Someone I know recently asked me about a preacher she heard on the radio talking about Jesus "losing his omnipotence" when he was with us on earth. I hear this phrase enough that it requires analysis.
So, did Jesus lose his omnipotence?
Where does this phrase come from? The idea that something about the Son is suppressed during the Incarnation is referred to as the "kenosis" doctrine. Kenosis is a Greek term which means "emptying" and is found in Philippians 2:5-11. The point is that Christ, who was in the very form of God, empties himself by taking on the form of a servant.
But here is the tricky thing: the passage does not say of what he emptied himself. He just empties. No more clues. So this is one more case where the Scriptures make affirmations that raise questions for further development.
Enter theological thinking: of what did Christ empty himself?
One common answer is that the Son of God simply dumps his divine attributes during the incarnation. This makes for a straightforward story, but creates all kinds of problems. On the divine side, we might ask how exactly it is that the Son of God can relinquish divine perfections without ceasing to be God. If he simply dumps the very things that make him God, than the proclamation of Christ's divinity is rendered null. On the human side, we might ask how exactly it is that the man Jesus with his human words and actions can speak and act in the place of God (as the Gospels narrate) unless he also has a fully credentialed divine nature. So whatever kenosis means, it means something more subtle than simply dumping divine attributes.
A more complex answer with traditional weight behind it is that the kenotic humbling of the Son of God consists in the addition of human nature to his fully intact divine nature. The Philippians passage points toward this position by stating that Christ, while in the form of God, takes on the form of a servant. The language of taking implies addition, not subtraction. Proponents of this “adding” theory are inclined to point out the alternative way of speaking about the incarnation: assumptio carnis. Not only was God put-into-flesh (incarnation), but also God assumed-flesh-to-himself (assumptio carnis). God is omnipotent, yet adds to himself an impotent human nature. Is this still a humbling? Yes, because God in his glory does not need to add humanity to himself. But by grace he does.
Now I would align myself roughly with this second view of kenosis. However, I would not put it that way, or at least not only that way. Why? Because the appeal to addition alone might give the impression that we are trying to protect God's nature from the messiness of this world. Now Christians have had good reasons for so protecting God: we want to affirm the power of God, especially if he is to save us. But we need to be careful to not put God in a bind that he has shown himself not to be in. Whatever God's assumption of flesh means, it ought not to mean we go on thinking about God as usual and just add a human nature to it. Rather, the incarnation of God must tell us something about God's very nature.
So, what does the kenosis of the Son tells us about God?
At the very least, it should push us to reformulate our understanding of God's omnipotence. Our understanding of God's power is too abstract if he has to lose it to become human. But it is equally abstract if we simply add the doctrine of incarnation on top of an otherwise intact concept of God. It seems to me that the incarnation reveals a new definition of divine omnipotence: God is so powerful that he can even embrace weakness without ceasing to be powerful. Weakness is an aspect of divine power. The two are not mutually exclusive. As the Apostle says, "God's power is made perfect in weakness." Or, put more sharply, "God's power is God's weakness."
Any thoughts?
Any insights to offer regarding Philippians 2:5-11?
Is an appeal to the "assumption of flesh" a helpful alternative?
Does this method of inferring things about God's nature from the history of salvation work?
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Becoming Theologically Bilingual
A funny thing happened at the Faith & Order ecumenical dialogue two weeks ago. In the midst of a discussion about Justification and Justice, the group realized that the Reformed and Lutheran traditions were underrepresented. In order to supplement these voices, the group asked if those who had studied these perspectives might be able to pinch hit. The funny thing was that the most qualified members were from Holiness and Pentecostal traditions.
How ironic: the dominant protestant traditions were being represented by these marginalized, oddball theologians.
Even more ironic: these Holiness and Pentecostal theologians could quote Luther and Calvin by chapter and verse. At some points they were even more conversant with Luther and Calvin than members of the churches that claim these figures as their own.
In the wake of this ecumenical moment, I asked my fellow Holiness and Pentecostal theologians why it is that we know these traditions so well. Is it that we have an inferiority complex and so rely on figures outside our history for theological study? “No,” one of them quickly retorted, “Remember: it’s always the minorities who are bilingual.” Another one swiftly added, “We have to go to their schools, so we have to learn their language.”
At this point it dawned on me: a well-trained theologian from a marginal tradition can offer a special service to ecumenical dialogue. We do not need to simply represent our much-needed voice, but we can also speak intelligently and listen comprehensively to those who are different from us. We know how to dialogue because the dialogue is already going on in our own heads. We may be a key link in teaching the church how to become theologically multilingual.
Any thoughts?
Have you encountered any parallel phenomena?
Are there additional explanations?
Are there any dangers in developing our bilingualism?
How ironic: the dominant protestant traditions were being represented by these marginalized, oddball theologians.
Even more ironic: these Holiness and Pentecostal theologians could quote Luther and Calvin by chapter and verse. At some points they were even more conversant with Luther and Calvin than members of the churches that claim these figures as their own.
In the wake of this ecumenical moment, I asked my fellow Holiness and Pentecostal theologians why it is that we know these traditions so well. Is it that we have an inferiority complex and so rely on figures outside our history for theological study? “No,” one of them quickly retorted, “Remember: it’s always the minorities who are bilingual.” Another one swiftly added, “We have to go to their schools, so we have to learn their language.”
At this point it dawned on me: a well-trained theologian from a marginal tradition can offer a special service to ecumenical dialogue. We do not need to simply represent our much-needed voice, but we can also speak intelligently and listen comprehensively to those who are different from us. We know how to dialogue because the dialogue is already going on in our own heads. We may be a key link in teaching the church how to become theologically multilingual.
Any thoughts?
Have you encountered any parallel phenomena?
Are there additional explanations?
Are there any dangers in developing our bilingualism?
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Can't We All Just Get Along? Reflections on my Experience at Faith & Order
This past weekend I had the opportunity to be a participant observer at a Faith & Order work session of the National Council of Churches. Theologians from many Christian traditions were there, divided up into groups to hash out ecumenical problems. I joined the "Justification and Justice" and learned a great deal about the dialogical process.
The most interesting thing to me from the weekend was not so much what agreements were made, but how they were made. Why? Because how people argue about doctrine reveals what they think about the nature of doctrine itself. The process of engaging people with different doctrinal commitments is a fascinating case study in different doctrinal theories. Beneath the surface of doctrinal division is the greater division over what we think we are doing when we profess a particular doctrine.
Let me briefly outline three different approaches to doctrinal agreement that I witnessed this weekend:
(1) The "Can't We All Just Get Along?" method proposes that the road to unity is to set aside doctrines-that-divide. Some folks desire to get past our disagreements by avoiding doctrine altogether. Usually some common political commitment is offered in its place. This seems to be the shallowest option, as our real differences are never really addressed, and persist under the surface.
(2) The "Aren't We All Just Saying the Same Thing?" method proposes that the road to unity is to find some common experience that lies behind the different doctrines. Some folks try to get to the bottom of doctrinal differences by claiming that doctrines merely represent different ways of expressing our diverse religious experiences. So the solution to doctrinal differences is to unearth the religious feelings that we do share, and just agree-to-disagree on what to call it. You call it justification by faith, I call it deification, but we both know we are talking about our loving encounter with God. This seems like a promising approach. But the problem comes with the simple fact that most people are not merely expressing their religious experience when they make doctrinal statements. From time to time, people make actual claims about who God is and how God works. And to force them to reduce those claims to expressions of feeling does violence to the actual intent of the believer. So this road is ultimately a dead-end, despite its initial promise.
(3) The "Let's Be Honest With One Another" method proposes that the road to unity is to engage doctrines at face value precisely at our point of disagreement. Some folks realize that the conversation only gets good when we lay our cards on the table and acknowledge our disagreement. The point of dialogue is to really listen to the other person. To really encounter a different person, I have to listen carefully to exactly the things which make them different. In the process of this exchange, we might discover what we do have in common. We might also discover new things that we can assimilate into our thinking. We might also find places of utter disagreement. But in a spirit of persevering love, we can continue to discuss our differences even when we can't seem to overcome them by sheer will or ingenuity. This method may take long, but in the end it seems to be the most interesting and have the most integrity. Plus, agreement that comes through such a method will be genuine and lasting agreement, and therefore will be worth the wait.
Any thoughts?
Can you think of some other approaches to discussing doctrinal differences?
What do you think of these three options?
What is the nature of doctrine in your mind?
The most interesting thing to me from the weekend was not so much what agreements were made, but how they were made. Why? Because how people argue about doctrine reveals what they think about the nature of doctrine itself. The process of engaging people with different doctrinal commitments is a fascinating case study in different doctrinal theories. Beneath the surface of doctrinal division is the greater division over what we think we are doing when we profess a particular doctrine.
Let me briefly outline three different approaches to doctrinal agreement that I witnessed this weekend:
(1) The "Can't We All Just Get Along?" method proposes that the road to unity is to set aside doctrines-that-divide. Some folks desire to get past our disagreements by avoiding doctrine altogether. Usually some common political commitment is offered in its place. This seems to be the shallowest option, as our real differences are never really addressed, and persist under the surface.
(2) The "Aren't We All Just Saying the Same Thing?" method proposes that the road to unity is to find some common experience that lies behind the different doctrines. Some folks try to get to the bottom of doctrinal differences by claiming that doctrines merely represent different ways of expressing our diverse religious experiences. So the solution to doctrinal differences is to unearth the religious feelings that we do share, and just agree-to-disagree on what to call it. You call it justification by faith, I call it deification, but we both know we are talking about our loving encounter with God. This seems like a promising approach. But the problem comes with the simple fact that most people are not merely expressing their religious experience when they make doctrinal statements. From time to time, people make actual claims about who God is and how God works. And to force them to reduce those claims to expressions of feeling does violence to the actual intent of the believer. So this road is ultimately a dead-end, despite its initial promise.
(3) The "Let's Be Honest With One Another" method proposes that the road to unity is to engage doctrines at face value precisely at our point of disagreement. Some folks realize that the conversation only gets good when we lay our cards on the table and acknowledge our disagreement. The point of dialogue is to really listen to the other person. To really encounter a different person, I have to listen carefully to exactly the things which make them different. In the process of this exchange, we might discover what we do have in common. We might also discover new things that we can assimilate into our thinking. We might also find places of utter disagreement. But in a spirit of persevering love, we can continue to discuss our differences even when we can't seem to overcome them by sheer will or ingenuity. This method may take long, but in the end it seems to be the most interesting and have the most integrity. Plus, agreement that comes through such a method will be genuine and lasting agreement, and therefore will be worth the wait.
Any thoughts?
Can you think of some other approaches to discussing doctrinal differences?
What do you think of these three options?
What is the nature of doctrine in your mind?
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Presenting the Tenses of Salvation
Whenever I am asked the question "When were you saved?" I run up against a difficulty. Can salvation be so easily reduced to one specific date? Surely salvation is rooted in the past action of God, continues throughout the present life of the believer, and is consummated at the end of time. Of course, I am courteous enough to not belabor this point every time I am asked this innocent question. But it must be addressed.
I do not desire to answer this question in full here. Suffice it to say that there are three tenses of salvation: past, present and future. Although such an answer requires exposition, this threefold temporal schema ought to be self-evident. Given that salvation is a history of God's action for us and in us, it necessarily admits of temporal tenses. I have dealt with this matter in simple and more advanced ways elsewhere and will continue to do so. But here I am concerned with a different matter: the order of presentation.
The question on my mind is how to present the tenses of salvation. What is the best order of presentation? With which tense ought we begin? With which tense should we end? Which tense should come in the middle?
One might object that this question is irrelevant: "As long as you talk about all three tenses, who cares which order you use? We are talking about the mystery of salvation here!" But it has become clear to me that the order of presentation does matter. Whatever tense is mentioned first is given a slight priority. Whichever tense is mentioned in the middle becomes the hinge. Whichever tense is mentioned last is given finality.
For instance, if one begins with the question, "If you died tonight do you know where you would be?" the future tense is given priority. One might then proceed to discuss the past tense work of Christ as the means toward the end of future salvation. Then one would conclude a call for decision, assigning a certain finality and urgency to the present tense.
An alternative approach would be to discuss the tenses of salvation in chronological order. One might begin with the announcement, "Let me tell you about Jesus Christ!" This gives priority to the past tense. Next one could continue the story of salvation naturally into the outpouring of the Spirit and the experience of salvation here and now. This places the present tense as the hinge between past and future. Then one could conclude by noting future salvation as the ultimate payoff of this history of salvation.
There are a few other logical alternatives. But these are certainly two common outlines for proclaiming the gospel which suffice to make the point that order matters. The problem with both of these approaches (and likely many others) is misplaced emphasis. The first renders the Christ event as a past condition for a future reward guaranteed by a present action. The initiating action of God falls into the background. The second presentation is sensible, but it seems to lack the urgency of the gospel. One simply dangles big picture narrative and waits for another to bite.
My suggestion would be to try the following order: past, future, present. In my mind, such an order combines the strengths of the previous two approaches. First, one would tell the story of Jesus Christ. This gives the proper priority to the past tense action of God on our behalf. Then one would turn from the resurrection and ascension of Christ to the last judgment. Although this seems to be a leap, the two moments clearly go together: "he ascended into heaven and sitteth at the right hand of the father from whence he shall judge the quick and the dead." The story of Jesus properly concludes with the claim that he is the Lord and Judge of the universe, the one to reckon with at the end of time. This move preserves the significance of the future ala the first approach. Finally, one would turn to the present tense ("the time between the times") by inviting another to participate in this grand history in light of what has happen and will happen. By ending with the present, one retains the urgency of the first approach.
So that is my modest proposal: next time you are trying to communicate the gospel, move from past to future to present.
Any thoughts?
Can any one presentation really treat all three tenses of salvation fairly?
Does order matter?
How does my proposed order measure up?
What other orderings would you recommend?
I do not desire to answer this question in full here. Suffice it to say that there are three tenses of salvation: past, present and future. Although such an answer requires exposition, this threefold temporal schema ought to be self-evident. Given that salvation is a history of God's action for us and in us, it necessarily admits of temporal tenses. I have dealt with this matter in simple and more advanced ways elsewhere and will continue to do so. But here I am concerned with a different matter: the order of presentation.
The question on my mind is how to present the tenses of salvation. What is the best order of presentation? With which tense ought we begin? With which tense should we end? Which tense should come in the middle?
One might object that this question is irrelevant: "As long as you talk about all three tenses, who cares which order you use? We are talking about the mystery of salvation here!" But it has become clear to me that the order of presentation does matter. Whatever tense is mentioned first is given a slight priority. Whichever tense is mentioned in the middle becomes the hinge. Whichever tense is mentioned last is given finality.
For instance, if one begins with the question, "If you died tonight do you know where you would be?" the future tense is given priority. One might then proceed to discuss the past tense work of Christ as the means toward the end of future salvation. Then one would conclude a call for decision, assigning a certain finality and urgency to the present tense.
An alternative approach would be to discuss the tenses of salvation in chronological order. One might begin with the announcement, "Let me tell you about Jesus Christ!" This gives priority to the past tense. Next one could continue the story of salvation naturally into the outpouring of the Spirit and the experience of salvation here and now. This places the present tense as the hinge between past and future. Then one could conclude by noting future salvation as the ultimate payoff of this history of salvation.
There are a few other logical alternatives. But these are certainly two common outlines for proclaiming the gospel which suffice to make the point that order matters. The problem with both of these approaches (and likely many others) is misplaced emphasis. The first renders the Christ event as a past condition for a future reward guaranteed by a present action. The initiating action of God falls into the background. The second presentation is sensible, but it seems to lack the urgency of the gospel. One simply dangles big picture narrative and waits for another to bite.
My suggestion would be to try the following order: past, future, present. In my mind, such an order combines the strengths of the previous two approaches. First, one would tell the story of Jesus Christ. This gives the proper priority to the past tense action of God on our behalf. Then one would turn from the resurrection and ascension of Christ to the last judgment. Although this seems to be a leap, the two moments clearly go together: "he ascended into heaven and sitteth at the right hand of the father from whence he shall judge the quick and the dead." The story of Jesus properly concludes with the claim that he is the Lord and Judge of the universe, the one to reckon with at the end of time. This move preserves the significance of the future ala the first approach. Finally, one would turn to the present tense ("the time between the times") by inviting another to participate in this grand history in light of what has happen and will happen. By ending with the present, one retains the urgency of the first approach.
So that is my modest proposal: next time you are trying to communicate the gospel, move from past to future to present.
Any thoughts?
Can any one presentation really treat all three tenses of salvation fairly?
Does order matter?
How does my proposed order measure up?
What other orderings would you recommend?
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
The Priesthood of Each Believer vs. The Priesthood of All Believers
I have repeatedly heard people appeal to Luther's "Priesthood of All Believers" as a justification for do-it-yourself spirituality. "I am my own priest; I don't need organized religion to have access to God." In the wake of such appeals, many have come to blame the Reformation for the insidious individualism of American religion.
But what did Luther really mean when he declared the "Priesthood of All Believers"? Can "churchless Christianity" be the outworking of the Reformation? Are Luther and Barna just peas in a pod?
This confused protestant legacy can be traced to (among other things) a fundamental misunderstanding in the meaning of the Priesthood of All Believers. In order to expose the counterfeit, let's make sure we have grasped the original:
The Priesthood of All Believers begins with an attack on a roped-off priestly class who alone can procure access to Christ and his saving benefits. The crucial appeal is to the Priesthood of Christ. Christ alone is our priest who offers access to God's grace. Only on the basis of his sole priesthood is our priesthood established. We too are priests, because everything Christ has is ours through the blessed exchange of justifying faith. Thus we are priests as Christ was priest.
So far so good. But here is where the mistake emerges. It is so easy to slip into thinking that we have access to God as Christ had access to God. The priesthood of Christ ends with our priesthood for ourselves. Hence you have the erroneous notion of the Priesthood of Each Believer: every Christian his or her own priest.
But the principle is not that we procure access to God for ourselves through Christ, but rather that we are priests for one another as Christ is for us. This is the logic of the "as": as Christ was a priest for others, so I am a priest for others. On the basis of the priesthood of Christ, all those who believe in him become priests for their family, friends, neighbors, and enemies. As Christ suffers for others, so we suffer for others. As Christ offers forgiveness, so we offer forgiveness to others. As Christ is our access point to God, so we become others' access point to Christ.
So the Priesthood of All Believers does not imply do-it-yourself Christianity. Rather, we are empowered by Christ's priesthood to be priests for one another. Thus the Church is the community of priests, continually offering Christ to one another. And the Priesthood of All Believers is an unmistakably communal activity.
Any thoughts?
Does this rendering of the Priesthood of All Believers ring true to you?
Are there ways of avoiding the mistaken version, or is it inevitable?
How else might one think about the Priesthood of All Believers?
Is there some other way to defend Churchless Christianity other than on the basis of the Priesthood of All Believers?
But what did Luther really mean when he declared the "Priesthood of All Believers"? Can "churchless Christianity" be the outworking of the Reformation? Are Luther and Barna just peas in a pod?
This confused protestant legacy can be traced to (among other things) a fundamental misunderstanding in the meaning of the Priesthood of All Believers. In order to expose the counterfeit, let's make sure we have grasped the original:
The Priesthood of All Believers begins with an attack on a roped-off priestly class who alone can procure access to Christ and his saving benefits. The crucial appeal is to the Priesthood of Christ. Christ alone is our priest who offers access to God's grace. Only on the basis of his sole priesthood is our priesthood established. We too are priests, because everything Christ has is ours through the blessed exchange of justifying faith. Thus we are priests as Christ was priest.
So far so good. But here is where the mistake emerges. It is so easy to slip into thinking that we have access to God as Christ had access to God. The priesthood of Christ ends with our priesthood for ourselves. Hence you have the erroneous notion of the Priesthood of Each Believer: every Christian his or her own priest.
But the principle is not that we procure access to God for ourselves through Christ, but rather that we are priests for one another as Christ is for us. This is the logic of the "as": as Christ was a priest for others, so I am a priest for others. On the basis of the priesthood of Christ, all those who believe in him become priests for their family, friends, neighbors, and enemies. As Christ suffers for others, so we suffer for others. As Christ offers forgiveness, so we offer forgiveness to others. As Christ is our access point to God, so we become others' access point to Christ.
So the Priesthood of All Believers does not imply do-it-yourself Christianity. Rather, we are empowered by Christ's priesthood to be priests for one another. Thus the Church is the community of priests, continually offering Christ to one another. And the Priesthood of All Believers is an unmistakably communal activity.
Any thoughts?
Does this rendering of the Priesthood of All Believers ring true to you?
Are there ways of avoiding the mistaken version, or is it inevitable?
How else might one think about the Priesthood of All Believers?
Is there some other way to defend Churchless Christianity other than on the basis of the Priesthood of All Believers?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Can we really say "God is Good"?
Christians dare to talk about God. We say things about God. We make affirmations about God's character. The problem is that God is obviously so much greater than our language for him. In light of the inadequacy of all human language for God, we might be tempted to give up on making bolds affirmations about God. We might go on saying, "God is good," but we don't really mean it in any trustworthy sense. But when we give in to this temptation, we will find ourselves praising God with our fingers crossed behind our backs. How can we affirm the transcendence of God beyond human language without giving up on language altogether?
To find a solution to this conundrum, let's take a look at a well worn but worthwhile phrase: "God is good."
God certainly is good. If God were evil, bad, or less-than-good, we'd all be up a creek. So affirming the goodness of God is probably a good idea. But we immediately stumble onto a problem: what does it mean to be good? Is goodness something we all just know about and merely attribute to God? Do we see glimpses of goodness in our world, then project a God in heaven who is really, really good? We could simply admit that this is what we are doing as we continue to metaphorically attribute goodness to God. Yet such an admission leaves one vulnerable to the accusation that we are just projecting our own fantasies and desires onto God. So we are stuck with a God who is really just a great, big human being. Such a God might be great, but he is would not be God. God must be more than just the best in a group of good things. God is not a member of a class.
How can we bring out the true meaning of the statement "God is good" without falling into mere projection and wish-fulfillment? One way is to modify the statement to "God is goodness." By saying that God is goodness, we are not simply projecting the goodness we see in creation onto an imaginary God. Rather, we are positing that there is an objective reality called "goodness" that God is. God is not one good thing alongside other good things. God is the very goodness from which every other good thing is derived. If there is good in the world, it is because there is a good God. This modification of the statement is on the right track. Unfortunately, it does not go far enough. Why? Because it leaves the impression that "goodness" is a thing beyond God. "Goodness" is some transcendental category that originates with God and then spills out into God's good creation. Thus "Goodness" or "The Good" contains within it both God and creation, and thus becomes bigger than God himself. So this modification escapes the error of projection without solving the underlying problem of projection: that God becomes a member of a class.
A further modification of the phrase brings out the truth of the matter: that God is his own goodness. Goodness is not some attribute that we apply to God in the way we apply it to ladders and apples and people. Goodness is also not some category that contains within it God, ladders, apples, and people. First and foremost, only God is good. Goodness is defined wholly and utterly by God himself. Whatever God is, that is good. If we want to know what good is, we'll need to pay attention to what God shows himself to be. Can ladders and apples and people be good too? Yes, but only is a secondary and derivative sense. We can only be good by participating in God's goodness. It is that God and I are contained in the larger category of goodness. It is that God is his own goodness, and I am only good in God.
So the problem with our human language is not that "good" (or any other proper attribute of God) is inadequate to describe God. Rather, the problem is that "good" is only properly attributed to God, and inappropriately used to describe ladder and apples and people. Anything that is good comes from God, and so we can call it good, but only in a derivatively.
If we keep in mind that God is his own goodness, then we can boldly affirm with the saints of all ages that "God is good!"
Any thoughts?
Does this way of putting things clarify how we can make affirmations about God?
Does the final formula really evade the criticism that all language is mere projection?
Can this formula be applied to any and all divine attributes? Are there any examples for or against?
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Is Finding Your Keys a Miracle?
For the Christian community as a whole, the matter of miracles cannot be ignored. What are miracles? Do they happen? How do they happen? But in certain segments of the Christian community, miracles play a particularly important role. I am thinking of those who, upon losing their keys, pray to God that they will be found and pronounce it a miracle when they are. My question is whether such a moment is properly named a "miracle."
I have both reaped the spiritual benefits of this sort of pious mindset and seen the damage it can do by making Christians look silly. But the consequences of such pronouncements are insufficient evidence toward answering this question. Rather, we must proceed from a proper definition of a miracle to ascertain its appropriateness to this case.
What is a miracle?
One common answer is that a miracle is a divine action that suspends the laws of nature. This is the kind of definition one finds in David Hume, and I suspect is the most common view of miracles "on the street" today. The strength of such a view is that it acknowledges the "specialness" of miracles. If miracles aren't special, then they are irrelevant. To matter, miracles must be unique. The weakness of such a view is that divine action is linked to an idea of divine intervention that implies the absence of divine agency in non-miraculous situations. In other words, God is only acting when he acts miraculously. God and nature are in an irreconcilable opposition.
On the other extreme, one might define a miracle as any divine action whatsoever. This view is particularly common among Christians of an evangelical temper (to use an archaic phrase). But it also finds its way into a new age forms of spirituality. The benefit of this view is that is sees God at work in everything. All we have to do is open our eyes to see what God is doing. The problem with such a view is that the designation "miracle" becomes meaningless. If everything is a miracle, then nothing is a miracle. Miracle simply becomes synonymous with divine agency, and is thus emptied of any relevant content.
Is there a third option? Is there a way to affirm the special uniqueness of miracles without slipping into an interventionist model? I believe there is, but in order to uncover it, let us return to the question of finding your keys after praying about it. The crucial aspect in such a story is the act of prayer. If you hadn't prayed, you would not have called it a miracle if you found your keys. So the defining feature of a miracle (at least in this case) is human perception, not divine action.
The significance of perception leads us to the third view: a miracle is a divine action intended for revelation. Of course God is at work throughout the world. God is not only the creator of the universe, but its providential governor. So in some sense all actions can be attributed to God (the ancients called this primary causality, but the terms are not important). But there are some actions within the created order that God has specifically ordained to reveal himself to us. These revelatory actions are called miracles. The Johannine term “miraculous signs” is helpful here, because it indicates the revelatory purpose of miracles.
According to this view, the power of God is behind the rotation of the planets, but the power of God is revealed in the healing of the paralytic. Both are actions of God in some sense. Both are based on the power of God. But we take for granted the former, whereas the latter catches us by surprise. Either one might prompt us to worship God, but the latter is specifically ordained by God to do so because he knows that we tend to forget him without jolting reminders.
Thus, if you prayed that God would help you find your keys, and you find them, God may have intended such a providential action to reveal his power to you. If finding your keys encourages your faith in him, then it is likely that God intended such an action as a revelation. So it is appropriate to call it a miracle, not because it was a divine intervention, and not because everything is a miracle, but because of God’s intention to reveal himself.
I have both reaped the spiritual benefits of this sort of pious mindset and seen the damage it can do by making Christians look silly. But the consequences of such pronouncements are insufficient evidence toward answering this question. Rather, we must proceed from a proper definition of a miracle to ascertain its appropriateness to this case.
What is a miracle?
One common answer is that a miracle is a divine action that suspends the laws of nature. This is the kind of definition one finds in David Hume, and I suspect is the most common view of miracles "on the street" today. The strength of such a view is that it acknowledges the "specialness" of miracles. If miracles aren't special, then they are irrelevant. To matter, miracles must be unique. The weakness of such a view is that divine action is linked to an idea of divine intervention that implies the absence of divine agency in non-miraculous situations. In other words, God is only acting when he acts miraculously. God and nature are in an irreconcilable opposition.
On the other extreme, one might define a miracle as any divine action whatsoever. This view is particularly common among Christians of an evangelical temper (to use an archaic phrase). But it also finds its way into a new age forms of spirituality. The benefit of this view is that is sees God at work in everything. All we have to do is open our eyes to see what God is doing. The problem with such a view is that the designation "miracle" becomes meaningless. If everything is a miracle, then nothing is a miracle. Miracle simply becomes synonymous with divine agency, and is thus emptied of any relevant content.
Is there a third option? Is there a way to affirm the special uniqueness of miracles without slipping into an interventionist model? I believe there is, but in order to uncover it, let us return to the question of finding your keys after praying about it. The crucial aspect in such a story is the act of prayer. If you hadn't prayed, you would not have called it a miracle if you found your keys. So the defining feature of a miracle (at least in this case) is human perception, not divine action.
The significance of perception leads us to the third view: a miracle is a divine action intended for revelation. Of course God is at work throughout the world. God is not only the creator of the universe, but its providential governor. So in some sense all actions can be attributed to God (the ancients called this primary causality, but the terms are not important). But there are some actions within the created order that God has specifically ordained to reveal himself to us. These revelatory actions are called miracles. The Johannine term “miraculous signs” is helpful here, because it indicates the revelatory purpose of miracles.
According to this view, the power of God is behind the rotation of the planets, but the power of God is revealed in the healing of the paralytic. Both are actions of God in some sense. Both are based on the power of God. But we take for granted the former, whereas the latter catches us by surprise. Either one might prompt us to worship God, but the latter is specifically ordained by God to do so because he knows that we tend to forget him without jolting reminders.
Thus, if you prayed that God would help you find your keys, and you find them, God may have intended such a providential action to reveal his power to you. If finding your keys encourages your faith in him, then it is likely that God intended such an action as a revelation. So it is appropriate to call it a miracle, not because it was a divine intervention, and not because everything is a miracle, but because of God’s intention to reveal himself.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Darwin and Christianity: Duel, Duet, or Draw?
The long-running conflict between anti- and pro-Darwin elements within the Christian community entered the new sphere of liturgical celebration this week. This past Sunday, hundreds of churches celebrated Darwin’s birthday. The expressed purpose of the celebration was to communicate to the culture that one need not choose between Christianity and Darwin. Faith and science are compatible.
Now the basic message that faith and science are compatible (or at least not incompatible) is one I am happy to proclaim. But doesDarwin
On the one side, you have the duel view. Darwin and Christianity are in a fight to the finish. The claims of Darwinian evolution conflict with the Bible and Christian theology. One must choose between them. Christianity must ally itself with scientific schools that challenge evolutionary theory and offer alternative explanations. The integrity of faith and science are at stake. Despite my misgivings toward such an approach, this perspective should be commended for taking seriously the genuine cognitive dissonance created by attempts to simultaneously hold a theological and evolutionary anthropology.
On the other side, you have the duet view. Christianity and Darwin are not in conflict. Moreover, they will together reveal a holistic view of the world and humanity. Evolutionary theory not only tells us about the world in itself, but reveals to us how God creates and interacts with the world. Christianity and Darwinism are mutually illuminating fields that together can work toward positive social change in the world. Despite my misgivings toward this approach, those who hold the duet view have the courage to develop their theology in light of contemporary science with a genuine concern for the integrity of the believer.
Darwin Darwin
So the next time someone asks me about Christianity and Darwinism, I’m going shrug and reply, “What, me worry?” Then I’ll mention something about preaching Christ alone and him crucified.
Now the basic message that faith and science are compatible (or at least not incompatible) is one I am happy to proclaim. But does
On the one side, you have the duel view. Darwin and Christianity are in a fight to the finish. The claims of Darwinian evolution conflict with the Bible and Christian theology. One must choose between them. Christianity must ally itself with scientific schools that challenge evolutionary theory and offer alternative explanations. The integrity of faith and science are at stake. Despite my misgivings toward such an approach, this perspective should be commended for taking seriously the genuine cognitive dissonance created by attempts to simultaneously hold a theological and evolutionary anthropology.
On the other side, you have the duet view. Christianity and Darwin are not in conflict. Moreover, they will together reveal a holistic view of the world and humanity. Evolutionary theory not only tells us about the world in itself, but reveals to us how God creates and interacts with the world. Christianity and Darwinism are mutually illuminating fields that together can work toward positive social change in the world. Despite my misgivings toward this approach, those who hold the duet view have the courage to develop their theology in light of contemporary science with a genuine concern for the integrity of the believer.
So the next time someone asks me about Christianity and Darwinism, I’m going shrug and reply, “What, me worry?” Then I’ll mention something about preaching Christ alone and him crucified.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Faith w/ and w/o Works
Although it is an age-old problem repeatedly tackled by the great masters, I continue to bump into the question of faith and works. The question is put best in hermeneutical terms:
Paul says, "We are justified by faith, not by works lest any one should boast."
James says, "Faith without works is dead."
How do we reconcile these two statements?
As I see it, there are three alternative ways to tackle this problem.
1. Balance
The first is to assume that the differences between Paul and James are irreconcilable. We are thus in a position to choose between them or, better still, try to keep them in balance by our own theological ingenuity. This is just another "paradox of the faith" that we keep in tension. Although I am quite comfortable with acknowledging diversity and even divergence among the apostolic witnesses, I am suspicious of any solution that places all the weight on our own hermeneutical prowess. Yes, we must synthesize the canon. But we must be careful to not jump the gun. Perhaps the two statements will bear further analysis, rendering such a synthesis moot. This approach is just too easy for my taste. Such a balancing act glosses over the real problem by a lazy appeal to mystery. There must be a better way to lead us into the mystery of our faith, not just around it.
2. Emphasis
Another way to tackle the problem is to give pride of place to one statement over the other. Both are affirmed, but one as the primary statement and the other as a supplemental point. For instance, one might emphasize the Pauline "faith without works" formula, considering the Jacobean "dead faith" formula to block an antinomian misapplication of sola fide. Alternately, one might emphasize James' "faith plus works" formula, introducing Paul's concept of faith without works as a warning against a legalistic misunderstanding of the Christian life of good deeds. This is certainly a more subtle approach. It certainly attends to the differences while including the whole canon. The only problem is how to decide who gets pride of place. Certain traditions will obviously lean toward one or the other. But which way should we lean? There seems to be no Biblical warrant to prefer one over the other. So, once again we find ourselves back in the drivers' seat.
3. Analysis
Thankfully, there is a third way. Rather than balancing the difference or emphasizing one over the other, we can ask the analytical question: "What does each author mean by the word faith?" Although such an analysis does not always save the day, here it does. Why? Because the Greek word pistis, translated in both texts as "faith," has a wider range of meaning than any one English word can bear. Pistis can mean either (1) belief, (2) trust, or (3) faithfulness. Although it can mean any of these, it seldom means more than one at the same time. With this range of meaning in mind, let's look again at the two apparently contradictory statements, plugging in the definition most appropriate to the context:
Paul says, "We are justified by trust, not by works that any one should boast."
James says, "Belief without works is dead."
Despite the differences in their portrayals of the Christian life, Paul and James are not incompatible at this point. They are making two different claims about two very different matters. Paul is pushing us to trust in God for our justification, not our own works, which leads to a prideful attitude. James is telling us that simply believing God exists is not enough (even the demons do that!); we must pursue a life a good works. Both of these principles are true and good. They do not contradict because they are responding to different problems. Neither rules the other out, but both tell us much about how we are to live: trust God for our salvation, and live a life pleasing to him.
Thus by an analysis of the meaning of the faith, the two principles can be held together without irrational juxtaposition or arbitrary preference.
Any thoughts?
Do these seem to be the logical alternatives to dealing with this sort of problem?
Are there others?
Did I misrepresent any of the options?
Is my account of faith's range of meaning accurate?
What other matters might faith's range of meaning illuminate?
Where else might this approach to apparent contradictions be used?
Paul says, "We are justified by faith, not by works lest any one should boast."
James says, "Faith without works is dead."
How do we reconcile these two statements?
As I see it, there are three alternative ways to tackle this problem.
1. Balance
The first is to assume that the differences between Paul and James are irreconcilable. We are thus in a position to choose between them or, better still, try to keep them in balance by our own theological ingenuity. This is just another "paradox of the faith" that we keep in tension. Although I am quite comfortable with acknowledging diversity and even divergence among the apostolic witnesses, I am suspicious of any solution that places all the weight on our own hermeneutical prowess. Yes, we must synthesize the canon. But we must be careful to not jump the gun. Perhaps the two statements will bear further analysis, rendering such a synthesis moot. This approach is just too easy for my taste. Such a balancing act glosses over the real problem by a lazy appeal to mystery. There must be a better way to lead us into the mystery of our faith, not just around it.
2. Emphasis
Another way to tackle the problem is to give pride of place to one statement over the other. Both are affirmed, but one as the primary statement and the other as a supplemental point. For instance, one might emphasize the Pauline "faith without works" formula, considering the Jacobean "dead faith" formula to block an antinomian misapplication of sola fide. Alternately, one might emphasize James' "faith plus works" formula, introducing Paul's concept of faith without works as a warning against a legalistic misunderstanding of the Christian life of good deeds. This is certainly a more subtle approach. It certainly attends to the differences while including the whole canon. The only problem is how to decide who gets pride of place. Certain traditions will obviously lean toward one or the other. But which way should we lean? There seems to be no Biblical warrant to prefer one over the other. So, once again we find ourselves back in the drivers' seat.
3. Analysis
Thankfully, there is a third way. Rather than balancing the difference or emphasizing one over the other, we can ask the analytical question: "What does each author mean by the word faith?" Although such an analysis does not always save the day, here it does. Why? Because the Greek word pistis, translated in both texts as "faith," has a wider range of meaning than any one English word can bear. Pistis can mean either (1) belief, (2) trust, or (3) faithfulness. Although it can mean any of these, it seldom means more than one at the same time. With this range of meaning in mind, let's look again at the two apparently contradictory statements, plugging in the definition most appropriate to the context:
Paul says, "We are justified by trust, not by works that any one should boast."
James says, "Belief without works is dead."
Despite the differences in their portrayals of the Christian life, Paul and James are not incompatible at this point. They are making two different claims about two very different matters. Paul is pushing us to trust in God for our justification, not our own works, which leads to a prideful attitude. James is telling us that simply believing God exists is not enough (even the demons do that!); we must pursue a life a good works. Both of these principles are true and good. They do not contradict because they are responding to different problems. Neither rules the other out, but both tell us much about how we are to live: trust God for our salvation, and live a life pleasing to him.
Thus by an analysis of the meaning of the faith, the two principles can be held together without irrational juxtaposition or arbitrary preference.
Any thoughts?
Do these seem to be the logical alternatives to dealing with this sort of problem?
Are there others?
Did I misrepresent any of the options?
Is my account of faith's range of meaning accurate?
What other matters might faith's range of meaning illuminate?
Where else might this approach to apparent contradictions be used?
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
What does it mean to "struggle" with something?
In recent years I've noticed a sharp increase in the language of "struggle." We don't say that we have "sinned" in a particular area; we say we are "struggling" with it. Whether the increase is actual or just my perception is a question I will leave aside for the time being. What interests me is identifying what this word actually means in religious discourse.
I suggest that the meaning of "struggling" lies somewhere between "sinning" and "suffering."
To struggle is not the same as to sin. That should be obvious. But what is confusing about the two terms is that "struggle" is often used in conjunction with particular "sins." For instance, it is not uncommon for someone to say they are struggling with pornography. Assuming pornography-use is a sin in some sense, what could it possibly mean to struggle with pornography? Does this mean someone is using pornography? If so, would that action not be a sin to confess? But to say one is struggling with pornography lessens the blow. This way one is not confessing a sin to be forgiven; rather, he is sharing of an aspect of his journey.
To struggle is not the same as to suffer. That too should be obvious. But it is confusing again because the term "struggle" often refers to situations of suffering. Following the same example, someone says they are struggling with pornography in the sense of an addiction. Sure, they may be using pornography. But the focus is not on the behavior in this case. The focus is on the fact that they are trapped in an addiction and trying to work their way out of it. But it is easier to say one is struggling because "suffering" sounds so weak and helpless. This way one is not admitting to suffer at the hands of another; rather, he is sharing problem which he is in the process of overcoming.
The alternative category of "struggling" is certainly helpful, especially because it makes it easier for people to be open to one another. We proud folk prefer to not admit that we are sinning or suffering. We don't want to look bad or weak. More importantly, such a category creates space for certain behaviors which fall short of the ideal Christian life but may be permissible as stages along life's way. Addictions in particular are good candidates for this kind of alternative category. Whether the example of pornography should be placed in this category is another matter. What can be affirmed is that "struggle" is at least a logically plausible alternative category to "sin."
The problem is that the language of struggle threatens to overextend its use so that sin and suffering language disappear altogether (or at least are relegated to extreme cases). Without both the language of sin and suffering, we will be left to ourselves as "strugglers." Why? Because sinners and sufferers need salvation. Sin and suffering imply a dependency on someone else to solve the problem. Not so for strugglers. Strugglers do not need saved. Strugglers do it on their own. Even when they ask for help, they are in control of the situation. Struggling is ultimately about me, my problems, and my solution to those problems.
So I conclude that the language of "struggling" can be a useful category between sin and suffering, but should not be allowed to swallow up these other two indispensable terms.
Any thoughts?
How do you use the language of struggling, sinning and suffering?
Would you differ with my description?
Do you see any additional advantages to the language of struggle?
Do you see any additional disadvantages to the language of struggle?
What else is lost by the decreased use of sin and suffering language?
I suggest that the meaning of "struggling" lies somewhere between "sinning" and "suffering."
To struggle is not the same as to sin. That should be obvious. But what is confusing about the two terms is that "struggle" is often used in conjunction with particular "sins." For instance, it is not uncommon for someone to say they are struggling with pornography. Assuming pornography-use is a sin in some sense, what could it possibly mean to struggle with pornography? Does this mean someone is using pornography? If so, would that action not be a sin to confess? But to say one is struggling with pornography lessens the blow. This way one is not confessing a sin to be forgiven; rather, he is sharing of an aspect of his journey.
To struggle is not the same as to suffer. That too should be obvious. But it is confusing again because the term "struggle" often refers to situations of suffering. Following the same example, someone says they are struggling with pornography in the sense of an addiction. Sure, they may be using pornography. But the focus is not on the behavior in this case. The focus is on the fact that they are trapped in an addiction and trying to work their way out of it. But it is easier to say one is struggling because "suffering" sounds so weak and helpless. This way one is not admitting to suffer at the hands of another; rather, he is sharing problem which he is in the process of overcoming.
The alternative category of "struggling" is certainly helpful, especially because it makes it easier for people to be open to one another. We proud folk prefer to not admit that we are sinning or suffering. We don't want to look bad or weak. More importantly, such a category creates space for certain behaviors which fall short of the ideal Christian life but may be permissible as stages along life's way. Addictions in particular are good candidates for this kind of alternative category. Whether the example of pornography should be placed in this category is another matter. What can be affirmed is that "struggle" is at least a logically plausible alternative category to "sin."
The problem is that the language of struggle threatens to overextend its use so that sin and suffering language disappear altogether (or at least are relegated to extreme cases). Without both the language of sin and suffering, we will be left to ourselves as "strugglers." Why? Because sinners and sufferers need salvation. Sin and suffering imply a dependency on someone else to solve the problem. Not so for strugglers. Strugglers do not need saved. Strugglers do it on their own. Even when they ask for help, they are in control of the situation. Struggling is ultimately about me, my problems, and my solution to those problems.
So I conclude that the language of "struggling" can be a useful category between sin and suffering, but should not be allowed to swallow up these other two indispensable terms.
Any thoughts?
How do you use the language of struggling, sinning and suffering?
Would you differ with my description?
Do you see any additional advantages to the language of struggle?
Do you see any additional disadvantages to the language of struggle?
What else is lost by the decreased use of sin and suffering language?
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