Preparing for the Bridegroom

November 9, 2008

Matthew 25: 1 – 13

This parable from Jesus might strike us differently today than it did a year ago. After going through a summer of spiking oil prices, we know what it's like to be concerned about how much oil we have. In fact, the word “oil” might sound as important for us today as it did for those virgins in the parable. For us, oil has become a symbol of national security. Much of our day-to-day life, not to mention our armed forces, depend on oil. We need oil to ship goods and transport food. We need oil to travel and we need it to heat our homes and businesses. We need oil to fuel and grease the engine of our economy. (Though even with falling oil prices the engine of our economy is still sputtering—its due for the mechanic in one way or another.)

But I think whether we are concerned with the price of fuel or the price of natural gas, oil matters for us. It matters because we need it, and it matters because we will one day run out of it. Oil matters because our lives currently operate with it, and because we have to think seriously about life without it. Oil is central to our story in the 21st century.

And oil was central for the ten virgins. Oil mattered because five of them had some oil to burn when the bridegroom approached, and five of them did not. Oil mattered because it showed which five were wise and which five were foolish. And from this story where oil mattered so much, Jesus says we can know what the Kingdom of Heaven is like. Oil is central to the story of the Kingdom of Heaven.

But the oil in this parable is not petroleum. The oil in this parable is not a natural resource. The oil in this parable has its own story. We have entered the world of the parable, and in a parable, words and objects overflow with meaning. As they overflow with meaning they ask us to look and see in new ways.

So then I invite you to look with me and discover what this parable might show us about the Kingdom of Heaven.

Ten virgins go to meet the bridegroom. Who is this bridegroom? From the parable and the larger context of Matthew's gospel we might already suspect Jesus as the bridegroom. Some of the virgins address him “Sir, Sir” or, more accurately, “Lord, Lord,” a title used for Jesus. The Bridegroom then speaks saying “I tell you the truth,” a way of speaking Jesus uses when he teaches.

But this isn't simply Jesus as he lives and moves before his death. No, the bridegroom represents a different Jesus, the eschatological advent of Jesus.

I recently challenged Kory to a test of “-ologies.” Between our offices is a marker board where I wrote seven different words ending in “-ology” to see if he could figure out what they meant. They are mostly obscure academic terms. And to be honest, I have to look every one of them up the first time I see them. But Kory is a pretty smart guy (or at least he thinks so) and he quickly figured most of them out. One of those obscure “-ology” words was eschatology. The eschaton, a Greek word, simply refers to the end times, last days, or final age.

The Bridegroom is the eschatological advent of Jesus—the Christ who comes at the end of the age. This sets up how we understand the virgins: They represent the church waiting for and eager to welcome the returning Christ. They are the collection of followers who eagerly await the advent of Jesus at the end of the age. On the surface, these ten virgins would all have worn the same wedding clothing. They all brought lamps with oil, and they all got drowsy and fell asleep waiting for the bridegroom, Jesus. What distinguishes the wise from the foolish is the preparation of having extra oil. This is the crucial difference; it is not falling asleep, for even the wise ones did that. Everyone gets tired, everyone falls asleep as time drags on and the hours move by.

What matters is having oil, at all times, to keep the light shining until the bridegroom comes. The light can only be sustained by “having oil.” And the foolish virgins ran out of oil. So what did they do? They panic! Of course they panic, they are anxiously awaiting the coming of the bridegroom and they were not adequately prepared. So, they did what many students would do who don't bring their homework to class: “hey, can I borrow your homework for a second?”

But “having oil” is not something that can be borrowed. Sure, physical oil can be borrowed, which is why the wise virgins seem kind of selfish at first. Every time I read this I can't help but think these wise virgins are also “jerk virgins.” But the oil that is necessary to light the lamp of anticipation for Jesus' coming is not physical oil, and it can't possibly be borrowed. No, “having oil” means doing the work of God, faithful discipleship in mercy and love—we can't borrow this.
In another section of Matthew, Jesus tells of the people who get separated like sheep and goats by the king. Jesus says,

“Then the King will say to those at his right hand, 'Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me” (Matthew 25: 34-36).

That is what it means to “have oil,” that is faithful obedience, that is preparation for the end of the age. Oil lights up the mission of the church that awaits the coming of Jesus, the bridegroom who brings with him the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven. But the foolish virgins didn't have any more oil, they were not prepared.

Now, an easy and common mistake is to search out and pinpoint the foolish virgins of today. The first place we might want to look is outside the church—that's where the foolish are, right? They are the non-believers, the non-Christians, the non-insiders... no, this message isn't for them—it is for us. The foolish virgins represent members of the church itself—this is not a message for those outside our walls, but a parable aimed for those inside the walls. This parable is for you and for me and the church which lives in this community. This parable is for those who eagerly await the coming of Christ and the fulfillment of the Kingdom of Heaven.

But to be honest, I often feel more foolish than wise. I feel like I don't have much oil, and that the little I do have is quickly burning out. I feel as though my light is getting dimmer and dimmer, no matter how much I wait in anticipation. My anxiety mounts like the foolish and my light weakens like their lamps.

There are days when I am not sure if I have any fuel left...when my lamps seem to have run dry... I have nothing left to give, nothing more to say. I have little time for myself, let alone for the work of caring for God's children who are hungry, hurting, and homeless.

But like the wise, we can have with us another source of oil. The wise know that they will always need more oil, because the hour is unknown, and the day of the bridegroom's arrival is a mystery. They must prepare for the unexpected, for the possibility of the midnight hour. And they know where to find an ever-lasting source of oil to carry with them: God's Grace.
You see, what sustains our lamps is oil, but we can never produce or have enough. We will inevitably run dry. So we need to dip into that bottomless source of fuel that is God's Grace.

When we are tired and worn, torn down and discouraged, disappointed and despairing, our oil reserves all but shrivel up. When we lose our jobs, when we fail our tests, when we argue with our spouse, when an injury or illness overtakes us, when we fail to serve, when our love lapses and our fears flare, when everything falls in around us... it is then we know full well that our own oil cannot sustain our lamps. But we need not go running into the city to look for oil at a hopeless hour. We have another flask available to us, the Grace of God, the promise of Hope, the Love found in Christ. We have more oil with us, oil that doesn't run dry; we have God's Grace!

I invite you this morning to consider your life, like this story, to be about oil. But not the oil of this world, even as it demands our attention. Though we need to prayerfully consider our stewardship of God's creation and the resources we share, it is not this world's oil that truly sustains us. No, the oil of this world will one day dry up and leave us scrambling for other sources of energy and fuel. And this is precisely what happens to us as well, seemingly every week, as we rely on our own oil to sustain the light of the church. Though it might burn well for a time, it eventually burns out.

I want to suggest this morning that our lives need to be about oil, the oil that feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, cares for the hurting, visits the lonely, takes compassion on the criminal, and shows love to all. But for that to be the mark of our lives, we must carry with us extra fuel, the fuel that will keep our lamps burning bring as we await the completion of the Kingdom of Heaven. And though we may be depleted and running low we have a source of ever-lasting replenishment.

As a Disciple, I trust in the replenishing and renewing power of the table. As Disciples, we can return each week to worship and meet God, but we also have the opportunity to come each week to the table, our source of nourishment. Before the table we remember our Savior and we rediscover the Grace of God, our unending source of oil. Through these elements we can be renewed, we can be refilled. For we approach the table in Faith... to partake of Love... the Love made real to us in Christ... which gives us Hope—our lamps are refueled, our lights can burn brightly again.

The table fills us with Christ so we can wait in preparation for the Kingdom of Heaven. We come to be filled, to leave refilled, and then to burn brightly as servants of God's Mercy—caring and giving, loving and sharing... thanks to the ever-lasting oil of God's Grace. Long after our petroleum reserves have been sucked dry, living with “oil” will always matter for us. For we await our bridegroom.

Amen.

Full of Self-Emptying

October 5, 2008
Philippians 2:1-13

I love to sing. And I will sing anything. In fact, one day while I was working at a camp in southern Indiana I decided that life should be an opera, and that I would sing my way through the rest of the work day. Most campers looked shock when I gave them canoing instructions in song, some did find it amusing, but whatever else the kids might have thought, I felt it livened things up... and I got enough chuckles to keep me going. I realized quickly, however, that it takes a lot to sing your way through everything—like, for instance, excusing yourself for the restroom. Opera and toilets are a tough combo.

I am also guilty of interjecting song lyrics, either in song, “That's just the way it is,” or as awkward prose, “It's the end of the world as we know it, I feel fine.” Maybe some of you find yourselves singing in the car or in the shower, or both. Sometimes I find myself singing great hymns like “Amazing Grace,” and other times I belt out lyrics from an N*Sync song that I still remember from middle school.

No matter how good I am, no matter how musically savvy I may or may not be, the truth is, despite it all, and sometimes against better judgment, I sing. I love to sing. There is something about song that speaks to me, and I think song can express what words alone can not.
Sometimes the words or music are not what stir inside me, but the context from which the song arises. For instance, the hymn “It Is Well With My Soul” is a poetically powerful piece that awakens me to God's goodness despite trouble, difficulty, and the downright evil experienced in life. But the way this hymn came to be, the context which gave rise to the words and insights of this song transform my experience of singing it altogether.

The words were penned by a Chicago Presbyterian lawyer named Horatio Spafford. Having already experienced his son's death, his family was virtually ruined financially by the Chicago fire of 1871. Then, two years later, he sent his four daughters and wife to Europe for health reasons, hoping to join them after completing some urgent business. Before leaving to meet his family, he received a message from his wife reading “saved alone.” He soon learned that the ship carrying his family had been struck by an English vessel and his four daughters had drowned.

In December of 1873, while traveling across the Atlantic to meet his wife so they might grieve together, the ship's captain pointed out to Horatio Spafford where his children had drowned. In that very place, shattered by great loss, Horatio Spafford wrote the lyrics of this great hymn, in which we sing, “When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.”1

As far back as I can remember, songs and hymns were always a part of Sunday worship. And as I've worshiped in different congregations and in different religious traditions, I've discovered that songs and hymns often give a tradition its distinctive flavor.

This morning, in our reading from Philippians, we may have unwittingly glimpsed into the early Christian church through an ancient hymn. In verses 6-11 of Philippians 2 there is a poetic, rhythmic quality to Paul's words that caused one scholar, many years ago to hypothesize that these verses pre-existed Paul's letter as a kind of hymn or creed.2 Since then scholarship has mostly affirmed his thesis; and we can see this ourselves by noticing that the translators of our NIV pew bible set apart and structured those verses like poetry. We may have before us a hymn or creed of one of the earliest Christian communities.

This hymn is so fascinating because, on the one hand, it is a door for us to enter into the worship and liturgy of the pre-New Testament church; to see what it is they might have sung or recited, to hear their witness and their story. But, on the other hand, the hymn is also so fascinating because it's contents have been a source for historical debate regarding Jesus as Christ. Trinitarian discussions about whether Christ was one substance, a similar substance, or a different substance from God—all of which is very confusing even to the sharpest minds—generated immense controversy. Our passage in Philippians offered some of the fodder for that debate. The controversies and debates led to the great councils which issued some very important creedal statements in Christian history—like the Nicene Creed, for example.3

But let us ask ourselves, what might we find buried in this hymn? Why does Paul recite these words?

I want to suggest several things for us to think about this morning. First, the hymn points us toward a way of seeing God through Christ. Second, and because of seeing God through Christ, Paul uses the hymn to reinforce how he thinks Christians ought to live. Finally, I want to suggest that understanding God through Christ in this hymn offers us a distinctive way of living and being which both heals our souls and changes our goals.

So let us return to the hymn. What might we uncover there? We discover, very quickly I think, a Christ who does not exploit power and status, but who seeks humility. Christ embodies humility, all the way to the cross. In a world concerned with power, status, and standing, this is a challenging message. And, unfortunately, our human concerns with power, status, and standing often creep into our theology, in both welcomed and undetected forms.

I've learned from the Lutherans two categories through which we might classify theology.4 We might talk about theology in terms of Theologia Crucis and Theologia Gloriae, or a Theology of the Cross and a Theology of Glory. I've heard many sermons and heard many conversations espousing a Theology of Glory: a theology which trumpets the power and might of God seen especially in the triumphal resurrection. Often, we hear of a God of ultimate control and unimaginable majesty, of unsurpassed strength and complete dominance. This is a God deserving our praise, a God glorified and lifted up. A God very much above and beyond this world, though cosmically in control of it.

But such a theology, I believe, should not stand on its own, lest we forget what it is that hangs in our sanctuaries and reaches above our church rooftops; not a thrown, but a cross. A theologia gloriae that forgets the cross is, I think, a dangerous theology. And theologies of glory that stand alone can easily be formed to fit agendas of imperialistic strength and economic exploitation. In serving a God seen as ultimately and unboundedly powerful, God is allowed to be identified with those who are the most powerful in this world—power identifies with power. This becomes the breeding ground for the strong and privileged to leverage a theological weight in their pursuit of glory—human glory is identified with God's Glory.

Our ancient hymn this morning transforms what we know God's “Glory” to be, and reorients us as a result. Most importantly, our hymn reminds us of the God we know through Jesus Christ—one who died on a cross. For Christ did not consider the status of God something to be sought after or “exploited” (verse 6). Christ did not claim for himself the Glory of God, but instead did something much different—in verse 7 Christ emptied himself. Christ became a slave. This language is so important. Christ emptied himself to become a slave, not picking up a crown of glory but taking upon himself a cross of humiliation. This self-emptied slave humbled himself to death upon a cross.

I think we have lost just how radical this notion really is. We might move through the motions of coming to church, observing the two beams of the cross on our sanctuary, singing about crucifixion, and taking part in communion “remembering” something about a body and blood. The cross is so familiar, so regular, so Christian. But the “familiar” can desensitize us—doing something over and over again, seeing something over and over again, hearing something over and over again can lead us to think we understand fully and completely exhausted the meaning of these familiar things. Familiarity can keep us from attending to the depth and power of the infinitely inexhaustible Christian symbols.

In addition, things like crucifixion are culturally and historically so foreign to us. Most likely, we have not witnessed a crucifixion, we don't know what that's like. Our only exposure to such a thing might be the bible and church. Church-talk about the cross happens so routinely that we might fail to grasp just how profound it really is. We always risk losing the radical message of the cross in the familiarity of religious routine and the historical distance of the event.

But imagine, we have on our sanctuary wall something like an electric chair, a firing squad's collection of weapons, a gallows. We have hanging in our sanctuary an instrument of cruelty, shame, and death that was reserved for rebels and disobedient slaves.

Oh the irony, oh the strangeness. For one slave was, in fact, not disobedient, but was instead obedient to death on a cross (verse 8)! This slave did not take for himself status or honor, but emptied himself of such things and humbly bore human likeness (verse 7). This slave, Jesus Christ, was crucified, and we know—don't we?--gods are not crucified. Gods do not die. How utterly mystifying. How amazing.

Only then, only after the self-emptying one has been enslaved on a cross do we hear of Glory—Glory has been forever changed. For God then “exalted him” and gave him the name above every other (verse 9): that name is Lord (verse 11). Here again the irony, the strangeness. The name “Lord” in Greek is kyrios. It's most common English translation is “Lord” or “Master.” The opposite of a kyrios is a doulos—a “slave” or “servant.” In seeking humility and finding death on a cross, the slave, Jesus Christ, became our Master. The instrument reserved for a disobedient slave was filled by an obedient one. The Christ who could have sought the Glory of God instead emptied himself of any such claim. And now, the irony of the cross is its very place in and above churches all over the world.

We see in Christ, through this hymn, the ironic God of the Cross. Where we expect to find Glory and a throne, we find humility and a cross. Where we expect to find a disobedient slave, we find an obedient one. And the one who became a slave is, instead, Lord. The irony of the Cross is the unexpectedness found there. Glory is found on the Cross. The Cross is Glory.

Our hymn opens up for us a way of seeing God: through the humility and self-emptying of Christ we see God. Paul takes the power and poetry of these verses to encourage the Philippian church to live in a certain way. He urges the Philippians to be of “one mind” (verses 3). He asks that they live in humility and accord with one another by embodying the “same mind” (verse 3), a mind they not only share with each other, but can share with Christ Jesus (verse 5). To be clear, the church community is not being asked to believe the same things, to live the exact same way, or to have uniformity. The church is not exhorted to have the same social, political, or economic commitments, though those commitments may be challenged and shaped by the gospel message. Instead, Paul exhorts the Philippians to be humble and consider others. “The mind of Christ” which the Philippian church is asked to embody is made powerfully clear by the hymn in which we find Christ's humility and self-emptying.

Paul sees the radical example of Christ not as a strict act to follow—for Paul does not suggest that anyone be nailed to a cross. By extension, I do not suggest that we nail ourselves to pieces of wood. Rather, the “mind of Christ,” the humility of the self-emptying one, is ours to heal us and to reorient us. It cleanses and heals us of our disillusioned claims to power and might. It prevents us from stumbling through life with the unnecessary burdens of clamoring after human fame, glory, and power. No, in emptying ourselves we make room for salvation. This healing then empowers us as we live out in humility the ways of God.

The church, this community, is called into a unity grounded in the humility of Christ who lives within us.

What might all this mean for us, in a more concrete way, as we live and move in our daily existence and as we worship together in church?

In a conference about church leadership and authority, a professor once remarked that seeking authority directly is “coercive” and “manipulative.” Authority always and necessarily involves power, and directly seeking power over someone is a very dangerous task. One should, instead, seek to be good at a certain skill, like teaching or biking or managing, and authority will follow (it will be granted, in a sense).5 I think this logic is true of humility and Glory. When we seek out glory we take part in a self-serving manipulative game. Glory is not to be sought—for Christ himself did not lay claim to it. Instead, we seek after humility, and in being truly humble, we can sense the light of Glory shining upon us from above—bestowed by God, the source and end of Glory. For it is through the humility and self-emptying of Christ that we see God, and through our own humility and self-emptying that it is possible for us to participate with God in God's glorious purposes.

The hymn and words of Paul indicate for us, I believe, that our lives in the church and beyond should be lives of humility. We must make room for God, we must empty ourselves. We must empty ourselves of any claim we might have to glory—social, political, economic, intellectual—and in humility take up the tasks God calls us to pursue. In this way, we “work out our own salvation in fear and trembling” (verse 12). For “it is God who is at work in us” (verse 13)–not ourselves—and it is God who fills us again. Only now, we are filled to overflowing with the self-emptying one, the Christ, who gives us healing, courage, strength, and determination to overcome our most difficult circumstances and live into God's purposes. The Cross is Glory. Glory is the Cross.

When we are filled with self-emptying, when we have cleared ourselves for God to move and act, we might find words alone inadequate. For when we seek humility and let God bestow the Glory, when we embody the “mind of Christ” despite the circumstances—no matter how good or bad life is—

we might find that words alone will not do, and we must sing from the depth of our being,

“it is well, it is well with my soul.”

Amen.
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1For a very concise summary of this story, see “Peace in Adversity” in the Chalice Hymnal: Worship Leader's Edition (St. Louis: Chalice Press, 1998), 561.
2See Ernst Lohmeyer, Kyrios Jesus: Eine Untersuchung zu Phil 2:5-11 (SHAW Philosophisch-historische Klasse. Jahrgang 1927/28; 4. Abhandlung; Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1961 [1928]). For a brief discussion of Lohmeyer's thesis in relation to scholarship since then, see the article by Joseph A. Marchal, Expecting a Hymn, Encountering An Argument: Introducing the Rhetoric of Philippians and Pauline Interpretation.
3The Council of Nicea (325 CE) considered matters about whether Christ was homoousios (one substance) or homoiousios (similar substance) with God. The Council of Chalcedon (451 CE), convened to consider the humanity of Jesus, stating that the Trinity had one nature (one ousia) but three persons (three hypostases). Jesus was considered both fully God and fully human. All of the complex metaphysics involved in these considerations can be nauseatingly difficult. What many wrestled with were the tensions found in Scripture about the relationship between God, Jesus, and the holy spirit. They tried to interpret these tensions in a coherent (and very metaphysical) way.
4These “types” or topos are not the only schema possible for making sense of Christian theology; however, I would argue they serve an important and irreplaceable function in understanding (traditionally) fundamental Christian symbols and their implications for human life.
5Rev. Dr. William Schweiker was a panelist at the conference Intimacy and Authority held at the University of Chicago Divinity School on September 26th, 2008. It was sponsored by the Border Crossings through a grant from the Lily Endowment. I am referencing his comments made at this conference.

October Newsletter

Fall has arrived! But, I must admit, it was not much of a surprise. Even if I forget the day or month, I still recognize fall. For me, the seasonal transition to fall is distinctly tangible. The crisp air and redolent fragrances seem to suggest the coming colors and the falling leaves. I can feel fall “in my soul,” so to speak. The air, the change in temperature, and the subtle shift in light are penetrating, even if I am not aware of them at first. Something stirs inside me, and when I pause to examine this “feeling,” I notice fall. For me, fall arrives from the inside out.

I think faith is kind of like that. Some great Christian thinkers (and I’ll talk more about my favorites in next month’s Newsletter) talk about faith as an existential or fundamental trust. Trust in what? Trust in God. More precisely, and in a Christian sense, we can think of faith as trust in the meaningfulness of life itself as it is disclosed by God through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. This isn't something we can objectify and intellectually assent to; rather, we sense it stirring within as we live our lives. We suddenly sense life has been meaningful all along, even if we didn't recognize it at first (and, even when we forget!). Faith, like fall, is something that manifests itself from the inside out. I can feel faith “in my soul.”

Yet, so many times I hear faith talked about as if it is some kind of proposition which can be separated from our lives and scrutinized for its truth status. Faith, in this way, becomes an isolated object. If we reduce faith to theory and leave it intellectualized, we then risk losing the flesh and blood which give it life. Maybe people don’t have faith, but faith has people. However we talk about it, faith cannot be reduced to a proposition and treated like another one of our possessions. We don’t have faith like we have a car, or home, or book.

I will be the first to admit that I love to reflect philosophically and theologically on the Christian faith tradition. Despite the lurking danger of “thinking too much,” my reflections have prompted me to think about faith as an embodied reality. It is a “feeling” that springs on us from within as we live and move and have our being. We can sense its penetrating presence, even when we haven't named it. Think of a beautiful sunrise that not only causes you a brief pause, but fully captures your attention. In those moments of breath-taking awe we don’t have the sunrise, the sunrise has us! Some sunrises we can sense “in our soul.”

As we move into the fall season, may we also live into faith as an embodied trust that we feel “in our soul.” May we find that life is always already meaningful thanks to the God we find in Jesus Christ; and may that meaning permeate the totality of our lives: thought, word, and deed.
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For Further Reference

Christian "existential thinking" can be found in thinkers stretching back to Paul, Augustine, and Luther. For a 20th century "theological existentialist," see Paul Tillich and his Courage to Be or Dynamics of Faith.

The notion of faith as "feeling" connects with a tradition flowing forth from the 18th cenutry German Romanticist Friedrich Schleiermacher. See his On Religion or The Christian Faith. Please note, "feeling" in this sense is not to be confused with a reduction to our bodily sense-perceptions.

Biblical Languages

There is a common misconception about the biblical text that is unfortunately used to legitimate certain theological readings. Specifically, "original languages" do not offer a magical key into the concrete (and only) meanings of biblical passages, phrases, or words. Across the globe, on any given Sunday, a congregant might hear the words "but the original Greek tells us that this is what Paul meant by..." The idea that biblical Greek (or Hebrew) offers unquestionable clarity to English (or other) renderings is, I would argue, irresponsible.

Biblical Greek, or Koine Greek, is not unambiquous. There are not only difficulties and decisions involved in translation, but difficulties in constructing literal meanings with words and sentences employed with poor or ambiguous syntax. There are local tendencies with language and writing which effect authors, and which might be undetectable to our research and readings of the Greek or Hebrew texts. These nuances of language make authoritative appeal to the "original" biblical language quite problematic.

Whatsmore, there is not one "original" Greek or Hebrew text. We do not have the original "Leviticus," "Mark" or "Romans." What we have are copies, which vary by source, that create new kinds of interpretive and editorial problems for translators, theologians and linguists. Mis-spellings, editorial revisions, editorial additions, and theologically charged political struggles all touch the texts within the Hebrew Bible and New Testament. Different religious communities considered their texts sacred, and renditions of certain texts varied by community. These compilations make a univocal reading of any particular text problematic. Which text should we choose in reconstructing "the text," and why?

Beyond this, there are differences related to the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible (the Septuagint). For instance, the Hebrew word for virgin can also be translated young girl. The Septuagint, which was available to the author of Matthew, translated that Hebrew word in a certain portion of Isaiah with a Greek word specific for virgin (indicating that the Septuagint translator(s) interpreted the Hebrew word in a certain way). Although the Hebrew word MAY have meant virgin, it definately meant virgin in the Greek translation. This, then, was the basis for the "virgin birth." This prophetic text, ambiguous in Hebrew, becomes a central theological event in the Christian narrative.

All these issues, I think, cloud the "clarity" trumpeted by many contemporary ministers and theologians.

As a result, we can not be so crass as to appeal to "original texts" for the last word on a theological discussion, debate, or difficulty. We must realize that a chain of interpretive decisions have led us not only to our English translation of the biblical text, but to the Hewbrew and Greek texts which are our sources for translation. We must proceed with humility and caution amidst languages which do not always provide concrete answers, but more questions.

Palin and Women's Issues

A fellow divinity school student recently sent out an e-mail calling our attention to the issue of Sarah Palin's vice presidential bid as it intersects with conservative evangelical theology and the issue of women's leadership. He pointed us toward a provocative article which can be found at http://blogs.usatoday.com/oped/2008/09/the-palin-predi.html.

Although the "women's leadership issue" is one of great concern for many on both sides of the debate (about the legitimate role of women as leaders in the home, church, and/or civil office), the Palin vice presidential bid adds a further dimension. This is the dimension of the relationship between "religious beliefs" and "state office." It is not just about the legitimacy of Palin's bid, but about the legitimacy of her supporters supporting her while holding certain religious views (some assessments might render such support and certain conservative biblical views to be in "cognitive dissonance"). The issue seems ripe for all kinds of comments about the nature of political and religious participation: are the political and religious "spheres" distinct and separate, distinct but not separate, or completely intertwined?

Regardless of our political persuasion (Democrat, Republican, Green, Libertarian, Independent, etc), Palin-for-vice-president catapults the discussion regarding women in leadership into religious forums. This is a sensitive area for many, and discussion, I believe, will move us in a positive direction.

So, with that in mind, I have some questions:

1. If one believes (for whatever reason) that women should not have "spiritual leadership" in the home or church, can a woman still have leadership in civil office? If yes, does this imply that civil office is NOT a spiritual position of leadership?
2. If one believes (for whatever reason) that women should not have ANY leadership in home or church, can a woman still have leadership in civil office? If yes, on what grounds? Is civil office NOT a position of leadership?
3. Can one still support a vice-presidential candidate even if her role is not considered legitimate (for whatever reason) for such reasons as "the lesser of all the evils"?
4. Is the Palin-for-vice-president issue constructive for our country?

I hope you find these questions interesting and worth responding to as I would love to read your comments!

Ministry, Kenotic Theology and the Interruption of Christ

My internship is a month underway and the tidal wave of ministry is washing over me already. I am not overwhelmed (at least not yet!), but I am reminded of the gravity and intensity of this vocation. It is truly a “calling.” Parish ministry is not just sermon preparation and community “high-fiving.” Rather, ministry is about challenging and comforting, encouraging and directing, paying attention to details and keeping the “big-picture” in mind. It comes with peculiar challenges, including both existential crises and mundane worries. And it comes with spectacular affirmation.

The complexities and ambiguities of ministry have the potential to overwhelm (thus, my metaphor “tidal wave,” above), but they can also be cleansing (in the fire-hose “blasting” kind of way—thus, my choice of “cleansing,” above). Ministry exists in this unique tension between threat and growth, dissolution and fulfillment.

To switch metaphors, the seriousness and weight of ministry is nothing short of an “interruption” (maybe, to combine metaphors, the “interruption” of a tidal wave?). But I mean this term in a more profound and less common sense; the sense without the negative connotation of “distracting me from what I need to get done.” Instead, I mean ministry-as-interruption to be an “eruption” that occurs “into” the normal course of life.

Eruptions are powerful and transformative. Think volcanoes here. They suddenly explode with tremendous internal pressure, sending voluminous ash and lava into the air. The horizon is altered, the landscape reformed. This is eruption.

But ministry-as-interruption is not simply a one-time cataclysmic rupture in the distance. Unlike most volcanic eruptions, ministry-as-interruption happens here, now, and everywhere (more like the volcano from the movie “Volcano”). It is the eruption into our normal course of life that forever changes the shape and meaning of that life, precisely because we didn't expect it. Unlike carefully protected observers, ministers are faced with interruption. And interruptions are dangerous.

When we are interrupted we are altered. Sometimes our pace is slowed (the more common sense of “interruption”), and sometimes our direction is shifted. Ministry-as-interruption may very well slow our pace, but often it is because our direction has (and needed to be!) shifted. Ministry-as-interruption is a place of unsettling re-direction.

Fortunately, I take comfort (and, thus, resist being overwhelmed) in the Kenotic Christ who interrupted our world. This is the self-emptying (Greek: kenosis) Christ who changed how we think of God, how we see ourselves, and how we live in our world. This is the direction-changing Christ who happened upon us, happens upon us, and will happen upon us. And this is true, I think, whether we see Christ-the-interruption historically or personally. Because I serve a Christ of interruption, I can only expect to be interrupted. But this, I maintain, is a good thing, even if it is a dangerous thing.

So may the tidal wave of ministry blast me with its force, so that I might be washed by its life-changing re-direction as I serve out Christ-the-interruption through his ministry-as-interruption. May interruptions lead me forward, even if forward is not always the same path.

The Priesthood of All Believers

You might have already discovered that the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) has a rather elusive identity. However, there are some key features common to many of our congregations. So even though our theologies might differ (wildly at times) and our worship services may be unrecognizable from congregation to congregation, we Disciples have traditionally held to a long-standing Protestant principle: “The Priesthood of All Believers.” What ever could that mean? I'm glad you asked.

Martin Luther, that famed Magisterial Reformer from the 16th century (not to be confused with the civil rights leader from the 1950's and 60's), wrote many impassioned and contested works criticizing the Roman papal institution (i.e. “the Church”). He famously denied that ordination was a sacrament, and in so doing gave over the “priesthood” to “all believers.” Now that doesn't sound so revolutionary to us, but remember that Martin Luther lived in a time when the priesthood carried special privilege (the Pope, Bishops, and Monastics were of a different spiritual class). Because of that, lay members of the church could not participate in preaching, presiding over the Eucharist, or other liturgical functions. Martin Luther challenged this in the following way:

The pope or bishop anoints, shaves heads, ordains, consecrates, and prescribes garb different from that of the laity, but he can never make a man into a Christian or spiritual human being... In fact, we are all consecrated priests through Baptism, as St. Peter in 1 Peter 2[:9] says: “You are a royal priesthood and a priestly kingdom,” and Revelation [5:10], “Through your blood you have made us into priests and kings.”
(Three Treatises, Martin Luther, 12)

Relying on Scripture (Luther advocated sola scriptura, or “Scripture only”), he leveled the playing field, so to speak, for how we think of pastors and laity. Over time, the laity were empowered to take part in the ministry of the church in new ways: presiding over communion, reading from the Scriptures, and offering prayers.

The “founding fathers” of our denomination, Barton W. Stone, Thomas Campbell, and Alexander Campbell, all furthered this Protestant principle. Ministers were not just those who occupied the pastorate; rather, everyone was called into ministry through baptism. This open stance toward ministry paved the way for the incorporation of women into the diaconate and eldership in many of our churches, as well as the active involvement of lay members in Sunday worship.

What is important to recognize about our Protestant and denominational heritage is that pastors, although they have a peculiar office and function, are not spiritually better than anyone else. Our individual callings may take us to different places, but all Christians are called to minister. For some that will be through church offices, for others that will be living out the gospel in our daily lives as faithful disciples of our Lord Jesus Christ. Wherever we find ourselves, may we remember our part in that great ministering priesthood encompassing all those who profess the life-giving message of Jesus Christ.

Weightlifting

The Olympics are in full swing. How many people here have seen at least a few minutes of the games this year? That's not too surprising, I don't think, considering some 70 million people tuned in to NBC to see the opening ceremonies. But for all the excitement of the Olympic games, many of the competitions go fairly unnoticed. And one of those sports is weightlifting.

Now when I think of weightlifting I often think of gigantic, muscle-bound athletes with veins popping out of their biceps. But, if you were to pass some of the Olympic weightlifters in plain clothes, you would find some pretty regular looking people. People who don't seem to be national or world champions. And after thinking about it, that kind of makes sense to me, because I've seen the super-human strength of some pretty regular people on occasion. The person who comes to mind first is my mom: she never lifted on record, but I can testify to her super-human strength. She put that on display for me one afternoon after I welcomed my new baby brother home from the hospital with a bite on the cheek. My 120 pound mom promptly broke a wooden spoon over my rear-end in one swing.

And we might all have similar stories of close-encounters with regular people demonstrating super-strength (Though I hope you weren't the same kind of participant I was). But a thought we might entertain this morning is that maybe most of these Olympic athletes are regular people, regular people who manage to do extraordinary things. And that's precisely what makes them so inspiring. They are, in so many ways, just like you, and just like me.

One regular person I read about was Melanie Roach. Melanie is a 117 pound woman who seems, at first glance, pretty normal. She is a wife, a mom for three children, and she owns a small business. But she is also, now, an Olympian. And the road that brought her to Beijing was pretty incredible. Melanie was a 2000 Olympic hopeful who missed the games in Sydney because of a back injury. After leaving weightlifting and mothering three children, she returned to the sport at the age of 33. She underwent back surgery and a whirlwind recovery before winning the first spot on the US Women's Olympic weightlifting team.

And so the question surfaces: How does a woman like this not only find ways to overcome injury, the demands of life, and the anxieties of competition, but also does all that and then lifts on the Olympic stage?

This is the question we must return to. What does it take not only to endure difficult circumstances, but also to lift world-class weights?

Now I would love to tell you that Melanie's story has an ending quite like Michael Phelps or Dara Torres. But Melanie didn't take the gold. She didn't take the silver, nor did she take the bronze. Like many other athletes at the Olympics, Melanie Roach competed and did not medal. That being said, she did achieve a personal best, completing all six lifts and breaking the American record. I'd say lifting a combined total of 425 pounds is pretty good for a 33 year-old mother of three who weighs in at only 117 pounds. So even without a shiny medal and media glory, the feat that Melanie struggled to achieve brings us back to our question. How do we struggle through tough circumstances to achieve world-class goals?

I want to suggest this morning that lifting weight successfully requires passion. If there is one thing all the Olympic athletes seem to share, it is passion. Passion is vitally important because it is through passion that a goal can transform and make meaningful the inevitable struggles. I want to suggest this morning that we can struggle through some of the most trying obstacles for the sake of a world-class goal, for a world-important hope; and we can do that when we have passion. For Melanie Roach, the inevitable struggles included injuries, age, and many competing commitments. And Melanie, in so many ways, is just like the rest of us.

So today we are going to use the Olympic games and weightlifting to think through our faith. Analogies like this serve as a bridge of understanding, a way for us to use 21st century experience in order to illuminate our lives of faith. And there is biblical precedent for that, I think. Paul and other NT authors use athletic metaphors of their own time in order to encourage, exhort, and teach. In fact we saw how that might work with Kory's sermon last week.
In that sermon we touched on the Olympic theme by looking into our races of faith. Kory reminded us that faith is not a one time event; that the life of faith is more like a race of endurance than a sprint. What's most important is that our races are about finishing faithfully, not finishing first, thanks be to God.

This week we are shifting our attention from running to lifting. From enduring on foot, to enduring under great pressure. I hope you will be able to think with me about how Olympic weightlifting might inform and enrich our faith.

With that in mind, let's turn in our bibles to the Gospel of Matthew.

Matthew 11:25-30

What's going on?

Chapters 5 – 7 is the famous sermon on the mount

chapters 8 – 9 is Jesus in action, healing and traveling.

In Chapter 10 Jesus speaks about missions and sending out the disciples.

Beginning of Chapter 11 Jesus addresses issues of his identity and that of John the baptist.

He then issues two woes against unrepentant Galilean cities. From those woes we move into our passage this morning.

v. 25 “these things” being Jesus' identity and role.

This passage is very recognizable, many of you may be familiar with it. You may also be familiar with some popular interpretations of it. I want to isolate two of them. First, some will point to this Scripture to establish faith as something different from, and maybe antagonistic toward, intelligence. After all, Jesus is revealed not to the intelligent but to infants (who we presume are without education and a well-developed intellect). Second, many people point to, and find comfort in, an “easy yoke,” which is understood to mean a life with less trouble and difficulty. Now both of these responses to Scripture have their place. We should be cautious about the corruptibility of our intellect, and we should rejoice when we find moments of rest under an “easy yoke.” Unfortunately, there is a tendency, as with much of Scripture, to over-simplify. So I am going to try and resist over-simplifying here; I guess I will be under-simplifying, maybe “complexifying” if you will.

I want to focus on some other elements that might help us make sense of this passage in a different way. I think it is far too simplistic for us to leave the passage thinking that Jesus' message and identity is not for smart people. In fact, what is regrettable is that some people have taken this passage to command that one should not go to school, especially not attend college or seminary. As I am in Divinity School, I would disagree here.

So, I don't think Jesus is condemning the intelligent because they are intelligent. Nor is Jesus, in my estimation, calling us to be, literally, infants. The Greek word (nepiois) translated “infant” or “child” might be better understood in this passage as “little persons” or “insignificant ones.” And that makes sense, Jesus' ministry was aimed at those who were marginalized and left out of society at the time: women, the sick, prostitutes, tax collectors... all kinds of sinners. So the ones who received Jesus' message and repented were these “insignificant ones.” Thus, Jesus is thanking God for graciously sending him to those who may have considered themselves insignificant, and were definitely considered insignificant by the powerful, learned elite.

And just as I don't think Jesus is condemning the intelligent for being intelligent, I don't think Jesus is talking about how easy life will be either. A yoke, is a yoke, is a yoke; even though a yoke may be light (relative to heavier yokes), it is still a yoke. One that carries with it a kind of weight. Jesus is not inviting us into a yoke-free existence. We might be able to eat eggs yolk-free, but we can never live yoke-free. So instead of going without any weights, we are invited by Jesus to be a kind of weightlifter; we are invited to lift Jesus' yoke with him, as he is yoked to us. Why is that, though, why can't we get the yoke-free pass?

In the Jewish tradition, the word “yoke” was a way of talking about obedience and servanthood. And Jesus reminds us in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 6:24) that everybody serves someone, it's just a matter of who we serve. Thus, there is always a yoke. It's a matter of which yoke we choose to put on. Jesus invites the weary and the burdened into his service in order to become obedient to the will of God made known through Jesus. So on the one hand, with a Jewish connotation, “yoke” means a kind of obedience. On the other hand, the Greek word (zugos), which translates “yoke,” is one with imperial connotations. Jesus is calling people out of the taxing demands of Roman imperial obedience into a new Kingdom, one defined by justice, kindness, and humility (remember Micah 6:8?).

Jesus is also responding to the shackles, burdens, and weight of the religious elite who managed to burden many people with the demands of religious observance. On top of that, the religious system of Jesus' day also ostracized and marginalized the very people who they should have been serving. The poor, sick, and downtrodden were being treated as sinners and pushed out of the way. So Jesus called these very people into his service—the poor, sick and downtrodden, as well as the religiously burdened—so they might seek after the ways of God. But Jesus doesn't just call the poor, sick, downtrodden, and burdened into God's service, Jesus calls everyone. And it's here we should remember the first part of the passage, verse 25. Jesus is graciously revealed as Christ not to those who take pride in their wisdom and intelligence, for their self-righteous pride easily blinds them; rather Jesus is most easily seen by those who humble themselves and recognize their need for a different, lighter yoke.

Well what about this lighter yoke? The road of justice, kindness, and humility doesn't sound very easy, and it doesn't seem like we get a lot of rest. So what about rest and ease? What about the “lightness” of the yoke?

Ultimately, we are not invited out of our every-day lives into a life of ease. Instead, we are called into our every-day lives with a new purpose, with a new mission, obedient to a new Master. We are called to lift the weight of God's Kingdom, yoked to Jesus Christ. Our yoked existence to Jesus connects us to the work God began in Jesus. In other words, we are called to be weight-lifters, but now, with a different set of weights. These weights are those of the Kingdom of God. They are weights filled with the justice, kindness, and humility of Micah 6:8. And the people lifting them are pretty regular people, like you and like me; and so, like regular people, we struggle with all kinds of exterior things as well as the difficult task of lifting God's Kingdom into existence.

So our rest is not an absence of labor, for there is always something to do. Rather it is deeper, more “existential.” (A rest on the level of our soul, so to speak). I think St. Augustine, a 4th century Bishop from Africa, says it best as he addresses God: “You have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” We can rest in the meaning and mission of God's Kingdom as we live out our lives yoked to our Savior Jesus Christ. The Kingdom of God is a world-class weight and a world-important hope. Christ invites regular people like you and me to lift this kind of incredible weight.

As we move from this morning's sermon to our hymn, to offering, and then to communion, may we be reminded of that lingering question I posed to us: “How do we endure difficult circumstances to lift world-class weights?” I want to suggest this morning we must be driven by passion. But the passion that drives us as weightlifters for the Kingdom of God is more than unbounded desire coming from the rest we find in the meaning of God's Kingdom, it is also the Passion of Jesus Christ. This is the Christ who yokes himself beside us, and whose Passion was one of suffering unto death on a cross. Yet this Passion has a mysterious ending, one not confined to capital punishment on a tree; no, it is an ending that inaugurates a great hope. For this passion ends in Resurrection and promises victory beyond death's horizon. When this Passion drives our weightlifting, it transforms all our every-day and most impossible struggles into meaningful labor for the Kingdom of God.

May that Passion allow us to lift the weights of God's Kingdom, and to find rest in the meaning and mission of God's call. Amen.

Christianity and Post-Modernisms

"Post-Modernism" is a dirty, dirty word... at least in some circles. Mixing Christianity and postmodernism can be as volatile as nitro glycerine. Many think such a combination is sure to result in a catastrophic destructiveness worthy of an apocalyptic-like resistance. They hope not to lose the true meaning of the gospel to philosophical infiltrations that dilute and destroy its message. In the most extreme forms of resistance, postmodernism is seen as anti-gospel, the manifestation of evil through corrupt and bankrupt thinking.

For others, postmodernism is as trendy as a "faux-hawk." It's the new way to talk about Christianity without looking like an old, out-dated religionist. It smells like a latte and tastes like candy... mmm. These people see a turn to postmodern expression as the saving Grace for the Gospel in our day and age. We need to update our outdated Gospel to the newest, most current version--the gospel i-phone, if you will.

Both popular forms of resistance to and adoption of postmodernism seem to be suffering from a pretty serious problem. This problem, I want to suggest, is a historic struggle known as reductionism. Since when has postmodernism ever been one thing (or, for that matter, "humanity," or "Christianity," or "rationality")? The problem is, as is so often the case, that we want to think of things much too simplistically--often causing us to talk past one another. What one group thinks postmodernism is, another group does not. Yet, they both talk to each other with similar terms, all the while thinking in vastly different ways about those terms.

So, for those who fear postmodernism, their concerns should be aptly noted. They most likely fear a kind of postmodernism, only one of the many postmodernisms out there. Those who radically embrace postmodernism too often think they are embracing postmodernism "en toto", as if they weren't rejecting other postmodernisms (which, I want to suggest, they are--but, unfortunately, that's not so trendy...).

So what do we do? Is postmodernism to be or not to be? Well that is a good question.

Postmodernism is a term we could use to describe a time period, cultural attitudes and behaviors, philosophies, and/or aesthetic theories. What about the many uses and manifestations of "postmodernism" should we be afraid of as Christians. Well, of course, it will depend on what you are worried about.

Some Christians are worried about relativism. Rightly so, I think. Is postmodernism most basically relativism? Well, yes... oh, and no. Once again, there are forms of postmodernism, which, some might argue, can lead to kinds of relativism. Now let's be serious here--is postmodernism the issue, or relativism (and, to complicate matters further, what kind of relativism)? Relativism is not something new that emerged in the 20th century and is only currently flourishing today. The threat of relativism is a historical one, a problem (or a solution some might argue) facing thinkers for millenia. For the interested lot, check out Pyrrhonian skepticism. So, if relativism is the issue (again, it may only be one kind of relativism that is really the problem), why demonize postmodernism? Oh yeah, reductionism...or, to be more precise here: equivocation.

What I'm trying to get across is that postmodern thinking is manifold and pluriform. There are many different kinds of postmodernisms, and, if Christianity should watch out for certain things, then it should watch out for those things in their various forms--always aware that it is those particular things (like relativism) and not postmodernism "en toto" that is at issue.

Other Christians think postmodernism is the answer for the outdated Christian message. Again, its a little more complex than that. Which postmodernism? Our "postmodern protestors" (oh the ambiguity of that phrase makes me smile) are aware, I think, of some issues which must be considered for their potentially destructive impact. Now these issues may not be only postmodern issues, but they seems to be finding contemporary expression in (at least) some postmodernisms.

So, what do we do? I think we first need to acknowledge that we have a lot in common, regardless of our "for" or "against" mentality when it comes to postmodernism. We are all children of postmodernism (by virtue of encountering it). We are all living in an age in which we are wrestling with questions that the modern age gave us. In that way, we can all call ourselves "post-modern." Next, I think, we need to specify what we mean when we say "postmodernism." Are we referring to cultural attitudes and norms for behavior, or are we talking about a philosophical set of ideas that will inevitably shape our faith? Once these issues are explored I think we can move forward with productive and, I hope, civil conversation (well, looks like I just showed my hand). And this procedure, I want to suggest, just might maintain that element of love so central to the gospel message (as I read it). I sure hope so.

A Theology of Hope

Last week I attended a Senior Ministry Project by a 3rd year MDiv student entitled "Where is thy victory?" In this very provoking project, a courageous individual took on the notion of the "after-life." My brief comments cannot do his project justice, and I am sure he would have much to say in response to my reflections. Nonetheless, I found his argument great fodder for further thought.

The conclusion of his project is startling and deserves some explanation: Desiring for/Hoping in an afterlife is Demonic. If you're head is swirling, I think that was the point. He begins with a simple, yet maybe agreeable premise: Humans are finite. For him, to be human is to be a limited, conditioned being--to be anything less, or more, would be "inhuman." He considers the "inhuman" the "Demonic."

If, as finite creatures, we cannot look into the abyss of death and accept its radical limiting reality on us as finite, human creatures, then, in some sense, we long for what is more than human (to endure as more than human, as infinite, eternal beings--no matter how you come to construe the afterlife).

This is, for him, a moment of idolatry--a demonic urge. We, in our desire for or hope in an afterlife reveal our idolatrous craving for what is not human, for what we are NOT as created creatures of God.

So, then, what do we do? Give up? Live life like "the devil?" No, he says, live life with the courage to affirm who it is that you are: finite creatures of God. Don't be dissatisfied with your limited, human nature. No, take it upon yourself, live life "in spite" of your limited existence: have the "courage to be." (He draws heavily on Paul Tillich for his theoretical framework, but, he firmly admits to take Tillich where Tillich may not want to go).

For this individual, the afterlife is a kind of idolatrous hope that exposes our sinful longings to be exactly what we are not. To overcome this, he thinks, we must admit that this is not the case (and, it seems to me, that this is CERTAINLY not the case). We MUST admit that we do, in fact, only live until we die, and, after that, cease to be.

I am far less radical, although I think that Tillich, and this 3rd year student, have important insights for us. For me, to look into the abyss of death, its radical finality, as a real POSSIBILITY is what matters. I want to grant that my life, as a human, is circumscribed to the realm of the finite, conditioned, and even contingent. Moreover, I want to resist the popular and prevalent theological notion that we should be driven by eternal reward or punishment--I am not, nay, SHOULD NOT be, motivated by this reductive notion of core self-interest.

However, I think we can reside in our limitedness; in our reality of unkowning what becomes us after this life. In other words, our hope need not be grounded in eternal life, nor must we affirm the ACTUAL radical finality of death. I find it unconvincing that THERE MUST NOT BE an afterlife for us to experience the life-changing transformation that comes, I believe, with the Christian witness.

The humility that the Christian message generates, the self-critical stance we take towards ourselves and others in our fallible condition of sinfulness, can bring us to the brink of that great abyss and cause us to look deep into its depths. How should the Christian message play out if it were true that we did not live beyond the grave? Would the message change? For me, it does not. My Christian witness is not grounded in an eternal life, THOUGH THERE MAY BE ONE. My notion of right and wrong, good and evil, is not dictated by heaven or hell. The longings for my ever-lasting life are, I agree, idolatrous--but, so would assuming that we know what God has in store for those who Love God. For, "No eye has seen, no ear has heard." We live in that perpetual state of expectation, not hoping for our reward or punishment, but for that eschatological moment of transformation: The arrival of that Kingdom--the Kingdom of God.

This is our Hope. This is our message. This is our call. As Christians, I believe our Hope is grounded in that grace-filled reality of the Kingdom, and whether I get it or not is beside the point: for I hope in IT, not in me. I long for IT, not me. My theology is a theology of Hope, grounded in a Kingdom I may never see--but one which drives me nonetheless. This is the transformation that our Christian witness can testify to, and in this, we might find our rest before God.

"I" am not "Me"

I have recently been attending a tremendously difficult class taught by Jean-Luc Marion called "Negative Certitudes: The Phenomenology of the Impossible." This class has been tough to wrap my mind around, but it has also produced some interesting reflections which, I believe, have powerful theological implications. Specifically, we have been discussing the nature of a definition of "human essence."

What Marion, and others, want to assert is that we cannot get to the deepest dimension, phenomenologically speaking, of human essence. There is something that escapes our reflective powers. We can think about it like this: "I" reflect upon objects as they present themselves to me in my experience. "I" see a chair, a table, an apple. These "objects" are objects in the sense that they are disclosed to me under certain conditions (namely, the condition of being attended to in my experience). But, I do not just have access to external things, but also inner things (myself). Yet, my inner reflections must also have an object, and that object is "Me." However, I cannot fully reflect upon my inner self, because the object "Me" does not include the dimension of my self which is doing the reflection. In other words, every reflection needs an "I" to reflect, an "I" that stands outside of reflection.

From this it seems that "I" can never get to the "I" in my reflections, I'm left only with that part of myself that is capable of being subject to my own experience: "Me." From this, we can say that "I" am not "Me." Or, to say it differently, I can never reduce who it is that I am to "Me." I am always more than who I can think myself to be. The "I" is that mysterious element of myself that escapes reflection and any adequate definition of human essence. It is the part of myself (and, by extension, you) that, if we think theologically, could reflect the mysteriousness of God. If, as many religious thinkers like to think, we are created in some image-related way to God, then, this mystery may be a part of our very selves.

This opens up all kinds of neat things to think about. I would love to hear what you think.

Theological Problem of our Time

Tonight at Disciples History and Thought class, Dr. Clark W. Gilpin asked us to think of the "theological problem of our time." Although there could be many good arguments about a number of "problems" (maybe, even, the problem of using the word "problem" so much), I thought that our world seems to be in a peculiar position: dealing with difference.

As our world has grown in connectivity due to our globalizing social tendencies, our encounters with people of difference has simultaneously increased. We come across people of different faiths, traditions, cultures, political views, sexual orientations, interests ,etc. The intersection of these differences is not leading to healthy appreciation of each other, but seems, at least to me, to lead too often to resistence. And this resistence can lead to conflict and violence, especially when difference is either ignored or demonized. We haven't done the best job getting to know each other, coming to appreciate diverse perspectives, or learning from each other.

As a Disciple of Christ, I have a rich heritage filled with concerns for unity. This has been a rallying cry for many congregations and ecumenical efforts. I think we can live into our spirit of "unity" by theologically addressing a central problem of our time: difference. Most importantly, I find it particularly pressing to consider unity-in-difference, similarity but not sameness. We need to find theological grounding to live, breath, and act amidst a plurality of people--to reside peacefully beside our sisters and brothers; and not just those who call themselves "christians" or "Americans" or "liberal."

I believe there is ample theological space for considering unity-in-difference, but, alas, I shall not work that out here and now. All I will say is that I affirm the importance of: openness toward difference, looking for similarity, and celebrating our togetherness--a togetherness we need if we plan to live a better tomorrow.

Christ in Conversation

We live in a shrinking world. Diverse ideas and thoughts are colliding in public space; in work, school, and politics. William Schweiker notes that “Currently, diverse peoples and cultures, diverse 'worlds,' are merging into an interdependent global reality.”1 In this context, there are many reasons to be hopeful for our futures and shared space. Yet the reality of our increasingly interactive present can also draw our attention to the difficult task of navigating this shared space, a space where differences can erupt into conflict, and where conflict can devolve into violence. Situated within the complex web of intersecting traditions, cultures, and peoples is the minister, a localized Christian leader with a special relationship to a community of faith.

Yet the minister, wherever she may be, is faced with the daunting task of responding to the myriad concerns of a shrinking world. How might a minister respond? What resources does she have to articulate her concerns and speak to her community? How can she find ways to communicate responsibly beyond her community to a world that is compressing? These questions demand reflection and consideration. While addressing each one is beyond the scope of this inquiry, I will take up a general question in ministry: How might I, as a minister, think about speaking out? I intend to suggest that speaking as a minister, generally, to whatever audience, is not about communicating theological ideas, but about communicating theologically. For the way in which we communicate says as much about our theology as what we are communicating.2

Thus, I will examine one particular resource a minister might consider in communicating theologically. I want to suggest that the classical theological symbol of Christ is a particularly insightful way for considering how we might respond as ministers to a shrinking world. In speaking about ethical thought, William Schweiker writes that “there is a profound symbolic and conceptual poverty in much current thought.”3 While I agree that much thinking could be bettered with symbolic discourse, I firmly believe that faith communities have an abundance of symbolic resources. My fear is that we might neglect the fullness of these resources if they only supply content to our speech—and this would be, in a way, a kind of poverty. Our symbols and theological resources can also shape the very way in which we speak.

In considering how the theological symbol of Christ might affect how we speak, I will explore the notion of symbol expounded by Paul Tillich, the Christological trajectory of Douglas John Hall, and briefly touch on the model of conversation described by David Tracy. These thinkers will aid in constructing a way of thinking about communication informed by the Christian tradition, yet fully capable of engaging the larger community of traditions, cultures, and religions which are closing in on each other in the ever shrinking world.

For Christians, as the name suggests, the idea of “the Christ” is an important concept. The sacred texts of this tradition—specifically the New Testament—focus on the figure of Jesus as Christ, and create a wealth of images and thoughts for understanding our human situations in the world. These understandings come in direct contact with the concrete person of Jesus as Christ developed textually and theologically throughout the Christian tradition. But today, in our language of faith, what does it mean to talk about Christ? What does it mean to talk about anything “religious”? What are we doing differently when we speak in our language of faith about anything? What does it mean to talk about Jesus as Christ? I believe Paul Tillich has a valuable insight into the power and distinctiveness regarding the language of faith.

In his Dynamics of Faith, Paul Tillich writes “Faith is the state of being ultimately concerned.”4 For him, to be human is to concern oneself, in some way, ultimately. As a formal definition, then, faith is all encompassing of everyone who is human. But, for Tillich, the content of faith is contingent upon the symbolic expressions of concrete faith traditions which change over time and vary from place to place. Regardless of this contingency, he goes on to say that “symbolic language alone is able to express the ultimate.”5 Why, we might ask, is this the case?

Tillich explicates the notion of symbols by describing six characteristics. First, he notes that symbols, like “signs”—which is a term often used synonymously for symbols, but which needs to be distinguished—point beyond themselves to something else. However, unlike signs, symbols participate in the reality to which they are pointing. Because of this, symbols have the power to open up levels of reality which are otherwise closed off to us. In addition, symbols open up “hidden depths of our own being”6 which are correlated to dimensions of reality. His final two characteristics are that symbols must come to life in the collective unconscious, and, as a result, that they can grow and die.

Symbols are necessary because concrete, finite reality cannot express that which is infinite: “the true ultimate transcends the realm of finite reality infinitely.”7 Although symbols themselves must not be elevated to the level of the infinite—thus confusing their relation to the infinite with the infinite itself—they have a unique way of communicating, one that has a power “which surpasses in quality and strength the power of any non-symbolic language.”8 Thus, the notion of Christ as symbol is very important. It is a way of speaking about the infinite within the language of Christian faith which can open up levels of reality otherwise unknown to us. What are these levels of reality? What might the symbol of Christ unlock for us as we consider what it means to communicate, as Christian ministers, to our communities and the wider, yet still shrinking, world?

While the notion of Christ is filled with layers of rich meaning and can be expounded upon in many different ways, I want to focus on the Christological trajectory described by Douglas John Hall. Although he considers in more detail a different symbol within the Christian tradition, the Cross, his reflections are intimately bound up, as is the Cross, with the symbol of the Christ. Hall admits that with Jesus Christ “the theologica crucis has both its beginning and its center.”9 Thus, the theological understanding of Jesus Christ reveals something peculiar and important in the Christian faith and in Christian theology.

For Hall, the Christ is the unequaled revealing of God-self, yet it is also a concealing of Godself. He argues, “But if... one says that God reveals Godself supremely in a living person, the inherent and inviolable mystery of that person means that the revealing simply is, simultaneously, a concealing.”10 The simultaneity of revelation and concealment can be noted in the gospel accounts as characters interact with Jesus, “There is a sense of something of infinite significance being disclosed, yet at the same time they know that they are not able to receive this something, to take it and have it...”.11 Today, the situation is remarkably similar. Hall notes that “we want to know others unambiguously: we want to have them, possess them.”12 Here Hall wants to remind us that there is a symbolic union of divinity and humanity in Christ, and that “if it is utterly mysterious, transcendent, it is a mystery concealed beneath its opposite—mere humanity.”13

The Christ, as a unique symbol uniting divinity and humanity, also indicates a tension between these poles. It is often the case, as Hall points out, that divinity gets emphasized at the expense of Christ's humanity. But Hall wants to develop a relational Christology, one which he describes in terms of “representation.” He wants us to see “this unique understanding of God as occurring hiddenly through this genuinely human life.”14 This is because “Jesus is for faith God's representative, that his life is one of a unique relationship with God, a relationship that enables him to relate to us—to humanity—in a manner that is also unique.”15

What does all this mean for Christian ministers as they consider communicating theologically? I think Hall has several suggestions which I wish to connect to the revelation/concealment of Christ as humanity/divinity. To begin, the revelation/concealment found within Christ indicates a loss of absolutism on our part. As Hall writes, “This [Christian] community must try to understand and to articulate the presence and the meaning of one who, by definition, defies the community's power to understand yet who nevertheless (nevertheless!) requires this of his witnesses.”16 Hall continues: “[The Christian community] cannot possess this Truth, but it can and must seek to be oriented toward this Truth.”17 To put this in Christological terms, the revelation/concealment of Christ indicates to us our partial understanding. And this partial understanding drives us toward a humility which requires certain concrete practices.

Hall stresses the need for constant dialogue with the whole tradition in working out our understanding of the faith. He also emphasizes the need to listen to the wider ecumenical community beyond our Christian particularities. These practices provide checks and balances for our own feeble attempts to understand the mysterious and unconquerable reality which is simultaneously revealed to us and concealed from us. Yet I want to stretch this even further. The recognition of our insufficient knowledge and grasp of ultimate reality, although symbolically revealed in the Christ, should drive us to a kind of attitude toward ourselves and toward the wider world. And I believe this attitude is one which can shape the way we, as ministers, engage and communicate with the wider world.

Hall's practical suggestions for dialogue and listening is an important model grounded in, I believe, a recognition made evident to Christians in the symbol of the Christ. Just as Christ, like any symbol, is unable to fully capture the divine—the ultimate—so too it participates in that reality and is able to reveal something of it to us. Yet it is only partial as the transcendent remains unconstrained, not fully knowable, still a mystery. Thus, Christ reveals to us how much more we need revealed. Christ reveals to us an orientation toward the Truth, despite the fact that we are not able to hold on to it and contain it within our grasp. Instead, we are left to talk among ourselves about how best to move closer to this truth in our partial knowledge.

At this juncture, David Tracy's model of conversation is particularly important. Tracy describes conversations as a kind of game. He writes that “It is a game where we learn to give in to the movement required by questions worth exploring. The movement of conversation is questioning itself.”18 Tracy wants to show the way in which conversations with people can become conversations with texts: “We converse with one another. We can also converse with texts.”19 Yet I want to take insights from his model of conversation with texts to show how a particular attitude, informed by the symbol of Christ, can make conversation a valuable and constructive enterprise for Christian ministers.

Tracy notes that “Conversation in its primary form is an exploration of possibilities in the search for truth.”20 To begin a conversation, one must already recognize that truth is to be sought after, that it is not already possessed, in its entirety, by oneself. If the symbol of the Christ informs our attitudes, if it indicates to us that we do not have the fullness of the Truth found in the transcendent infinite which is still mysterious to us, then we will be willing to enter into conversation. For conversation engages the otherness that is all around us, the mystery that surrounds us. Tracy and Hall both recognize the power of the language of “disclosure-concealment.” As Tracy notes: “Such language is designed to challenge claims to full comprehension, to certainty, to mastery and control.”21 And it is a sense of mastery and control which prevents us from truly listening, from being open to the “mutual transformation”22 that conversation needs. We need to remember that it is important “to listen and to wait.”23 Although this is not the entirety of conversation—simply listening, being open, and waiting—it is the attitude which makes conversation possible. It is the attitude which makes genuine interaction a constructive endeavor because it allows for self-transformation. Tracy himself mentions the power and value of Christian dialogue with other religious traditions.24

Thus, we see Tracy extending the reach of dialogue and listening that Hall suggested. A minister, informed by the symbolic power of Christ, takes up a humble attitude before the transcendent mystery of the infinite in order to prepare for authentic, open engagement with diverse traditions and cultures. This is a way of communicating in a “time of many worlds.”25 It is a Christ-informed approach towards worlds which are shrinking together into a complex mix of inter-relations. To avoid conflict, to resist violence, we must learn, as ministers, that Christ offers us a way to approach others which is faithful to our tradition. It is an approach which is open to the disclosure of mystery at any moment with anyone, because we are not in full possession of the Truth—it is still partly concealed.

Our orientation toward Truth, revealed in Christ, orients us toward others within our community of faith, and towards those outside our community of faith. The humility and willingness to listen is what our shrinking world needs as we learn to navigate our future lives in proximity, next to each other. Conversation, authentic communication, can allow us to be transformed by each other, in all our differences and similarities. Yet, as Tracy indicates, conversation is not only about listening and waiting, there is an element of engagement which allows us to speak to our truth, however partial, and participate in the wider discourse between traditions, cultures, and religions. In this witness, our very way of speaking—openly and authentically—is a witness unto itself of our theology rooted in the symbolic power of the Christ. We are opened up by this symbol to the disclosure-concealment of the divine, and, as a result, we can be opened up to the disclosive possibilities of conversations with others as we seek the concealed and mysterious Truth of the infinite.
_______________________________
1Schweiker, William. Theological Ethics and Global Dynamics (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), xi
2I do not intend to suggest that communicating theological ideas is meaningless or without value. What I hope to draw attention to is the way in which we, as ministers, might communicate to an audience which sometimes stretches beyond the confines of our community of faith. And in so doing, responsibly maintain a relation to our Christian convictions.
3Schweiker, x
4Tillich, Paul. The Dynamics of Faith (New York: Harper and Row, 1957), 1
5Tillich, 41
6Tillich, 43
7Tillich, 44
8Tillich, 45
9Hall, Douglas John. The Cross in our Context (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), 111
10Hall, 114
11Hall, 121
12Hall, 122
13Hall, 121-2
14Hall, 124
15Hall, 126
16Hall, 117-8
17Hall, 118
18Tracy, David. Plurality and Ambiguity (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1987), 18
19Tracy, 19
20Tracy, 20
21Tracy, 22
22Tracy, 93
23Tracy, 51
24See Tracy, 94
25Schweiker, xi

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