—

I hope we can agree on the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed of 381 (which is a bit different than the Chalcedonian Creed, which comes later, and more closely approximates the language used in lots of mainline Protestant Churches, Roman Catholics, and the Eastern Orthodox each week. Same theology, though.)

What this doesn’t necessitate, though, is a belief in either the inerrancy of Scripture or a concrete understanding of what the Scriptures are. There’s room for dissent and various opinions here.

Here’s the model that makes the most sense to me:

Scripture is one of two primary sources for understanding God. God ordained and inspired these Scripture through the power of the Holy Spirit, over the course of a millennium. These are works that attempt to describe the human relationship with God (and vice versa), and are tethered in an inextricable way, to the time period that they were written. (Which is why it’s necessary, in order to understand the Scriptures fully, to know the context – including approximate dates – of each book. How will you remotely know what the context of Daniel 7-12 is unless you know a bit about the Babylonian Exile as well as that the authors of the Book of Daniel were writing well AFTER the Babylonian Exile, despite the apocalyptic language referring to that exile as a current event?)

Scripture is also by no means inerrant. For example, the gulf of difference between the point in time when humans were created according to Genesis 1 and then according to Genesis 2 is wide enough to drive the Titanic through. (Quick synopsis: in Genesis 1, humans are created simultaneously – as with all of the other animals – very much after everything else is created; while in Genesis 2, humans are created before all other life, including vegetation.) If we’re taking the Bible literally (in the positive, holistic sense), we are forced to conclude that these Creation accounts (for there are two distinct accounts), are contradictory and we have to wrestle with what that means and what our concept of biblical authority is. There are countless other errors and inconsistencies within Scripture (take the different accounts of the Kingdoms of Israel/Judah found in 1-2 Kings and in 1-2 Chronicles – there’s some distinct editing in Chronicles, and contradictions between the two that are irreconcilable. And not in the way that people argue the Gospels, as “eye-witness accounts” (which they aren’t) vary because different people will tell different sides of the same story depending on their vantage point. There are irrecoverable differences that make inerrancy a foolish claim.

Again, I’m all in favor of “prima Scriptura” – Scripture is primary, but it, like Holy Tradition, is subject to human fallibility – not least in terms of translation errors or bias. It is internally flawed. But what would we expect from a God who makes flawed creatures (or, if you prefer, whose salvation plan is to have the world told of the Gospel of Christ through the vehicle of flawed creatures)? The more I learn about the Bible and the history of the Church, the more comfortable I am becoming with the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Lot, Samson, Elisha (seriously, he calls down she-bears to maul kids for calling him bald – don’t mess with prophets!), Amos, Mary, Peter, and Junia. God calls all sorts of people, and God knows just how messed up they are, yet doesn’t choose to change them – he calls them, in their brokenness, to be instruments of healing in the world (whether by preaching, prophesying, bearing God Himself, or healing in the name of Christ).

Along this line, Scripture never calls itself the primary authority of Christians, Jews, or any other group of faith. It is the history of the Church (and of Judaism) that sees it thusly. We cannot rely on the text itself to tell us that it is important (or even “the Word of God”) – we have to rely on humans to tell us that, who have seen the truth of Scripture and who want to preserve it for others. Humans. Sounds familiar. This is exactly what God does during the Incarnation and then again at Pentecost: entrusts flawed humanity to carry out the missio Dei until the end of time. Scripture, however, does absolutely contain all things necessary to salvation, excluding nothing imperative.

For me (and, for the entirety of Christian history until the Reformation, and then again for the majority of Christians throughout the world), the second primary source for understanding God is the Church. I don’t mean the Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox or the non-denominational (though all of those are included), I mean the Mystical Body of Christ in the World that includes both the visible church and the invisible church (the dead and all the saints who have passed on). We learn about God from other people, for where else do we get to see the image of God? (Nothing else, in all of creation, is like humanity in its image-bearing nature.) This, to me and the majority of Christians around the world, means that the theology and practices of the historical Church are just as important as Scripture. If there weren’t any Scriptures, the Church would be weakened, but it would function. Not so in the reverse. (Indeed, without the Church – and the people whom Jesus came to save and heal – there wouldn’t be any Scriptures. The entire New Testament is written to the Church, for the Church, and by the Church. How could we possibly, in all logical reasoning, assert that the Scriptures are ever independent of the Church, or somehow have an authority that the historic Church does not itself hold? I mean, Jesus didn’t even write the Scriptures himself – why would we ever think that they are more important for faith, morals, and doctrine than the continuity of people who embody the message of Christ throughout history?)

And now to the model itself (borrowed without shame from Richard Hooker):

1. Scripture is primary
2. Scripture, however, can never be viewed objectively, thus it ought to always be viewed through the lens of Holy Tradition (see Roman, Anglican, and Eastern practices), with especial respect and attention to the Church Fathers. People who walked with Jesus (some of the New Testament) and the Early Church (the rest of the NT and the Patristics) hold a higher level of authority because of their proximity in time and space to the living God who walked among us.
3. Neither Scripture nor Tradition can ever be viewed without engaging the human mind. Thus all of Scripture and Tradition is subject to our reason and rationality. This is existential in some way – logically, whenever we think about Scripture, we have to use our minds, and our minds are a lens through which we view the lens of Tradition to best interpret the lens of Scripture by which we come to best understand God.

Scripture is mediated through Tradition which is mediated through human reason, and the three are legs to a stool upon which the entire enterprise of biblical study is based. Taking one away defeats the entire project. (And, it can be argued, was never God’s intention to begin with.)

Now this doesn’t mean that we can use our reason to make the Bible say whatever we want (which is technically possible). Tradition and continuity with historic Christianity is essential. (Thus the high value on Tradition, for without it, we’re all just doing our own thing. Which is very much how I feel about Driscoll and his ilk.)

Back to the crux of the issue.

My problem with the entire theological enterprise of modern Calvinism (of which both Driscoll and Piper are huge proponents) is two-fold : it doesn’t square with Trinitarian theology, and God never fully defeats evil and suffering.

First,

If we take the Nicene, -Constantinopolitan, and Chalcedonian Creeds seriously, we come to a Trinitarian theology that is much deeper than what I, at least, grew up with. Jesus isn’t merely a “mode” of God, but “very God from very God”. There’s all sorts of confusion here, but the most essential piece (especially when speaking to Muslims and Jews) is that God is One. One in Three, yes, but “indivisible”. This is why the creeds say “We believe in one God, the Father… We believe in one God, Jesus Christ… We believe in one God, the Holy Spirit…”. God is one: undivided, incapable of division, inseparable.

Penal Substitutionary Atonement (crucial to Calvinism), however, rests on this premise: God the Father abandoned Jesus on the Cross in order to separate Godself from sin, because God cannot stand it (or something like that). In order for God the Father to punish God the Son for the failures of the human race, God the Father needed to abandon Jesus on the Cross and pour out wrath upon Him. Yet this clearly and irredeemably violates the entire premise of a Triune God! Jesus can never be abandoned (e.g., divided) without separating the Trinity such that it is no longer One God, but three only. It doesn’t work. God cannot abandon God in any ontological sense (though Jesus clearly feels abandoned in Mark’s gospel!).

Second,

Calvinism, this time in the form of  double-predestinationism, necessitates eternal conscious punishment (or at least eternal suffering of some sort, whereby the damned and the Devil will constantly be tormented without end). Regardless of “how” this punishment is lived (whether it’s fire and brimstone or the love of God felt as searing pain to those who refuse to turn to love), the point is that this lasts for eternity. (The entire idea of eternal punishment, though, is completely foreign to Judaism, and is plucked out of [mostly] parables in the synoptic Gospels and the apocalyptic language of St. John’s Revelation. It’s really on shaky theological ground as is.) Punishment (let’s say, suffering) for eternity. That’s part and parcel of this theology, right?

Well, if so, it completely destroys the idea that God will ever win. That love and justice and goodness and life will ever completely obliterate evil. Evil will always exist (for it’s always being punished), and the promises of God to wipe away every tear and to restore the world to it’s proper order are all nullified. If there are people tormented in Hell (again, whether God-inflicted or self-inflicted), then God doesn’t defeat the Devil. In fact, even if there are no humans in Hell, God still doesn’t win, for the Devil and his minions are roasting for eternity and evil, though incapable of interacting with those in “heaven” (and we can argue what that means as well…), still exist, and, by their existence, prove God false.

So, we’re left with either annihilationism or Christian universalism.

You can guess which one I prefer…

–

The more I read and reflect, the more I recognize the implicit failure of much of what I grew up with and find a need to alter it. Which, interestingly, means moving more towards a catholic (small-“c”, I haven’t converted) and Orthodox (big-“O”, since I do mean our brothers and sisters in the East) theology. The more I reflect, the more I understand that the entire enterprise of theology is to know and understand God, and to bring us into faithful, loving, and right relationship with God.

So what is the goal?

The goal of human life, as espoused by the Westminster (Shorter) Catechism (which most Calvinists subscribe to) is insufficient: “Man’s chief end is to glorify God and love Him forever.” Even John Piper’s alteration (“by” instead of “and”) is shallow. (What does this even mean? Isn’t God glorified here on earth? What’s the purpose of eternity, then?)

The goal, for me (and for our Eastern Orthodox brethren) is theosis: sharing in the energies of God. This isn’t completed on this earth, but this is the goal towards which we strive on earth. We don’t strive to glorify God or to love God, we strive, by trusting in the free gift of grace (wherein God justifies us) and by living a holy life (which includes glorifying and loving God; lively faith which produces the good works that St. James reminds us are important signs of such faith), ever pursuing sanctification. Frequent confession (either in private or public, but always with someone else – for our benefit!), receiving the sacraments, following a particular “rule of life” that helps you focus more on God and less on you – all of these things are truly means of receiving God’s grace (not of producing it, which was ever the issue that Luther and Calvin had with this language in the 16th century). Living well, with one’s eye towards full union with God in the Eschaton, is the proper practice of Christian living.

Definitely. Tevye (Fiddler on the Roof) reminds his audience that tradition is the basis for religious observance. It is what keeps an exiled people sane, and it offers meaning to various aspects of human life – from eating and working to clothing and behavior. From a conservative perspective (which a character like Tevye exemplifies), tradition is the basis for all action. One must be in accordance with tradition or risk upsetting society’s delicate balance. From a progressive perspective, tradition is a necessary starting point for any deviation (corrective or otherwise) from what has “always been”.

Holy Tradition?

Absolutely. To those for whom it matters, several Books of the New Testament refer precisely to a tradition (albeit with varying degrees of approval: Matthew 15:2-6, Mark 7:3-13, 1 Corinthians 11:2, Galatians 1:14, Colossians 2:8, and 2 Thessalonians 2:15-3:6). Whether these traditions are holy or man-made depends, I think, on which passage is the referent.

Holy Apostolic Tradition?

If one is especially Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, or Anglican, one might affirm the importance of the Tradition of the Apostles. And since it’s mentioned in the New Testament (1 Corinthians 11:2 and 2 Thessalonians 2:15-3:6 are the usual references), other Protestants might join in that affirmation as well.

Holy Satiric Tradition?

Wait, what?

This morning, in lieu of attending an early Mass, I perused the blogosphere as I normally do, and came across James McGrath’s recent post reviewing Holger Michael Zellentin’s Rabbinic Parodies of Jewish & Christian Literature. Zellentin’s book, which I requisitioned from Yale’s library system after McGrath’s post, seems to catalog, to some extent, the existence of inter-, intra-, and extra-rabbinic parody within the rabbinic world. Rabbis critiquing one another as well as those outside of their faith tradition by making fun of them in creative ways? Excellent.

I am someone who highly values constructive and critical humor. Poking fun at one’s opponent in a high-brow way wins lots of creativity points with me. Coming out of a Christianity that, among other things, concerned itself with propriety, it is (or was) easy to be self-conscious about hurting someone’s feelings with wit. Somehow or another, I received the message that humor and faith, while able to coexist with one another, are somehow antithetical. God doesn’t make fun of people, right? Therefore, godly people shouldn’t make fun of people. End of story. (Personally, I’ve been told on more than one occasion, via Facebook or some other social network, that criticizing “prominent” religious figures is somehow “dividing the body of Christ” and ought to be avoided. I wonder if those individuals have actually read Matthew 23?)

In coming to a deeper understanding of both the Bible and the history of Christianity (an Ivy League education has to be good for something, right?), I’ve come to realize that the initial premise of that argument (e.g., “God does not make fun of people”) is not quite as sound as it seems. And Jesus is not the only figure in the Bible to engage in public criticism of the religious elite. For example, I wrote a paper last semester on the variety of parody within the Book of Jonah. The basic idea is that the literary figure of Jonah parodies not only other biblical prophets (especially Isaiah) in word and deed, but also the Deuteronomistic theology found in the Pentateuch and Deuteronomistic History (Joshua through 2 Kings). An example of the former would be Jonah’s response to The Prophetic Call: in the first chapter, Jonah runs as far and as fast away from God as possible, which contrasts with the typical prophetic response of obedience or worship.

Suffice it to say, McGrath’s post helped me think about not only the biblical warrant for satiric humor within Christianity, but also the tradition of satire within the history of the Church. (Well, within the rabbinic world, at any rate.) I expect, without even looking very hard, it might be easy to come up with some Patristic examples of satire. (My bet is on Origen since he was, by the third century, already flabbergasted at those who advocated a “literal” reading of Genesis 1.)^[1]

I submit that a more refined case can and ought to be made for a theology surrounding the existence (and necessity) of Holy Satiric Tradition. The Church, considering just the tensions within my own denomination, would benefit from the self-reflection and laughter that naturally ensues from intelligent comedy.

Perhaps we can commission some cartoons from The Naked Pastor to help.

Or whomever created this video:

–

^[1]Origen, De Principiis, 4.1.6

The author of the article, a graduate from Dallas Theological seminary named C Michael Patton, sets about trying to solve his dilemma by making rhetorical arguments about the biblical canon. He dismisses the idea that Christians have a “fallible canon of infallible books” (or that Protestants have “a fallible interpretation of a fallible canon of infallible books”) by engaging in a tangential epistemological exercise that can be summarized as follows: “The existence of possibility does not necessitate the existence of probability.” In other words, just because Protestants might not have a complete canon (or might have a fallible interpretation of the texts within the canon) does not mean that it is likely they do not. If you’re uncertain as to how that pertains to the original argument against sola scriptura, you’re not alone.

Then the author goes on to suggest that the original argument supports what he calls the “Dual-Source Theory” of divine authority and tries to disprove that logically. I think he does a decent job of this, though his “Dual-Source Theory” does not seem to be the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church or any other ecclesial body that rejects sola scriptura – he seems to have created a false theology of authority and then reasonably deconstructed that.

There are several issues with this article, but I will focus on two. First, Patton divorces the Bible from its roots within the Christian Church, which creates a circular argument in favor of sola scriptura. Second, he assumes infallibility of the Scriptures, which has been disproven within, at least, the last two centuries (if by “infallibility” one includes “historical accuracy”). While this last issue does not argue against sola scriptura per se, those who subscribe to the theological claim that the Bible is the only divine authority tend to believe that God is a literalist and must therefore always “speak” timeless truth.

If we take, say, the New Testament as historically accurate (just for argument’s sake) we are confronted with an idea that the texts were created within and for Christian communities, as the introductions and salutations at the beginning of most of the epistles and at least St. Luke’s gospel evidence. Because the writings within the New Testament were penned for previously established communities that had already converted to Christianity, those communities (or, what St. Paul calls, “the Church”) must have existed prior to the creation of New Testament texts themselves. This suggests that the early Church (e.g., the communities of Christians across the Roman world) was responsible for the creation of the writings that make up the New Testament. In other words, the New Testament itself shows that the New Testament is a product of previously established communities that one of its major authors refers to as “the Church.”

If the New Testament is a product of “the Church,” it (theo)logically follows that it is the Church that was given authority by God to create the New Testament. This idea is further supported by exegetical analysis of the gospels where we would find that Jesus did not write down his thoughts or words, Jesus gave authority to “bind and loose” to the apostles (people, not texts), and commanded the apostles to “go and make disciples of all nations” without referring to the creation of a set of texts. People, it seems, were the focus not only of Jesus’ divine-human life on Earth, but also of the work of the God, the Missio Dei. Jesus gave authority to people in order to tell other people about him (a person). Nowhere does text or writing or other authority beside Jesus (and the Father and the Holy Spirit) get a mention. This seems to severely impede any suggestion about the sole authority for the Church (or for Christians in general) resting with the texts that were written afterwards.

Certainly the texts would then be references for apostolic witness to the faith and when arguments about doctrine arise (since they have at least the supposed authorship of those apostles who were physically given authority), but they logically cannot be the only source of that authority, since divine authority was given to people who then gave it to other people (see 1 Thessalonians 2:15). The author of 1 Timothy also makes it clear that “the household of God, which is the Church of the living God, [is] the pillar and bulwark of the truth” (1 Timothy 3:15). Over and against all comers, it is the people of God, not their writings, that incarnate truth to the world. How can sola scriptura stand up to that?²

In addition to his failure to address the arguments for the authority of the Church above (or at least alongside) the Scriptures, Patton assumes the infallibility of the entirety of the Bible. Infallibility, has, of late, become something of an issue for Protestants. Since the last two centuries, it has become overwhelmingly clear to many that there are historical inaccuracies within the text. Many scholars heavily question the veracity of the Invasion of Canaan found in the Book of Joshua, and others have come to similar conclusions about the existence of King David or the accuracy of the Exodus story. Even more compelling, though, are the intertextual inaccuracies and contradictions within the texts themselves.

Because there are a plethora of these examples (and because it would be easier to simply point people towards the incredibly well-researched and enjoyable book by John J. Collins, “An Introduction to the Hebrew Bible”), I’ll use this single one from the Old Testament to show a contradiction within the Bible’s first few pages:

In Genesis 1, God creates the world in a very orderly fashion. Day 1: light and darkness; Day 2: the firmament/sky (a physical separation of previously existing waters); Day 3: land (separated from previously existing waters), vegetation; Day 4: the cosmos; Day 5: living creatures in the waters and the skies; Day 6: living creatures on the ground, with humans as the last creature; the pinnacle of Creation. Aside from issues with evolutionary theory, there exist issues with the order of Creation: light does not come before the Sun, there is no “firmament,” water cannot exist without space for it to be, and earth cannot exist without the Sun. Bet let us put these aside as well, and turn to the next chapter.

In Genesis 2:4-7, we learn that before vegetation and before water, humans were created.

In the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens, when no plant of the field was yet in the earth and no herb of the field had yet sprung up—for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was no one to till the ground; but a stream would rise from the earth, and water the whole face of the ground— then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being.

Within this short set of verses, the entire narrative of the previous chapter is undone. Humans are the first of all of Creation, not the last, and there was apparently no vegetation or waters from the skies yet in existence.

How do we explain this contradiction? I’d strongly recommend reading Collins’ book, but if that’s not an option, please refer to the Wikipedia article on the Documentary Hypothesis, which is currently the best scholarly explanation for such textual inaccuracies. One does not need to reject faith in order to accept this theory: I’ve found that it has actually increased my faith and given me a new perspective on a God who is always available to his people in their particular environment, and relates to them through their socio-historical location (e.g., Genesis relates closely, but differs greatly, from other ancient Near Eastern creation myths. The Israelites were a part of a region that told stories that about Creation that involved floods or separation of waters, but God allowed the Israelites to understand such myths through a lens of monotheism.)

Again, this does not necessarily refute sola scriptura, but it does make any claim for biblical “infallibility” a little less intellectually honest.

—
¹ For instance, “prima” scriptura suggests that the Bible is the primary or most authoritative source of Christian teaching and doctrine, but allows for reason and tradition to have a place at the table.

² The disagreements about the authority of the Scriptures can devolve into a “chicken or the egg?” game, with some claiming that, in order to use the Scriptures to show the Church’s prior authority, you need to affirm their superiority. I’m not entirely sure why the illogicality of such an argument isn’t clear (one doesn’t need to affirm superiority, or even accuracy, of a text in order to take it at face value), but invariably that sort of response will be made.

There are, I think, three reasons that conservative tendencies exist in a general sense. Some people believe that whatever system currently in place is better than anything else. Whether it is in terms of government, religious belief, education practice, or anything else, the “conservative” position on something is usually the one that says “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Others may see a need for fixing, but it is a regressive sort of repair, typified by an attitude of nostalgia. This is normally evidenced by a belief that things have been on entropic decline since “back then” when everything was “better.” Finally, conservative tendencies, can be centered on uncertainty and fear, since the reliance upon tradition (or even simply “the way things are”) as the only determinative factor for what can and should be done is often an intense aversion to the “other.” There exists a latent fear about what might happen if anything were to be altered – the status quo is to be maintained at all costs because who knows what might happen if things were to change?

In terms of politics, these reasons are clearly the calling card for the conservative Republican Party, which makes sense. I would suggest that a majority of political conservatives tend to side with nostalgia for “a better time” that existed at some point in the past. Whether that be the 1950s or the 1770s, many people in America truly believe that the country was on course and has somehow slipped the rail and must get back on track. This seems to encompass both those individuals who long for “pleasant” life of post-World War II America as well as those who would consider themselves “strict Constitutionalists” regarding their belief in the sacredness of the U.S. Constitution and a literal interpretation of it’s every word. A belief in the acceptability of the country’s status quo for its own sake is probably a minor slice of conservatives, but for the sake of a fear of alternatives or of making wrong decisions is a much larger demographic (as evidenced by the existence of celebrities like Glenn Beck who tout a fear-based political agenda complete with conspiracy theories and an odd tendency to label liberals as “communist,” “socialist” and “fascist” in the same sentence).

All of this makes logical and even psychological sense: satisfaction, nostalgia and fear seem to be the reasons that people would want things to remain the way they are, or want them to revert back to a mythical “Golden Age.” What doesn’t make sense, though, is how religious conviction and morality are tied up with these perspectives.

Christians, according to Jesus, are to concern themselves with the things of the Kingdom of God, and render to the authorities what belongs to them, and no more. Jesus allowed Himself to be crucified under a Roman regime and religious elite that feared a violent insurrection. Jesus often critiqued power because of its blindness towards the needy and downtrodden, and He called others to follow his cruciform way of living that puts the “other” before the self. To ever be comfortable with the status quo seems a rather un-Christ-like perspective, especially when the status quo of the United States government is involved with war, and, as made apparent by the recent WikiLeaks “Cablegate scandal,” involved with financing private security firms that recruit via child prostitution. Fear, according to St. James, is cast out by love and has no place in Christian life. Christian theology and morality has, from the beginning, been in direct tension with power and the status quo: Justin Martyr in the second century wrote to the emperor in defense of Christians against attacks of heresy, atheism, cannibalism, and a host of other immoral practices; Ignatius of Antioch wrote that he hoped he would have the strength to be martyred by the Roman authorities, for that was the place where faith was put into action; Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated for doing the sort of advocacy for the oppressed that Christians were known for. All of the conservative reasons for adherence to a particular form of democracy seem to be in stark contrast with both the teachings and actions of Jesus Christ and the history of Christianity.

So why is it that Christians line up behind conservative politicians? How did pulling oneself up by the bootsraps become something that those who are “saved by grace” were ever in favor of? Perhaps the better question is how did liberal politicians fail to win Christians to their critique of the free market, consumerism, and federal legislation that understands a corporation as a “person” under the eyes of the law? If the fundamental goal of conservative politics is to keep restrictions away from the market and allow capitalism to do its work, how did the liberal critique of the self-centered, Machiavellian enterprise of “profit at all costs” fail to win those who are supposed to be concerned with justice, mercy, and the typical Christian ethos?

http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:368914

[I]f this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn’t help the poor, either we’ve got to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are or we’ve got to acknowledge that he commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition, and then admit that we just don’t want to do it.

-Stephen Colbert

His best quote, which I think reflects the heart of the interview with Matt Lauer, was given while ruminating on his response to Hurricane Katrina. Specifically, while discussing a photograph depicting the President looking out of the window at Air Force One that gave the impression to many of disconnectedness with the situation on the ground, the weary Bush said simply:

“It’s always my fault.”

May we all have this humility as we reflect on the decisions that we make.

Cleansed and scorched,
I hear the question voiced
And answer “Here I am!”
(Thinking, “What did I sign up for?”)

[Isaiah 6]

So far, forty pages in to this 191-page book, I’m learning much about some of the earliest, non-apostolic theologians (Ignatius of Antioch and Iraeneus of Lyons) and a vision of salvation that, to me, makes much more sense than the typical, Protestant proclamation.

Here is +Rowan on Iraneus’ view of salvation (over and against the Gnostic view):

[F]or Iraneus there is no interest or value in “saving information” divorced from the human experience of the Savior. To make salvation a matter of “saving truths” is to yield the pass to the Gnostic, sidestepping entirely the process of healing and integrating the whole of the human person.” (The Wound of Knowledge, p. 40)

And again, further extrapolating the significane of Iraneus’ insistance that, in Jesus, God is fully expressed:

[S]aving knowledge of God is a relationship initiated by God’s free decision to love, to delight in, his creation… It is not a vision of majesty or transcendence for us to admire from a distance; it is the encounter of God with the world… The Gnostic error is to assume that such a detached and impersonal knowledge is healing and reconciling when it is not even possible.  We have seen the incomprehensible Father only in the Son, in a compassion which heals, renews and enlarges our hearts, teaching us that our mortal existence can be transfigured to the likeness of Christ who is the likeness of the unseen Father. ‘For when the Word of God was made flesh, he established both these things: he showed us the true image [of God in humanity] by himself becoming what was in fact his own image; and he established and restored the likeness [of humanity to God] by making humanity resemble the invisible Father by means of [his action as] the visible Word.” (The Wound of Knowledge, p. 38)

+Rowan’s commentary, and Iraneus’ own thoughts, completely subvert the idea that belief is an intellectual exercise, or that saving, biblical faith is merely an agreement that “Jesus is Savior”. There is much more involved as we look on Christ not only as God in the flesh, but has a human – showing us the way to be fully human and thus, once again correctly bear the image of God in the world.

If anyone didn’t quite get Pullman’s message from his incredibly well-written and best-selling trilogy, they should have little trouble gleaning the message from his new book, The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ. Christians are already aghast that this atheist would attempt to retell the Gospel story, and are decrying it like we tend to do with anything we’re unfamiliar with that happens to question our closely-held beliefs and what we know to be the truth. Apparently the words on the dust jacket insert, in huge, bold font, didn’t make it through: “THIS IS A STORY”. Pullman is not, as Dan Brown attempted in his The DaVinci Code, pretending that his story is a factual, historical account of Jesus’ life and death. It’s a story.

Pullman writes in a similar style to the Gospel authors (I think of Matthew and Luke in particular as Mark, though my favorite, has an urgency that’s not found in Pullman’s narrator, while John’s writing attempts to prove that Jesus is indeed God in the flesh, using phrasing and theological assertions that differ from the synoptic authors). The point is to mimic the source texts as close as possible, telling the story plainly (as the Gospel authors did).

Pullman’s fictional account centers around the dual nature of the names “Jesus” and “Christ”, noting (we assume, for there’s no introduction or forward to discuss Pullman’s own reflections on the texts he questions – though he does speak to some reasoning behind the writing and subsequent publication of this book in various places) differences in reverence and content when apostles and Gospel authors use each term. He posits that Jesus and Christ were two separate individuals (twins, in fact).

This is where the fun, for me, began and where, I suggest, Christians ought to pay attention (and, perhaps, thank Pullman for bringing to the average thinker, some issues we should tackle).

The major difference between Jesus and Christ is how they view the Kingdom of God. Upon reaching adulthood, both men believe in God and understand that He has a Kingdom that’s coming; their visions of what that looks like and how it might appear, however, are drastically different. This tension is first seen in the Temptation chapter (p. 37-45), and it’s here that we get the first glimpse of just how evil Pullman suggests the Church is. The following interaction comes shortly after Jesus rebukes his brother three times for tempting him:

‘God loves us like a father, and his Kingdom is coming soon.’

Christ came a little closer.

‘But that’s exactly what we can demonstrate with miracles,’ he said. ‘And the Kingdom is a test for us, I’m sure: we must help to bring it about. Of course, God could lift a finger and it would happen at once. But think how much better it would be if the way were prepared by men like the Baptist, men like you – think of the advantages if there were a body of believers, a structure, an organisation already in place… Won’t you join me in this? Won’t you be a part of this most wonderful work and help bring the Kingdom of God to earth?’ …

‘You phantom… What you describe sounds like the work of Satan. God will bring about his Kingdom in his own way, and when he chooses. Do you think your mighty organisation would even recognise the Kingdom if it arrived?…’ (p. 42-44)

Christ (and the institution of the Church), for Pullman, is akin to Satan – it’s a distortion of the message of Jesus that consisted of love, grace, forgiveness and care for the weak. It is through the introduction of rules, doctrine, and hierarchy (in fact, through the introduction of humans into the Kingdom itself) that everything goes awry and falls away from the lofty philosophy and theology of Jesus that asks us to be better, perfect humans.

Pullman is also quite careful to give broken and human qualities to both Jesus and Christ, making the point that no one born of a human mother is without sin, not even the great philosophers and theologians who others, in his view, have made out to be divine: Jesus, as a young boy, is a rambunctious liar who does indeed sin, like any male child would; Christ, though perfect as a child, winds up as the Judas character, betraying his brother in order to create the Church. Additionally, he puts quotations around the “miracles” that Jesus performs, suggesting that simple teachings (e.g. sharing) are elevated to miracle (e.g. the feeding of the five thousand) by Christ’s revisionism as he writes down his brother’s sermons and edits them, under the gentle guidance of an unnamed Stranger (whom we are to understand is either Satan or human nature), into a history of healings, miracles and the Resurrection in order to establish the Church.

As I previously mentioned, it’s precisely in this tension between the words, actions and directives of Jesus and the rules, regulations and punishments meted out by the Church that Pullman’s story has a fierce importance for the postmodern Church. We, as Christians, must be willing to admit to this tension and do the necessary theological and philosophical work to answer these accusations. What is the relationship between the texts of Scripture and the reality of the world we know? Are we to believe the miracles? Why indeed does the Church seem to look like what Jesus decried in his criticism of the Pharisees and Sadducees? How far from Jesus is the Church? Is there a way to reconcile Jesus with the Church any longer? What, indeed, IS the Church?

Pullman, I suggest, does us a favor that few other Christians may perceive, and no other author (through the medium of speculative fiction) does as eloquently and poignantly: he asks us to consider our beliefs – to test them in the fires of reason and science – to see if they hold up.

How extraordinarily stupid it is to defend Christianity, how little knowledge of humanity it betrays, how it connives if only unconsciously with offence by making Christianity out to be some miserable object that in the end must be rescued by a defence. It is therefore certain and true that the person who first thought of defending Christianity is de facto a Judas No. 2; he too betrays with a kiss, except his treason is that of stupidity. To defend something is always to discredit it.”

- Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death (Penguin Classics, 1849), 118

It might come to no surprise to anyone who’s read my other post (and the subsequent comments) on apologetics in relation to orthopraxy that I am fascinated by this quote. Kierkegaard is something of a hero of mine, and though I’ve not read nearly enough of his work (only “Training in Christianity” at the time of this post), his logic intrigues me and his passion for reforming the Church, which ended up killing him, I liken to that of St. Paul and Martin Luther.

Needless to say, but I’ll be picking up some other Kierkegaard works very soon (if one or two are not on the syllabi for whatever Fall classes I register for).

(HT A.J. Smith)