, of course, would immediately drive WordAlone into apoplexy). The "old time religion" is not beyond reproach and reformation. Indeed, if a good-faith reading of scripture calls into doubt a doctrine or practice of the Church, then the "more work" I prescribed above may require a change or re-interpretation of the tradition. But this approach does privilege "the Great Tradition" -- i.e., that living and "unified" legacy of the Church's witness in doctrinal articulation, in acknowledging "holy" or "saintly" lives and writing, in liturgy -- over and against any other interpretive lens.

At work here is a delicious (and at times, confusing) dialectic.

On the one hand, the Bible belongs to the Church: "Mater Ecclesia" made the Bible -- determined what is in it, weeding out writings that were deemed unreliable (such as the "Judas Gospel") and including writings that on their face have no necessarily religious content or point (e.g., Sond of Songs or Proverbs). In reading the Bible, Christians are obliged to read it as Christian Scripture. The Bible simply makes no sense as a body of literature outside its relationship with the on-going life of the Church. It cannot be properly interpreted as a "cultural artifact" (which, I think is precisely what the Enlightenment has tried to make of it) -- i.e., another work of fiction akin to a Shakespeare play or The Makioki Sisters -- any more than a Volkswagen repair manual makes sense in a hospital operating room.

On the other hand, the Church has in a sense subordinated her life to Scripture. Having set forth the "corpus" of the Bible, Mother Church humbly and realistically set the Bible as "canon" -- i.e., as "measuring stick" or guide and judge" or "authoritative boundary" for her own life, faith, and thought. Just so, the Reformation declared that the guide of faith is "sola Scriptura" -- i.e., "Scripture (or Word) alone." Thus, by this development, the canon of Scripture becomes the norm of norms in the Church's life. By "sola scriptura,"the Church bends her deliberations to the witness of Scripture.

I think it is wrong to assert that the "sola scriptura" means that only the Bible is authoritative for the Church's life and teaching: That "scripture" focusedme sort of guide or canon in its interpretation, if only to keep the interpretation focussed on what it is supposed to focus on. And thus the dialectical relationship between Church and scripture is born. The Reformers also declared "sola fide" -- by faith alone -- to be a canon of Church life and proclamation. And with that "fide" the Reformers loaded dogmatic content into the blend. For "faith" ("fide") has content and that content is not necessarily derivable from independent study. The principle of "sola fide" -- together with sola gratia and sola scriptura -- becomes part of the Tradition, the interpretive lens, which provides a check on our reading of the Bible.

Here is an example of how I see that this might work: The doctrine of the Trinity can easily be missed by even a relatively careful and faithful reading of the Bible outside the context of the Church. (Is this, perhaps, why the Jesus Seminar seems to take the Trinity into account not a whit?) But for most of the Church's history, "faith" has had as one of its components (even to the point of making it non-negotiable by declaring it dogma) some understanding of God's being as three "persons" of one "substance." Thus, a non-trinitarian reading of any Bible passage must be deemed defective at the outset because it does not accurately reflect the God who is active in or subject of all the passages of the Bible. So when my seminary classmates read Genesis and saw and heard "Let us make man [sic] in our image," they were (contrary to our Old Testament prof) not wrong to see there a reflection of conversation within the holy Trinity. (That the text, consistent with readings drawn by historical-critical methods, might also reflect influence from other ancient religious cultures that perceived a "heavenly court" with God and his counselors in no way disqualifies or trumps the churchly reading. As a reader, I have long believed, with no formal academic training in literary criticism beyond the baccalaureate level, that the context, culture, or community within which a text is read matters in a major way to the meaning that the text gives up. I think that applies to Bible, too. Taking those data into account may enhance the meanings one draws from reading Genesis, but they do not determine what one must preach -- as has often been insisted and practiced by historical-critical readers.)

The Bible is the Church's book. It was put together only for the Church's use in her worship, mediation, and community reflection. Thus, there is a legitimate criticism that the Reformation's urging of individual access to the Bible removed the necessary connection between Bible and Church. Of course even if that is a legitimate concern, no one suggests that individual believers restrict their contact with the Bible to what they hear in liturgy. But it does raise the important warning that pastors and church structures owe their people serious pastoral guidance in their readings of Scripture.

On a different tack, I have significant concerns when "academy" -- usually, but not exclusively, meaning secular university professors -- take up reading and interpreting the Bible. Without a firm and committed orientation to serving and applying interpretations to the Church, I wonder whether any scholar has any business touching the Bible. It is, so to say, no surprise that in recent decades the havoc wreaked upon the Church by the so-called "historical critical" method has been the result of readings outside the fellowship of the Church. (Granted: Bultmann maintained a connection -- even a preaching connection -- with the [Lutheran] Church. But his connection assumed an attitude of almost superciliousness -- certainly supercessionism -- to the Great Traditions. And it has been easy for those in his "train" -- among whom the Jesus Seminar seem pre-eminent -- to step even farther away from the circle of Faith.)

It will do the Church nothing but good for her people, pastors, and teachers to commit to the study of the Word within the Community of the Word Made Flesh -- not just the contemporary community, but the "great cloud of witnesses" who join us and encourage us in our journey of faith. The Church is not merely one of the "consumers" of scriptural work; she provides the only context within that work might appropriately and meaningfully be conducted.

A couple of concerns arise in this connection, and I am not naive enough to dismiss them.

I am concerned that the Church and the academic establishment are more often than is seemly reflections and pimps of the "worldly culture" that is at odds with the world of the Bible. The result is body of scholarship that appears solid, but is fraught with mischief by simply reinforcing the values and interests of the "world" which is at odds with God's world. The Bible has constantly been made to serve some ideology other than that of the Gospel. And there is nothing salvific in promoting a reading of Scripture which is advertising for one form of privilege (e.g., race, gender, economic status, religious qualification) or for one set of experiences. The dialectic between Church and Bible should serve to criticize such misuse of Scripture, but it has not always been very successful. See the roiling in recent decades raised by "black," "feminist," or "liberation" theologians (to cite merely a few).

Similarly, when the life of the Church assumes a kind of arrogance over against the witness of scriptural reading, there is a misalignment playing itself out. I earlier mentioned that the "magisterium" of the Church is not immune to the correction and criticism from Scripture. These next lines are a little hard for me to write because they cut kind of close to my quick, but theological systems may not determine in advance what the voice of Scripture sounds. The "Fundamentals" are a notorious example of theology's claiming authority over Holy Scripture, but I think it won't surprise many that I can also point to various (especially Scholastic) Lutheran attempts to do the same thing -- though, of course, on different terms and components. (Must, for example, all of scripture be read through the hermeneutic of Law-Gospel, for example?)

Bible and Church have a symbiotic relationship. Without Church, the Bible is not Bible; without the Bible, the Church operates outside the revelation of God. It remains a significant challenge to the Church to live this insight.

This is long enough. But there are some other issues that I'm thinking through. So stay tuned and bring your rapier insight and wit to bear in correcting me.

Apologies

It has been ages since I've done any ruminating in this space. Work has been hairy, and I've not had any decent time outside work to get any thoughts together.

I want to put out some things about John Zizioulas' book, Being as Communion, which is one of the most exciting books I've read in a long time. But I have to finish slogging through it, first. I also want to get some thoughts down about salvation. But ... .

Tomorrow, I'm off for the annual conference sponsored by the Center for Catholic and Evangelical Theology: This year we're at Duke University (Div. school) on the topic "Preaching, Teaching, and Living the Bible." It looks to be a loaded conference, but it also means that I won't have time to do any writing -- what with sessions, people to connect and re-connect with, and the like.

I don't know why I feel the need to point out that my silence is the result of more than mere sloth (though that figures in as well).

Feast of St. Athanasius, 3 May

Today, per the Christian calendar, is the Feast day of Athanasius, one of the most important pastor/teachers in the Church's life. At his subscription e-mail devotional, my e-mail acquaintance Jim Kiefer has published a really fine overview of the life and importance of this bishop. I reproduce it here (I'm hoping this constitutes fair use, because I can't link to my e-mail) with two words:

Subscribe to Daily Bread; it's a lovely way to have Bible, prayer, and reflection presented to you every day.

Read this and reflect on the grace God has shown by raising up faithful witnesses to guide the Church in every truth. (And then go read John Zizioulas' Being is Communion for even more insight into why Athanasius is so important.


The Collect:

Uphold your Church, O God of truth, as you upheld your servant Athanasius, to maintain and proclaim boldly the catholic faith against all opposition, trusting solely in the grace of your eternal Word, who took upon himself our humanity that we might share his divinity; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.


ATHANASIUS +=+ BISHOP OF ALEXANDRIA, THEOLOGIAN, DOCTOR (2 MAY
373)

Outside the pages of the New Testament itself, Athanasius is probably the man to whom we chiefly owe the preservation of the Christian faith. He was born around AD 298, and lived in Alexandria, Egypt, the chief center of learning of the Roman Empire.

In 313 the Emperor Constantine issued the Edict of Milan, which changed Christianity from a persecuted to an officially favored religion. About six years later, a presbyter (elder, priest) Arius of Alexandria began to teach concerning the Word of God (John 1:1) that "God begat him, and before he was begotten, he did not exist." Athanasius was at that time a newly ordained deacon, secretary to Bishop Alexander of Alexandria, and a member of his household. His reply to Arius was that the begetting, or uttering, of the Word by the Father is an eternal relation between Them, and not a temporal event. Arius was condemned by the bishops of Egypt (with the exceptions of Secundus of Ptolemais and Theonas of Marmorica), and went to Nicomedia, from which he wrote letters to bishops throughout the world, stating his position.

The Emperor Constantine undertook to resolve the dispute by calling a council of bishops from all over the Christian world. This council met in Nicea, just across the straits from what is now Istanbul, in the year 325, and consisted of 317 bishops. Athanasius accompanied his bishop to the council, and became recognized as a chief spokesman for the view that the Son was fully God, co-equal and co-eternal with the Father.

The party of Athanasius was overwhelmingly in the majority. (The western, or Latin, half of the Empire was very sparsely represented, but it was solidly Athanasian, so that if its bishops had attended in force, the vote would have been still more lopsided.) It remained to formulate a creedal statement to express the consensus. The initial effort was to find a formula from Holy Scripture that would express the full deity of the Son, equally with the Father. However, the Arians cheerfully agreed to all such formulations, having interpreted them already to fit their own views. (Those of you who have conversed with members of the Watchtower Society, who consider themselves the spiritual heirs of Arius, will know how this works.)

Finally, the Greek word "homo-ousios" (meaning "of the same substance, or nature, or essence") was introduced, chiefly because it was one word that could not be understood to mean what the Arians meant. Some of the bishops present, although in complete disagreement with Arius, were reluctant to use a term not found in the Scriptures, but eventually saw that the alternative was a creed that both sides would sign, each understanding it in its own way, and that the Church could not afford to leave the question of whether the Son is truly God (the Arians said "a god") undecided. So the result was that the Council adopted a creed which is a shorter version of what we now call the Nicene Creed, declaring the Son to be "of one substance with the Father." At the end, there were only two holdouts, the aforesaid Secundus and Theonas.

(For a dramatic but historically accurate account of the Council of Nicea, see the play, The Emperor Constantine, by Dorothy L Sayers, available in book form.)

No sooner was the council over than its consensus began to fall apart. Constantine had expected that the result would be unity, but found that the Arians would not accept the decision, and that many of the orthodox bishops were prepared to look for a wording a little softer than that of Nicea, something that sounded orthodox, but that the Arians would accept. All sorts of compromise formulas were worked out, with all shades of variation from the formula of Nicea.

In 328, Alexander died, and Athanasius succeeded him as bishop of Alexandria. He refused to participate in these negotiations, suspecting (correctly as it turned out) that once the orthodox party showed a willingness to make reaching an agreement their highest priority, they would end up giving away the store. He defended the full deity of Christ against emperors, magistrates, bishops, and theologians. For this, he was regarded as a trouble-maker by Constantine and his successors, and was banished from Alexandria a total of five times by various emperors. (Hence the expression "Athanasius contra mundum," or, "Athanasius against the world.") Eventually, Christians who believed in the Deity of Christ came to see that once they were prepared to abandon the Nicene formulation, they were on a slippery slope that led to regarding the Logos as simply a high-ranking angel. The more they experimented with other formulations, the clearer it became that only the Nicene formulation would preserve the Christian faith in any meaningful sense, and so they re-affirmed the Nicene Creed at the Council of Constantinople in 381, a final triumph that Athanasius did not live to see.

It was a final triumph as far as councils of bishops were concerned, but the situation was complicated by the fact that after Constantine there were several Arian emperors (not counting the Emperor Julian, who was a pagan, but correctly saw that the most effective way to fight Christianity was to throw all his weight on the side of the Arians). Under one of them Arian missionaries were sent to convert the Goths, who became the backbone of the Roman Army (then composed chiefly of foreign mercenaries) with the result that for many years Arianism was considered the mark of a good Army man. The conversion of Clovis, King of the Franks, in 496, to orthodox Christianity either gave the Athanasian party the military power to crush Arianism or denied the Arian Goths the military supremacy that would have enabled them to crush Athanasian Christianity, depending on your point of view.

Since Alexandria had the best astronomers, it was the duty of the Bishop of Alexandria to write to the other bishops every year and tell them the correct date for Easter. Naturally, his annual letter on this topic contained other material as well. One Easter Letter (or Paschal Letter) of Athanasius is well known for giving a list of the books that ought to be considered part of the canonical Scriptures, with a supplementary list of books suitable for devotional reading.

For the New Testament, he lists the 27 books that are recognized today. (If you will look at your list of New Testament books, you may note that Matthew through 2 Thessalonians were never in dispute, that the next four were subject to relatively little dispute, and that the remaining books had more trouble being accepted. There were also a few books that looked as if they might make the list, but eventually did not, the most conspicuous being the Epistle of Barnabas, the Epistle of Clement, and the Shepherd of Hermas.)

For the Old Testament, his list is like that used by most Protestants, except that he omits Esther, and includes Baruch, with the letter of Jeremiah. His supplementary list is Wisdom, Sirach, Tobias, Judith, and Esther. He does not mention Maccabees.

Two quotations from the writings of Athanasius follow:

We were made "in the likeness of God." But in course of time that image has become obscured, like a face on a very old portrait, dimmed with dust and irt.

When a portrait is spoiled, the only way to renew it is for the subject to come back to the studio and sit for the artist all over again. That is why Christ came--to make it possible for the divine image in man to be recreated. We were made in God's likeness; we are remade in the likeness of his Son.

To bring about this re-creation, Christ still comes to men and lives among them. In a special way he comes to his Church, his "body", to show us what the "image of God" is really like.

What a responsibility the Church has, to be Christ's "body," showing him to those who are unwilling or unable to see him in providence, or in creation! Through the Word of God lived out in the Body of Christ they can come to the Father, and themselves be made again "in the likeness of God."

If... it is by the sign of the cross and by faith in Christ that death is trampled underfoot, it is clear that it is Christ Himself and none other Who is the Archvictor over death and has robbed it, but now, since the sojourn of the Savior and the death and resurrection of His body, it is despised; and obviously it is by the very Christ Who mounted on the cross that it has been destroyed and vanquished finally.

When the sun rises after the night and the whole world is lit up by it, nobody doubts that it is the sun which has thus shed its light everywhere and driven away the dark. Equally clear is it, since this utter scorning and trampling down of death has ensued upon the Savior's manifestation in the body and His death on the cross, that it is He Himself Who brought death to nought and daily raises monuments to His victory in His own disciples. How can you think otherwise, when you see men naturally weak hastening to death, unafraid at the prospect of corruption, fearless of the descent into Hades, even indeed with eager soul provoking it, not shrinking from tortures, but preferring thus to rush on death for Christ's sake, rather than to remain in this present life?

If you see with your own eyes men and women and children, even, thus elcoming death for the sake of Christ's religion, how can you be so utterly silly and incredulous and maimed in your mind as not to realize that Christ, to Whom these all bear witness, Himself gives the victory to each, making death completely powerless for those who hold His faith and bear the sign of the cross? No one in his senses doubts that a snake is dead when he sees it trampled underfoot, especially when he knows how savage it used to be; nor, if he sees boys making fun of a lion, does he doubt that the brute is either dead or completely bereft of strength. These things can be seen with our own eyes, and it is the same with the conquest of death. Doubt no longer, then, when you see death mocked and scorned by those who believe in Christ, that by Christ death was destroyed, and the corruption that goes with it resolved and brought to end.

by James Kiefer: dailybread@giveusthisday.org