“Theoprudence”

...is an amalgum of the words "theology", the study of God and how God acts and interacts within our world, and "jurisprudence," a term that often refers to the comparative study of law and other fields, such as economics or philosophy. "Theoprudence" also describes a way of life. As the prophet Micah taught, our responsibility is to act justly, love kindness, and live prudently in the ways of the Creator/God.

About Me

Matt Ritchie My name is Matt Ritchie. I am a solo practitioner/litigator from Texas. I am also a theology nerd. I love to read, talk and teach about Christian spirituality, particularly as it relates to the emerging culture. Other geek-related interests include digital culture, PC gaming, and board games.
 

Richard Beck over at Experimental Theology is linking to this paper, written by Daniel Dennett and Linda LaScola from the Center for Cognitive Studies at Tufts University. In the paper, they describe LaScola's interviews of five pastors/preachers who are secretly atheists. These five – all self selected for the study, of course – not only detail their journey from belief to unbelief, but also talk about why they are quite sure that they are only the tip of an iceberg. It really is a riveting read.

Their stories are all remarkably similar. In each case, they enter seminary with a very traditional view of the Christian faith, which sees the Bible as an inerrant document, inspired by God, which depicts "real" stories. Adam and Eve actually existed as the first two humans. Jonah really did spend three days in a whale. Jesus really did say the things attributed to him in exactly the way it is depicted in the Bible. People really do end up in a literal, burning hell.

In seminary, however, the pastors were exposed to textual and historical-critical perspectives of the Bible. These perspectives tend to show how the original texts of the Bible were adapted and altered over time, how they were often cut-and-paste patchworks of stories and ideas from various sources, and how cultural and personal bias often found their way into the manner in which the Biblical authors presented their stories and arguments. The effect of all of this is a view of scripture that is "demythologized," a phrase that is used in the academic world to describe a story may convey a certain truth, but which didn't really happen. When they were exposed to these ideas in seminary, they either (a) underwent a crisis of faith or (b) learned, ironically, to compartmentalize their seminary education from their true faith.

The five pastors all emphasize that they were not alone. This crisis was common among their classmates, many of whom openly resisted a lot of what they were taught. Presumably, it continues to happen today.

How does "seminary shock" translate into what we hear from the pulpit? Simple. They don't tell us what they really think. It is, Dennett and LaScola observe, almost like a conspiracy:

One can be initiated into a conspiracy without a single word exchanged or secret handshake; all it takes is the dawning realization, beginning in seminary, that you and the others are privy to a secret, and that they know that you know, and you know that they know that you know. This is what is known to philosophers and linguists as mutual knowledge, and it plays a potent role in many social circumstances. Without any explicit agreement, mutual knowledge seals the deal: you then have no right to betray this bond by unilaterally divulging it, or even discussing it.

This don't-ask-don't-tell approach to ministry is, I suspect, the dirty little secret of the pastoring business. They simply don't believe much of what they seem to be asking the laity to believe. And there are plenty of ways to equivocate, wiggling around the tough issues. Theology is such a metaphor-intensive endeavor that it is very easy for a pastor to have a conversation with you about God's influence on history, for example, without ever poking around at his/her belief about the nature of God. In the Pastor's thoughts and careful phraseology, the conversation is about the concept of God influencing history, even though you have something much more literal in mind.

I don't think, by the way, that the vast majority of pastors – even a significant number of them – are atheists per se. These five pastors may be the tip of the iceberg, but I imagine that what is really floating under the surface are a lot of dedicated ministers of genuine faith, who love Christianity and their own traditions, but who can't connect what they learned in seminary with the issues they have to address in the pulpit. And I think they are very anxious about how to do ministry when their education is so disconnected from their work.

Why do they hide what they think? The cynic would say that it is merely to avoid offending you, so they can keep their jobs, keep you in the pew, and to keep your checks flowing into the Church coffers. And there may be some truth to that. However, I think it is more likely that they are trying to do three things:

  • "Protect" their congregation from ideas that might also harm their faith;
  • Preserve the Christian tradition, because – after all – they might be wrong about how it is all wrong, and they want to give it a fighting chance to survive; and
  • They see that, even "demythologized," Christianity benefits society, and they remain committed to it for that reason.

The problem is that this disconnect is making a lot of pastors feel like frauds, giving answers that they are either questioning themselves or that they simply don't believe. That sense of anxiety is doubtless having ripple effects on their marriages, their families, and their churches. 

Is it really for the best if pastors "protect" us from what they learned in seminar? My conviction is that it is not. When seminary training and ministry are overly compartmentalized, the results are shallow sermons, lifeless theologies, and stagnant traditions. Tell us what we want to hear, and only what we want to hear, and we will never grow.

Furthermore, the same questions that the clergy began to encounter in seminary 20 years ago are now making their way onto the street. Why does God allow suffering? Can someone really survive in a whale for three days? Were Adam and Eve real people? Every one of those questions is floating around in the worlds where paritioners now live. Ignore them, and attention and attendance will continue to shrink.

What is needed is open discussion where people – clergy and laity – can be safe to ask questions and test ideas without fear of retribution or scorn. My guess – my experience – is that, once the conversation begins to flow, we will discover that God hasn't vanished, and that – in fact – he is bigger, more real, and much more wonderful than anything we would ever have found under the old, rigid view of the Bible that is regularly shattered in seminary.

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[This is the fifth part of a multiple-post review of Brian McLaren’s A New Kind of Christianity, which I introduced here. In the book, McLaren sets out the ten questions that he believes are reshaping Christianity in the West.]

Having considered the nature of God in question 3 and the nature of Jesus in question 4, one might expect McLaren to complete a trinitarian theme in question 5, focusing on the Spirit of God. But McLaren's list of questions instead takes another somewhat natural turn by considering the nature of the gospel.

So what is the good news that we call the "gospel"? Before getting into McLaren's approach, it would probably be helpful to take a quick detour that frames the gospel question in the context of the book as a whole.

The best way to think about this issue is to consider not only the "answer" of the gospel, but the "question" that the gospel is answering.

Lets begin with the question and answer that forms the center of the traditional, evangelical approach to the gospel (we will call it Gospel A):

Q. How can I avoid being punished for my sins by spending an eternity in hell?

A. By having faith in Jesus Christ, whose death on the cross served as a substitute punishment for my sins.

Notice how this falls within the confines of, and serves the purposes of, the Greco-Roman narrative that was the subject of Question 1. If the main problem is that individual humans are in danger of being thrown into the trash heap as a result of the cosmic sorting bin that is the physical world, then the "good news" will naturally show how to escape this predicament.

However, there is a completely different way of thinking about the gospel (we will call it Gospel B), which looks something like this:

Q. What will God do about evil and oppression in our world?

A. God is establishing a new, benevolent society – a kingdom – among us that liberates us.

McLaren favors this second approach to the gospel, believing that it is the most natural way to read scripture outside the constraints of the Greco-Roman narrative. Under this approach, Jesus' proclamation "Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!" is itself the gospel.

So how did Christians come to embrace Gospel A, while ignoring/losing track of Gospel B? McLaren believes (and I agree) that the problem originates from a particular interpretation of Paul's letter to the Romans that developed during the early period of the Reformation. More particularly, I would add, the problem arises out of an interpretation of Romans 1-4. That interpretation has become the framework by which we try to understand the rest of the New Testament, including the rest of Romans, as well as the stories about the life and teachings of Jesus.

If you read the stories of Jesus first, and then interpret Paul's letters, and particularly Romans, in light of those teachings, you end up with a completely different perspective. And, essentially, McLaren's discussion of the meaning of the gospel briefly outlines the way that the Jesus-first-then-Paul approach has changed his own viewpoint.

So, beginning with the life, ministry, death, and resurrection of Jesus, we must first see that Jesus came so that – as he taught us to pray – God's will is done "on earth as it is in heaven." He challenged us in his teachings to rethink everything, and to enter into a life of discipleship, seeking to love our enemies and care for the least among us. This is a fulfillment of the longings of the Old Testament for: (1) a new Creation, (2) a new Exodus, and (3) a new Kingdom.

Along next comes Paul, who, after some time accepts the teachings of Jesus and seeks to enter into this new kingdom. But there is a problem. This kingdom isn't an exclusive Jews-only club. It must be available to Gentiles as well. How can that happen? Paul takes it upon himself, McLaren argues, to bring the Gentiles into the fold.

Romans is, he argues, not an attempt to explain what the gospel is, but an effort to show how Gentiles and Jews can live, in diversity, within this same kingdom. Thus, in Romans, Paul makes seven brilliant moves:

  1. Reduce Jew and Gentile to the same level of need
  2. Announce a new way forward for all, Jew and Gentile, a way of faith
  3. Unite all in a common story from the Hebrew scriptures
  4. Unite all in a common struggle and a common victory
  5. Address Jewish and Gentile problems, showing God as God of all
  6. Engage all in a common life and mission
  7. Call everyone to unity in the kingdom of God

That Paul is ultimately committed to the same "kingdom" gospel that Jesus taught is further made clear by the fact that, when Paul goes to Rome some years after he wrote his letter to the Romans, we are told that he was "testifying to the kingdom of God and trying to convince [those who came to hear him] about Jesus."

Is the kingdom Gospel "fine print" to be added to Gospel A, or is it a radically different perspective in which Gospel A becomes, at best, only a small part of the picture? If all you can manage for now is Gospel A, with Gospel B as a footnote, McLaren thinks it is a good start. But either way, we should "repent [and] believe the good news, for it is good indeed."

After reflecting on McLaren's exposition on the gospel and Paul, I am in agreement with him as far as he goes. However, I also think that his picture of the gospel is still a little underdeveloped. The primary focus of McLaren's exposition is on the way the gospel rearranges social relations, and while I think this is true, I believe that you ultimately have to address the problems of cosmic decay and death for the gospel's full impact to be felt. In particular, I believe you need a better understanding of the way the death and resurrection of Jesus reinforce the gospel of the kingdom.

God isn't merely rearranging society, as wonderful and necessary as that might be – but he is liberating us from the forces that draw us physically, socially, spiritually into states of decay and death. In Romans, it takes Paul almost no time to let his readers know that God has established Jesus as Lord of this new world, and has shown this by raising Jesus from the dead. This resurrection brings with it the promise of a new creation that bursts free from the entropic constraints of the "old" universe.

In a sense, the "cosmic" view the gospel brings Gospel A back into the picture, albeit with less concern on hell and more concern with the way sin has brought with it the consequences of physical death.

To put it another way:

  • Good: God is saving people from the consequences of their own actions (Gospel A, sort-of)
  • Better: God is liberating people from social oppression and evil (McLaren's emphasis)
  • Best: God is renewing (a) individuals, (b) society, and (c) creation itself.

Without all three elements, I think the "kingdom" gospel – and Paul's expression of it, in particular – is incomplete. I don't think McLaren would necessarily disagree with this. I just think that, for whatever reason, he likes to place more emphasis on the aspects of social transformation that are present within the gospel.

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Sheila and I co-teach a young adult bible class with Pam Rowley, one of the pastors at our church. Several weeks ago, the class decided to read through C.S. Lewis' Mere Christianity together, and tomorrow, we plan to wind things up with a summary of Lewis' closing thoughts. We're also going to read an excerpt from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, another Lewis masterpiece.

In preparing a summary of the closing chapters of the book, I've been struck by the way Lewis really does view sanctification (the transformation of humans from an evil/sinful condition to a right/good condition) as the essential process that defines Christianity. Ideas of justification (often, but not always, thought of as an event that causes us to instantly be viewed as right/good by God, even though we remain sinful) take a back seat to Lewis. In fact, if when I read the book closely, I think Lewis is arguing that the language of justification is just another way of talking about how we get into the process of sanctification.

For Lewis, sanctification is a voluntary process. God won't force it on us. And when we choose it, it is immensely painful. It involves the "killing"of one self so that another self can be embraced. We embrace this process with trepidation the same way we get anxious about going to the dentist – knowing that it is needed, but dreading the anxiety and pain it will cause.

The concept is beautifully illustrated in Dawn Treader, when a young boy named Eustace accidentally turns himself into a dragon after going to sleep on a pile of magical treasure. Knowing that he is still a boy underneath, he tries to remove the dragon skin, but discovers that the removal of one layer only reveals another one below it. His only option is to allow Aslan, the great Lion, to remove the skin for him.

Here is Eustace's account of the process:

I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back and let him do it.

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know – if you've ever picked a scab of a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.

* * *

Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off – just as I thought I'd done it my self the other three times, only they hadn't hurt – and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly looking than the others had been. And there I was smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been.

For me, Lewis' genius is in the way he picks up on the subtleties of the process. Is it painful? Yes. Still, there is a certain kind of pleasure that comes from becoming free of this thing that has caused you pain and disfigured your soul – like yanking off a scab to find healed skin underneath. And what can you expect to find when the process is complete? After the fact, you'll probably discover you were a great deal worse off than even you imagined.

That is what is on my mind this Lenten Saturday: Dragon skin is ugly, and it hurts when you peel on it. But it is actually kind of fun letting Aslan take it off.

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[This is the fourth part of a multiple-post review of Brian McLaren’s A New Kind of Christianity, which I introduced here. In the book, McLaren sets out the ten questions that he believes are reshaping Christianity in the West.]

Who is Jesus? Why is he important? Is Jesus the victim of identity theft?

These are the issues that are at stake in Question #4 – the Jesus question.

Consider this. If you look around long enough, you can find just about any kind of "Jesus" to suit your fancy:

  • A Jesus who will help you to accumulate wealth and live your "best life now"
  • A Jesus who is pro-Israel, and favors an aggressive military policy in the Middle East
  • A Jesus who hates Jews, because they crucified him
  • A Jesus about whom we can be sentimental in the midst of organ music and stained glass
  • A Jesus who is a master psychotherapist, ready to address every mental and emotional illness known to the self-help industry
  • A Jesus who hates homosexuals or feminists or whoever else you don't particularly like yourself
  • A Jesus who supports American culture, the American way of life, and American wars
  • Etc., etc.

To show just how ridiculous things have become, McLaren quotes from my favorite scene in Taladaga Nights (this probably goes without saying for ANYTHING involving Will Farrell, but…NSFW and NSFK):

How has the situation deteriorated such that Jesus has become little more than an expression of what we want him to be? And how can we see clearly through the Bible to a Jesus that is more authentic?

To explore this issue, McLaren utilizes a statement that Mark Driscoll recently made in Relevant Magazine (though he appears to intentionally avoid identifying Driscoll):

Some emergent types [want] to recast Jesus as a limp-wrist hippie in a dress with a lot of product in His hair, who drank decaf and made pithy Zen statements about life while shopping for the perfect pair of shoes. In Revelation, Jesus is a prize fighter with a tattoo down His leg, a sword in His hand and the commitment to make someone bleed. That is a guy I can worship. I cannot worship the hippie, diaper, halo Christ because I cannot worship a guy I can beat up.

Here, Jesus is presented as one who is worthy of worship because he is a tough guy who is ready to kick butt. But this bada** Jesus hardly fits anything that we know about the Jesus of history, or even of Revelation. Rather, he is the model of what one might expect from a "Greco-Roman" worldview – one which favors Imperial dominance as a means of advancing power. 

This image of Jesus as conqueror, McLaren argues, is presented in a form of literature that is designed to encourage people to think about where the current course of events will carry history. It is not prognostication as much as it is imagination. In several important respects, such literature resembles our modern genre of science fiction (coincidentally, I recently explored an almost identical issue in  this post). Thus, the sword that comes from Jesus' mouth in this text tells us that Jesus' words are more powerful than the seeming might of Rome, the world Empire that was dominant when Revelation was written.

I agree. But I also think McLaren overlooks another obvious problem in this way of looking at Jesus. Why does Revelation say that Jesus is "worthy" of worship? Chapter 5 shows that it is because he submitted to violence, not because he was violent himself ("Worthy is the Lamb that was slain!" shouts heaven, when Jesus is revealed not as an expected lion, but as a sacrificial lamb). It is also notable that, in the Gospel narratives, Jesus was, in fact "beat up" by some First Century tough guys. I suppose that Driscoll would not have respected that Jesus either, because he could have joined right in with the Roman soldiers who tortured him.

McLaren then goes on, in Chapter 13 to outline his argument for the path to a more authentic Jesus. In short, this path relies on seeing Jesus through the three-dimensional eyes of the Old Testament, rather than trying to force him into a six-line Greco-Roman narrative. Viewed in this light, we can see that Jesus came to "launch a new Genesis, to lead a new Exodus," and, in light of prophets like Isaiah, "to announce, embody, and inaugurate a new kingdom as the Prince of Peace." Look at Jesus in this way, he argues, and we will discover an authentic Jesus that is far more attractive and "unbelievably believable" than a Jesus that is shrunk and trimmed to fit our preferred worldviews.

I couldn't agree more with McLaren's approach to the Jesus Question. You find the "real" Jesus by looking at him in light of – and as a culmination of – the history of the Old Testament.  The two chapters on this subject hit the nail on the head, even if they are a little polemic.

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[This is the third part of a multiple-post review of Brian McLaren’s A New Kind of Christianity, which I introduced here. In the book, McLaren sets out the ten questions that he believes are reshaping Christianity in the West.]

A few months ago, I had a conversation with a Christian who was genuinely distressed by his recent exposure to several Old Testament stories. Up until that point, his understanding of scripture had mostly come from teachings about the New Testament. Though he never read the Bible himself, those who had been teaching him about scripture had told him that he would understand God as a loving parent who sent his son as an example of how to live in peace. When he decided to start reading the Bible for himself, a natural starting point, I suppose, was the beginning. So, starting in Genesis and moving forward, he began to work his way through Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, and…

Joshua.

In Joshua, he encountered the story of the purging of Canaan. Here, the story goes, God told his people to mercilessly slaughter the people who occupied the promised land. Men, women, children. No one was to be left alive.

This was not an intellectual puzzle to my friend. He was being torn apart on the inside, because he felt like these stories betrayed his idea of God – an idea that he loved. How could God, who sent Jesus to teach peace and love for enemies, command people to do something like that?

I don't think he is alone.

The third question that McLaren introduces in A New Kind of Christianity is the same one that my friend presented to me – is God violent?

To address this question, McLaren begins by introducing the idea of evolution – the possibility that our images and understandings of God have continually changed, evolved, and matured over the centuries. Furthermore, God, he suggests is the one that initiates this evolution.

Scripture itself seems to indicate that something of this nature is happening. Moses, for example, is the first person to receive a particular form of God's name. Hosea later prophecies that a time is coming where God's people will think of God as their husband, rather than their master. Even Jesus suggests a move from master/servant to friendship in his relationship with his disciples.

So, does this mean that the people of Israel were flat-out wrong when they discerned that God wanted them to commit genocide? Not necessarily. What is God to do, for example, to make himself known in a tribal world that is steeped in paganism and violence? Is it possible that the best/only starting point is to pick out one of those tribes and help them (and those around him) to see that he is present by giving them the sort of military victories that would make them credible? This answer is not entirely satisfying to me, but it is much better than the alternatives.

McLaren encourages us to think of a second grader who reads in her textbook that you can never subtract a larger number from a smaller number. Is this true? Well, yes, if you are speaking only of natural numbers. However, later, in sixth grade, the same person learns that you can, in fact, subtract larger numbers from smaller numbers. Is this also true? Yes, if we are willing to take into account a more complex system of mathematics. The "truth" that can be taught to the student depends on her level of sophistication. Furthermore, you often have to learn the more simple truth – one that is limited in scope – before you can move on to the more complex one.

God may be, he says, gradually revealing himself to humanity in much the same way. And, he cautions, we should be careful to think that we have now "arrived." Surely, our own present understandings of God are also limited. The journey continues.

Yet we do have a distinct advantage that the tribal societies of the Old Testament did not have: Jesus. Quoting Elton Trueblood, he points out that the doctrine of the divinity of Christ doesn't mean that Jesus is like God. Rather, much more radically, it means that God is like Jesus. Jesus is, in other words, the revelation of God that ought to take precedence over, and shatter, all other claims to revelation.

We can thus picture the history of the revelation of God like this:

Think of the letters as different points in the process of revelation. These points do not line up completely. There are points where great advances are made, but there are also points of setbacks. Still, there is a more general trajectory that moves in an upward direction. At the end of the diagram is the sun – meant to symbolize Jesus. He is the ideal toward which we must constantly orient ourselves in order to keep our bearings.

When we think of the way God is revealed to us – not just in the question of whether God is violent, but in other ways as well – McLaren suggests we should center our focus on Jesus, not on scripture. After all, it is Jesus, not the Bible that scripture itself characterizes as the "Word of God." The Word didn't "become scripture and get published among us." Rather, it became flesh and dwelt among us.

McLaren concludes with this thought:

The character of God, seen in Jesus, is not violent and tribal. The living God is not the kind of deity who decrees ethnic cleansing, genocide, racism, slavery, sexism, homophobia, war, religious supremacy, or eternal conscious torment. Instead, the character of the living God is like the character of Jesus. Don't simply look at the Bible, I am suggesting look through the Bible to look at Jesus, and you will see the character of God shining radiant and full….When you see him you are getting the best view afforded to humans of the character of God.

(emphasis mine). As I have mentioned in connection with at least one prior post, this is not a completely new idea. Various theories of progressive revelation have been around for some time. However, as usual, McLaren has found a way to distill and express those ideas in a form that can be digested and opened for discussion among a wider audience.

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The Jesus Manifesto just posted an article that I wrote entitled The Myth of Christian Political Neutrality. You can find it here.

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This is the first part of a multiple-post review of Brian McLaren’s A New Kind of Christianity, which I introduced here. In the book, McLaren sets out the ten questions that he believes are reshaping Christianity in the West.

The first question is this: What is the overarching story line of the Bible?

McLaren begins by observing that, for most of us, the story can be outlined on a six-line diagram that looks like this:

In this story, creation begins in a pristine, “perfect” state that we call Eden. Then, there is a single, fateful event which places humanity in a state of condemnation. At this point, the diagram branches. Some of condemned humanity moves back up, along the “salvation” line, ending up in heaven. In the meantime, the rest of humanity ends up in hell. Once in these new states, everything becomes perfect and unchanging again.

This six-line story is not something that we think about a lot, he says. Rather, we assume it to be the case. Like an pair of glasses, it is not – for the most part – present in our conscious minds, yet it is shaping the way we see scripture.

Right out of the gate, McLaren is moving into an issue that will elicit very different reactions from Christians. Some of us will look at the six-line story and say “This isn’t just a way of thinking about the Bible – this is the Bible. What is the problem with it?” Others, however, are starting to look at it and say (in McLaren’s words) “[H]ow in God’s name could anyone ever think this is the narrative of the Bible?

Why the sudden reluctance by many of us to embrace the six-line framework? McLaren answers this in several ways.

To begin with, the six-line story is a cold, almost mechanistic way of characterizing human existence. It is as if our world is little more than a sorting bin on a cosmic assembly line. Our value to God is determined, and then we are either selected for eternity in heaven or cast off. How does this push us toward the values that are central to the Judeo/Christian tradition? How does it encourage us to love our neighbors and our enemies, or to be good stewards of our planet?

Second, he says that we have come to think of Jesus in terms of the people that came after him, rather than the people that preceded him – John the Baptist, the prophets, David, Moses, etc. In other words, we tend to ask how did Paul see Jesus? Then, how did Augustine see Paul as he saw Jesus? etc. Thus, by the time we start listening to the most influential voices of our day, we may be looking at Jesus through as many as five layers of other interpretation. Do the opposite of this, interpreting Jesus’ life in light of those who preceded him (John the Baptist, the Prophets, Moses, etc.), and you get dramatically different results – results that don’t necessarily fit within the six-line framework.

Finally, McLaren believes the six-line frame is a way of superimposing a traditional, Greco-Roman narrative on scripture. He develops this idea in considerable detail.

The Greeks, he argues, were used to thinking in dualistic terms. The tension in Greek philosophy was between: (1) the material world of Aristotle, which was imperfect, changing and evolving, and (2) the ideal world of Plato, which was perfect and unchanging. The Platonic way of thinking, which looked at the material world as “unreal,” was later adapted by the Romans to justify their systematic efforts to dominate all cultures and nations.

If you peel away the Biblical layer from our six-line story, McLaren says, you can see the Greco-Roman themes that are at play behind it:

McLaren encourages us to think of Theos – a Roman god that he has invented for purposes of his illustration. Theos makes a perfect, pristine world – unchanging in the tradition of Platonic philosophy. Then, something bad happens – and creation falls into a state where it is suddenly dynamic, shifting, changing. This angers Theos, whose sense of eternal, singular oneness has been disturbed. Thus, he sets out to restore some of humanity to the perfect, pristine state (heaven), while the rest is consigned to the Greek realm of the dead, known as Hades. Satisfied that everything is no longer is a state of flux and change, Theos is once again content. In Hades, a sign is placed over the locked gates: “DESPAIR ALL WHO ENTER HERE: NO BECOMING ALLOWED!”

Of course, accusations that dualism is overly influential in Western Christianity aren’t new. The issue has been discussed among theologians and Bible scholars for years. McLaren, however, is a great at popularizing ideas from the academy, and – in this case – he is using the six-line diagram to illustrate issues that people have been tossing around for a long time. Specifically, he wants us to see how Platonic dualism is so powerful that it is actually distorting the foundation and frame on which our entire Biblical narrative is built.

He is also highlighting what I’ve found to be an essential problem with narratives like this one for years: “What, exactly, will people be doing in heaven?” I’ve wondered, “Doesn’t sound that exciting to me.” From a dualistic standpoint, “nothing” is exactly the rather unexciting point. Likewise, once further change becomes impossible, the horrors of hell begin to look terribly unfair. What if someone changes their attitude toward God while in hell? The Platonic view says “they can’t.”

While I like the way McLaren has visualized the problem using the six-line framework, and while I generally agree with him, my suspicion is that we aren’t simply dealing with a problem of subsequent Platonic philosophy influencing the way people read the New Testament. Rather, I think that Greco-Roman culture is influencing the Bible writers themselves, and that some of these issues are already surfacing in the narratives in the New Testament. The example that comes to mind immediately is the way the gospel writers are already using Hades as imagery to describe the abode of the dead. That means that the task of understanding Jesus can’t be solved by simply disentangling the New Testament from Platonic influences – we also have to re-think the way we read Bible narratives that are shaped by dualistic philosophies.

McLaren’s alternative approach to the shape of scripture – looking at Jesus primarily through the lens of Moses, David, the Prophets, etc. – rather than Plato and the theologians and Church fathers who were influenced by Plato – yields a different perspective. In this view, creation is and should be an evolving, changing, dynamic reality full of life, mystery, and potential. It is a rich, colorful, three dimensional picture. Furthermore, as humanity and creation get into deeper and deeper trouble, God becomes more and more deeply committed to rescue and redeem it. The trajectory of the story points to the restoration of creation rather than a transition of humanity into an unchanging, Platonic state. At the end of the restoration project, God’s world continues, full of life, potential, vibrancy, and change.

The alternative to the six-line story is spelled out over two Chapters, but I’m not going to say anything more about it here because: (1) his main point is to introduce the question and the forces that are driving the question, not to offer a comprehensive answer to the question and (2) for the unconvinced, I don’t think he has the time or space to generate many converts. He’s got too many other issues to address in the coming pages. McLaren’s The Secret Message of Jesus and/or NT Wright’s Surprised by Hope are much better resources for that purpose.

Up next – The Authority Question: How should the Bible be understood?

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[This is the second post of three on the opening verses of John 8, in which Jesus is asked by the Pharisees to decide the case of a woman allegedly caught in adultery.]

One of the things that judges have to do – more frequently than you might think – is decide how to fill in gaps in the law. Politicians love to preach about how judges ought to interpret the law and not make law, but the practicalities of sitting on the bench from day-to-day don’t allow for such a luxury. Rules of procedure, for example, are often very explicit about deadlines and requirements for plaintiffs and defendants, but lawsuits don’t always involve parties that fit neatly into one of those two categories. Sometimes there are third party defendants – people who are brought into the suit by the defendant. Sometimes there are intervenors – people who claim a stake in the outcome of the case, even though they are not the plaintiff. Judges often have to decide how to apply rules that are written for plaintiffs and defendants in light of odd situations.

That is just one example. Gap-filling by judges goes on all the time, because legislatures and rule makers can’t and don’t anticipate every possible situation that could end up in Court.

When I assess the situation in John 8 in light of the legal issues that are at play, I think that a problem of how to fill in a very critical gap is lurking in the subtext.

stoning_22_5011[1]In the last post, we left off with a problem. Here we have this woman who was allegedly caught in adultery, but there are no witnesses. In essence, the Pharisees are asking Jesus to assume that she is guilty, and to decide only half of the case – the question of whether her crime merits capital punishment. The answer, they think, seems obvious, since the Mosaic law indicates she should be executed.

But this is where things get sticky.

In Jesus’ day – even in Moses’ day – capital punishment was taken very seriously. There is nothing just about executing an innocent person, so it wasn’t something that was done on a whim. If you couldn’t make out a case against someone for a capital crime, then you didn’t execute them merely on someone’s suspicion.

To accomplish the objective of protecting the innocent, the law of Moses included several procedural safeguards – principles that worked like our modern day codes of evidence and criminal procedure. Two safeguards, in particular, are outlined in Deuteronomy 17:

  1. You can never execute someone based on the testimony of a single witness. There must be at least two witnesses. This helps to protect the innocent from an individual who might make a false accusation because they have some personal axe to grind. In the case of the crime of adultery, this means that two witnesses must actually “catch” a man in the act.
  2. While the entire community is to participate in the execution – by throwing stones at the guilty until they are dead – the first ones to “raise hands” against the guilty should be the witnesses. Again, this prevents a situation where someone can make a wild, questionable accusation, and then stand at a distance while someone else undertakes the messy work of killing. If you’re going to bring someone to court because they have committed a capital crime, then you need to think about what you are about to say – you have to be ready to get your hands bloody.

In both cases, the law is guarding against people who might allow suspicious motives to distort their accusations. We must have two people who are willing to say that they witnessed the crime, and that are sufficiently convinced that it merits death that they themselves will initiate the execution.

It is here – in Deuteronomy 17 – that we find the gap in the law. Even if Jesus agrees that this woman should be executed – there is still the issue of how she should be executed. Without witnesses, there is no one to initiate the execution – no one to cast the first stone.

I don’t think its a coincidence that Jesus steps into this gap, taking up his defense of the woman. When he says “let him without sin cast the first stone,” he may be more generally asking if they have sinned, but it strikes me that he is also asking them: Who among you is certain enough about what happened here to step into the shoes of the ones who supposedly know what happened? Do YOU have pure motives here? Are you willing yourselves to put this woman to death? Are you without sin in making this accusation?

To those who are looking on, the Pharisees now look like fools. Everyone knows they are here to make a point with Jesus, not to decide a law case. Could they truly, in good conscience, pick up stones now and kill her, with no case at all to support her guilt?

In a sense, Jesus is simply calling their bluff in a way that requires them to abandon their case.

In the next/last post on John 8, I’ll finish up with some more general reflections on sexuality, sin, and blame-shifting.

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Image[1] In an earlier post, I mentioned that I was reading The Justice Project, a collection of essays on the subject of justice, published through Emergent Village. In the last chapter of the book, Elisa Padilla, one of the its editors, makes a plea for churches in the emerging culture to be about more than alternative forms of worship (t-shirts instead of suits, guitars instead of organs, etc.). She is worried that emerging communities may just use different wrapping with the same content.

She puts it this way:

…if your gospel is only about yourself, your spirit, your converts, and your words, and in practice your highest loyalty is to your flag (which means you do not mistrust your authorities nor question the news you are fed), you can easily live in peace, accumulate wealth, and call it a blessing from God. In your naiveté and passivity you can support racism, land expropriation, inequality, abuses of power, wars for oil, nuclear build-up, economic exploitation, contamination, and all kinds of injustice, and still remain a good Christian, because your too-small gospel has nothing to say to the issues of your times.

Padilla challenges emerging faith communities to detach the gospel from these kinds of consumer-oriented systems of belief, systems that are offered by many Evangelical church leaders. And while she limits her remarks to communities that are consciously inserting themselves within the emerging culture, I think she has also laid out an important challenge for twenty-first century American churches in general – come to grips with how the gospel has been distorted by Americanized ideals about individualism and economic freedom and start preaching it for what it really is.

Its a very good ending to a very interesting and challenging book. I hope the book makes its way into the libraries of a lot of Christian leaders, both within and outside of the emergent conversation.

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[Note: This is part 1 of a 3 part series on John 8]

Sometimes, when I run into a text where the Mosaic law is in play, I like to stop and put on my lawyer glasses, just to get a feel for the way the legal rules and procedures are organized and structured. Often, I’m surprised to find that they are a lot more sophisticated than what I would expect.

I had one such experience a few weeks ago as I was making my way through John 8. This chapter, you may recall, begins with a story involving the Pharisees’ efforts to pressure Jesus into saying that an adulteress ought not to be executed. It usually comes under the heading of “The Woman Caught in Adultery,” but my lawyerized version of the title is “The Woman Allegedly Caught in Adultery.”

The story begins with this accusation: Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery!

Now, this has my attention right away. One of the first things that I learned in law school was to watch out for accusations in the passive voice. When someone asserts that something just happened, with no direct statement about who did it or how it came about, that person is often trying to conceal something.

this woman was caught

Really? By whom? With whom? When? How? There is no evidence at all, which is kind-of odd when you consider that this statement is being used to justify her execution.

Of course, the entire point of the story is that the Pharisees don’t have any concern for actually following the law here. They are merely using this woman as a part of a ploy to make Jesus look bad. They know that Jesus is going to be sympathetic for her plight, and they think that they are going to trick him into saying that the Mosaic law should be disregarded. However, they are going to have a problem, because – as the story develops – we discover that the Pharisees, too, have sinned, and this will disqualify them from participating in her judgment and execution.

What interested me about this story is the role that the Mosaic law plays in its subtext. As it turns out, the Mosaic law has a lot to say about both adultery and capital punishment, and – if you are familiar with it – it is pretty clear that almost all of it is being ignored by this woman’s accusers.

The Pharisees indicate that, because the woman was “caught” in adultery, the Mosaic law requires her to be executed by stoning. Their reference to the law is from Deuteronomy  22:22, which states that “If a man is caught lying with the wife of another man, both of them shall die…”

Now, if one reads this text very strictly and literally, it indicates three things: (1) the primary perpetrator of the crime of adultery is the man (it is a crime that one man commits against another man by defiling his wife; the woman is more like an accomplice to the act), (2) to be guilty of the crime of adultery, the man must be “caught” (i.e., someone must actually witness the act; circumstantial evidence is not sufficient) and (3) if the man is “caught”,” then both are put to death.

Given these circumstances, the Pharisees could only be correct in their accusation if they could show that a man was “caught” committing adultery with this woman, and even then they must be ready to execute him as well. But that isn’t the accusation. The accusation is the woman was “caught.” Setting aside the conceptual problem of how you could “catch” (i.e., actually witness) one, but not both, participants in a sexual act, this accusation simply doesn’t satisfy the requirements of the law. The man was not “caught,” and Deuteronomy doesn’t impose any penalty for a woman who is “caught.”

I realize that this reading of Deuteronomy 22 may sound a little hypertechnical. However, I think it is consistent with what is going on in the rest of the chapter. Following the verse that imposes the death penalty on men caught in adultery (and their partner/accomplice) is a series of verses that address what happens when men are sexually involved with (a) engaged women and (b) unengaged women. In the case of engaged women, if she has sexual relations with a man while “in the town”, they will both be executed because she did not cry for help. However, if they have sexual relations in the “open country”,” then the man, but not the woman is executed. Why? Because the mere fact that the two had sexual relations is not evidence that she consented. Furthermore, if she is an unengaged virgin, no death penalty is imposed on anyone. The man, however, is required to pay money to the father of the woman and to take her as his wife, and he is prohibited from divorcing her.

The overall intent of these rules seems pretty clear to me. A woman can only be executed if (a) a man has committed a crime by having relations with her and (b) it can be shown that she consented to the act. The woman is never presumed to have consented , and the law protects her – at every turn – from being unfairly executed when, in reality, she was victimized by a predatory male. Most importantly, there is never a situation where the woman, but not the man, ends up being executed because the law properly recognizes that a woman is in a vulnerable position in cases of alleged sexual impropriety.

So…when the Pharisees come along suggesting that the death penalty be imposed on this alleged adulteress, they are in trouble from the start. Without a man, there isn’t even a crime. Furthermore, for the same reason, an impartial judge ought to suspect that she wasn’t really “caught” because – if she was caught – there would be witnesses, and those witnesses could identify the man as well.

Speaking of witnesses (or lack thereof), there is yet another – even bigger – problem lurking in the background here, and I’ll talk about that problem in the second post.

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© 2012 Theoprudence Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha