Our world is a beautiful, broken place, and we are beautiful, broken people.
A fascinating thing is at work in our generation. On the one hand, the humanistic idealism of the modern age – that conviction that with just enough technology, social progress, and western-style democratic politics, the problems of the world will eventually be taken care of – is being questioned in a new way. Maybe it’s just because globalization and the instant, world-wide spread of information that we have at our fingertips has opened our eyes too wide; maybe we’ve just seen too much, and been exposed to too much complexity to really believe that we here in the United States have the answer to the world’s ills. Genocide, disease, imperialism, corporate greed… Maybe it’s just that we’re overwhelmed. (Some would say that modern optimism ought to have been overwhelmed and killed off by the European horrors of WWI and WWII, respectively, but it has proven remarkably persistent…) Whatever the reason, though, our generation is willing to recognize that all is not right with the world, and we’re beginning to realize that ‘progress’ isn’t going to solve our problems. We recognize that our world is broken.
So, on the one hand, we recognize a paradox in our world; so much beauty, goodness and potential, marred by so much brokenness and conflict. On the other hand, while we are eager to point our fingers at global and systemic brokenness and injustice, we have seemingly lost our ability to talk about genuine personal responsibility. We pay our token regard to it, of course, usually through the positive lens of ‘doing our part’ to be ‘part of the solution’. The modern phenomenon of ‘armchair activism’, or ‘raising awareness’, comes as a result of this; we sign petitions, start and join Facebook ‘causes’, hold candlelight vigils… things which satisfy a certain feeling of responsibility within us in a comfortable and minimally inconvenient way. Not that there is anything wrong with such things, in and of themselves, except that rather than being genuine attempts at serious solutions to the worlds ills, these are often simply exercises by which we justify and strengthen our previously held assumption that we, personally, are not part of the problem. We tend to engage just enough to let our consciences off the hook, and then live our lives however we want to.
So, to use slightly different language, the fascinating thing about our generation is that we recognize that ‘evil’ exists in the world, but we are very uncomfortable trying to name the source of that evil. ‘Judgment’ feels like the only real sin in our society; we feel that everyone ought to be free to live as they see fit without criticism. We believe that evil exists ‘out there’ somewhere; in some violent system or faceless corporate greed. We believe that there are a handful of hypothetically ‘evil people’ in the world – mostly child rapists, murderers and oil tycoons – we just don’t personally know any. But we are embracing a very real paradox when we judge the state of our world, and certain faceless people in it, by a certain standard, a ‘true north’ of some kind, in order to be able recognize that things are not as they should be, while simultaneously taking offence at the idea that there might be a ‘true north’ by which our own lives and choices might ever be interpreted.
You see, our generation recognizes that we live in a beautiful, but broken, world. What we often fail to recognize is that we are beautiful, but broken, people. ‘Evil’ is not something that exists ‘out there’ in a hypothetical system or person… it exists in me. It isn’t just ‘the world’ that’s broken; it’s we, people, who are broken. Beautiful? Yes. Full of potential and goodness? Yes. But it is a marred beauty, a distorted goodness, and an unfulfilled potential.
Let’s put it in terms of music. To say that there is a ‘true north’ in the world is like understanding that there is a true musical scale; there is a true pitch, a true frequency of resonance by which all our playing is evaluated. We can be in tune, or out of tune, depending on the relation of our voice or instrument to that one true scale. From experience, you know that listening to one person play or sing out of tune is bad enough. But a whole band or orchestra with every player both out of tune with themselves and the players around them? That’s just painful to think about. The dissonance of the whole is essentially a function of the dissonance of the parts, even though the collective dissonance of the whole seems to take on a character all its own. This, in many ways, is a picture of our world.
Every one of us is out of tune to one degree or another, and real humility and maturity in thinking about our world comes when I realize that about myself. It comes when I realize that my brokenness, my dissonance; my pride and greed and selfishness and apathy are part of the overall cacophony. We’re all out of tune, and when we’re all playing at once, it’s a pretty awful performance. This is really what we’re talking about when we talk about ‘evil’; big picture ‘Evil’ and personal evil. They are intimately related, and we can’t genuinely engage the big ‘E’ until we’re willing to face the small ‘e’. We need to get our own instruments tuned.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Personal God Story...
At some point along the way we all have visions of what our lives are going to look like, don’t we? Maybe they’re not quite adventurous enough to be considered our ‘dreams’, per se, but those snapshot expectations of where we will find ourselves a few years down the road; the future moments for which we plan, prepare and educate ourselves, consisting of a palette of job opportunities, geographical preferences and romantic interests. We all have hopes, however firm or vague they may be. We all have some picture of the horizon that we are aiming for in the present. At twenty-eight years old, I am not where I thought I’d be. This place where I find myself is much more complex than the crude drawings of my twenty year-old imagination. It’s a harder place, though more beautiful. It’s more complicated, but more rewarding. It isn’t exactly the future I had once hoped for, but I wouldn’t change it now. I suppose, though, all this is to be expected when you invite someone like God to take the wheel of your life. I still remember that moment.
It’s always hard to look at a period of your own life in retrospect and admit that, despite your own best efforts at the time, your were basically a miserable person. There’s a degree of self-knowledge and disclosure in that sort of statement that most of us would much rather just avoid, myself included. But as I think about my sophomore and junior years of college, I can’t help but concede the truth: I was miserable. It would even make for a better story if I could tell you that my misery was of the sort imposed by outside circumstances, but it wasn’t. Mine was a self-imposed, self-inflicted variety of misery and, as such, I was blind to it for a long time. I was functional enough; near the top of my class and a leader in my church and Christian fellowship. I was friendly enough; those people that I chose to open myself to became a large enough circle of friends to satisfy my reasonable social needs. But in the midst of all the activity and life going on around me, my heart was drying up. I was the center of my own universe, and the gravity was beginning to take its toll. It took a long time before I began to recognize that what trapped me in misery was the death-grip with which I was holding on to my dreams.
I had a vision of the future and, as vague as it may have been, I clung to it. There were the thoughts of a career path that would have been comfortable and personally satisfying. There was a girl who I wanted to marry. But the doors to that career never seemed to open fully, the girl couldn’t seem to convince herself to feel the same, and the tighter I clung, the more these things seemed to move out of reach. With all the will I could muster, I longed for my vision of the future to come to pass. My frustrations turned that will inward, and I began to shrink. And God? As far as I was concerned, I was glad to have God along for the ride, but as long as he failed to help me achieve my goals, I wasn’t sure what good it did me. As it turns out, God is a pretty crappy co-pilot.
Then, one day, through some eventual combination of compiled frustration, exhaustion and disappointment, I remember coming to the end of myself. It wasn’t an extraordinary day, and the disappointments therein were not in any way new, but my self-orbiting universe just imploded. I finally looked down at the white-knuckled fists that were clinging to my hopes and dreams, my visions of the future, and I realized that I was squeezing the life out of everything that I loved, and everything I was clinging to. It was February in Rhode Island, and in an abandoned lifeguard stand overlooking Narragansett Bay, I came face to face with my own misery. And in that moment, I heard the voice of God. It wasn’t audible, per se, so much as a moment of inescapable conviction, but the word was clear; “Open your hands.” So I did.
It was there in that moment that I understood for perhaps the first time that God could never be a mere companion on my journey; He was the orchestrator, the pilot and the guide. It could never be a matter of taking the plans of my self-centered universe to him for his token blessing; it was about His plans, His will, His centrality. I understood for the first time that I could not accept and cling to the gifts God had poured out on me, only to ignore His calling and His purposes in my life. Those gifts, and my hopes, had become my god, and they simply couldn’t carry the weight. So I opened my hands. I released my hold on my future. I held out all that I was, all that I had, and all that I would be, on open hands before God and said, “Take it. Take me. Do with me as you please. Send me wherever you will, because I can’t drive this thing, my life, anymore. It’s yours.”
Suffice it to say that I am not where I once thought I would be. But it’s better. It’s fuller. It’s more truly alive. Because, through my frustration one February day those years ago, Jesus saved me from myself, and for that I am forever grateful.
It’s always hard to look at a period of your own life in retrospect and admit that, despite your own best efforts at the time, your were basically a miserable person. There’s a degree of self-knowledge and disclosure in that sort of statement that most of us would much rather just avoid, myself included. But as I think about my sophomore and junior years of college, I can’t help but concede the truth: I was miserable. It would even make for a better story if I could tell you that my misery was of the sort imposed by outside circumstances, but it wasn’t. Mine was a self-imposed, self-inflicted variety of misery and, as such, I was blind to it for a long time. I was functional enough; near the top of my class and a leader in my church and Christian fellowship. I was friendly enough; those people that I chose to open myself to became a large enough circle of friends to satisfy my reasonable social needs. But in the midst of all the activity and life going on around me, my heart was drying up. I was the center of my own universe, and the gravity was beginning to take its toll. It took a long time before I began to recognize that what trapped me in misery was the death-grip with which I was holding on to my dreams.
I had a vision of the future and, as vague as it may have been, I clung to it. There were the thoughts of a career path that would have been comfortable and personally satisfying. There was a girl who I wanted to marry. But the doors to that career never seemed to open fully, the girl couldn’t seem to convince herself to feel the same, and the tighter I clung, the more these things seemed to move out of reach. With all the will I could muster, I longed for my vision of the future to come to pass. My frustrations turned that will inward, and I began to shrink. And God? As far as I was concerned, I was glad to have God along for the ride, but as long as he failed to help me achieve my goals, I wasn’t sure what good it did me. As it turns out, God is a pretty crappy co-pilot.
Then, one day, through some eventual combination of compiled frustration, exhaustion and disappointment, I remember coming to the end of myself. It wasn’t an extraordinary day, and the disappointments therein were not in any way new, but my self-orbiting universe just imploded. I finally looked down at the white-knuckled fists that were clinging to my hopes and dreams, my visions of the future, and I realized that I was squeezing the life out of everything that I loved, and everything I was clinging to. It was February in Rhode Island, and in an abandoned lifeguard stand overlooking Narragansett Bay, I came face to face with my own misery. And in that moment, I heard the voice of God. It wasn’t audible, per se, so much as a moment of inescapable conviction, but the word was clear; “Open your hands.” So I did.
It was there in that moment that I understood for perhaps the first time that God could never be a mere companion on my journey; He was the orchestrator, the pilot and the guide. It could never be a matter of taking the plans of my self-centered universe to him for his token blessing; it was about His plans, His will, His centrality. I understood for the first time that I could not accept and cling to the gifts God had poured out on me, only to ignore His calling and His purposes in my life. Those gifts, and my hopes, had become my god, and they simply couldn’t carry the weight. So I opened my hands. I released my hold on my future. I held out all that I was, all that I had, and all that I would be, on open hands before God and said, “Take it. Take me. Do with me as you please. Send me wherever you will, because I can’t drive this thing, my life, anymore. It’s yours.”
Suffice it to say that I am not where I once thought I would be. But it’s better. It’s fuller. It’s more truly alive. Because, through my frustration one February day those years ago, Jesus saved me from myself, and for that I am forever grateful.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Subjective Atonement.
“We are justified by the blood of Christ and reconciled to God, in that through the singular grace displayed to us by the assumption of our nature, by his instruction of us by word and example, and by his perseverance even to death, he has by love bound us more closely to himself, so that, thanks to the ardor of so great a divine blessing, the true love which is now ours should draw back from no suffering for his sake.” – Peter Abelard (1079-1142)
A contemporary of Anslem, Peter Abelard has proven to be deeply influential on many thinkers who, to this day, ascribe to a subjective - or symbolic - view of the atoning work of Christ; a paradigm which suggests that nothing essentially ontological or objective was remedied through the death of Christ (such as the achievement of the forgiveness of sins, defeat of death, reversal of the universal consequences of the Fall, etc.). Rather, this view would hold, it is the personal influence that this sacrificial act has upon us, as we observe it, that is of singular importance. In Abelard’s view, it is thought that as we gaze upon such an act of profound self-sacrifice, as the culmination of the perfectly lived life of Christ, that the divine love should consequently be caused to well up within us such as to propel us into lives of genuine righteousness and similar self-giving love. This is our salvation; not that we are somehow freed from some ontological or universal debt, but that Christ’s example is so stirring as to awaken us from the blindness and slumber that has heretofore entrapped us in patterns of sin and death, and to inspire and guide us into the life that we have been created to live.
While wrestling with the understanding of what was accomplished through the atoning work of Christ in his death and resurrection certainly constitutes a mystery that presses us against the limits of language itself, I believe that the paradigm suggested by Abelard, and those who would follow him in this regard, is fundamentally flawed. It sounds nice enough, and manages not to disturb us too greatly with thoughts of what sort of universal void there might be that would need to be appeased by the sacrifice of the Son of God himself for our sake. In the end, however, this is only – to quote C.S. Lewis – ‘soft soap’ thinking. The underlying problem of a subjective view of the atonement is that it requires the death of Christ to be of inherent value, apart from any consideration of a deeper ontological reality. These thinkers still want to look upon the crucifixion and stand in awe of the fact that one such as Jesus would love us so deeply as to die for our sake. This sort of thinking, however, attempts to inhabit the high-rise penthouse suite while disbelieving that any lower stories exist, or are even necessary. Simply put, if the death and resurrection of Christ did not actually accomplish anything objective, or beyond itself, in what real sense did Christ die ‘for us’?
Surely there is great heroism, and much to be valued, in the death of a man who throws himself in front of a moving train in order to push another out of the way and save them. In what esteem, however, ought we hold a man who steps in front of that same train, not because there is actually someone to save, but simply as an ‘example’ for the rest of us? In what sense ought we be inspired to be like him? If the sacrifice of Christ did not actually, in and of itself and apart from our subjective perception of it, accomplish our salvation, then to think of that death as having been ‘for our sake’ is to beg the question; we are simply casting a pointless and grotesque tragedy in a retrospectively positive light. As such, the subjective paradigm of salvation by ‘inspiration’ essentially undermines itself.
A contemporary of Anslem, Peter Abelard has proven to be deeply influential on many thinkers who, to this day, ascribe to a subjective - or symbolic - view of the atoning work of Christ; a paradigm which suggests that nothing essentially ontological or objective was remedied through the death of Christ (such as the achievement of the forgiveness of sins, defeat of death, reversal of the universal consequences of the Fall, etc.). Rather, this view would hold, it is the personal influence that this sacrificial act has upon us, as we observe it, that is of singular importance. In Abelard’s view, it is thought that as we gaze upon such an act of profound self-sacrifice, as the culmination of the perfectly lived life of Christ, that the divine love should consequently be caused to well up within us such as to propel us into lives of genuine righteousness and similar self-giving love. This is our salvation; not that we are somehow freed from some ontological or universal debt, but that Christ’s example is so stirring as to awaken us from the blindness and slumber that has heretofore entrapped us in patterns of sin and death, and to inspire and guide us into the life that we have been created to live.
While wrestling with the understanding of what was accomplished through the atoning work of Christ in his death and resurrection certainly constitutes a mystery that presses us against the limits of language itself, I believe that the paradigm suggested by Abelard, and those who would follow him in this regard, is fundamentally flawed. It sounds nice enough, and manages not to disturb us too greatly with thoughts of what sort of universal void there might be that would need to be appeased by the sacrifice of the Son of God himself for our sake. In the end, however, this is only – to quote C.S. Lewis – ‘soft soap’ thinking. The underlying problem of a subjective view of the atonement is that it requires the death of Christ to be of inherent value, apart from any consideration of a deeper ontological reality. These thinkers still want to look upon the crucifixion and stand in awe of the fact that one such as Jesus would love us so deeply as to die for our sake. This sort of thinking, however, attempts to inhabit the high-rise penthouse suite while disbelieving that any lower stories exist, or are even necessary. Simply put, if the death and resurrection of Christ did not actually accomplish anything objective, or beyond itself, in what real sense did Christ die ‘for us’?
Surely there is great heroism, and much to be valued, in the death of a man who throws himself in front of a moving train in order to push another out of the way and save them. In what esteem, however, ought we hold a man who steps in front of that same train, not because there is actually someone to save, but simply as an ‘example’ for the rest of us? In what sense ought we be inspired to be like him? If the sacrifice of Christ did not actually, in and of itself and apart from our subjective perception of it, accomplish our salvation, then to think of that death as having been ‘for our sake’ is to beg the question; we are simply casting a pointless and grotesque tragedy in a retrospectively positive light. As such, the subjective paradigm of salvation by ‘inspiration’ essentially undermines itself.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Historical Jesus
“…it is surely evident that the early Christians had an interest in the historical story [of Jesus] for it’s own sake…” – Bishop John A.T. Robinson
In glancing over the progression of scholarship regarding the role of the historical Jesus in relationship to broader Christology, it is interesting to me that it has consistently been at the hands of those who would claim to be most concerned with gaining an accurate picture of the Jesus of history that, in their inability to recognize and detach themselves from their own philosophical aims, the context, audience, evidence and aim of the Gospel has suffered the most violence. How is it that, again and again, those who seek to take up the ‘Quest’ for the historical Jesus have lead us instead into the arms of a timeless Christ, a disembodied moral exemplar, a universal human principle; the furthest thing possible from that concrete, frustratingly particular and purposed reality that is the person of Jesus of Nazareth, the 1st century Jewish Rabbi and self-proclaimed messiah? Indeed, while this incongruous universalizing of Jesus seems surprising when considered in it’s own right, its origin becomes clear when we recognize that the aim of this quest has never been to genuinely clarify the reality of this inescapably important historical figure, but rather to seek to find a way out of a scriptural understanding of Christ that is simply too uncomfortable to bear. Too influential to dismiss, yet too dangerous in his own right, our ‘quest’ begins with a simple presupposition: he must not have really been/done/said those things. Rooted in distrust of the best available sources, these scholars have repeatedly opted for the authority of their own conjecture and imagination; creating sensible ‘christs’ in their own image, a neutered and confused figure, deeply tragic, but somehow still universally inspiring.
It is further fascinating to me that it is these same scholars who continually miss the radical significance of the historical story, even as they claim deep concern for it. Attempting to fit the gospel into their pre-existing religious paradigms of polemic and instruction, they miss the revolutionary uniqueness of the moment. They fail to appreciate that the reason the evangelists of the early church recorded the life and teachings of Jesus in the form of narrative, in the shape of a historical moment, is that it is precisely the fact that it IS a story, and a true one, that makes it unique, profound, and the foundation of hope itself
Every religious text on earth can basically be boiled down to a series of instructions: live this way, and achieve your proper end. They are essentially compilations of instruction, sprinkled with stories to illustrate that instruction. The Gospel, on the other hand is ESSENTIALLY a story; it is not an instruction manual to tell us what to do, rather it is the good news – the joyful report – about what God has already done on our behalf. While there is a good deal of excellent instruction to be found in scripture, that instruction is MEANINGLESS if the STORY isn’t true. This is why the apostle Paul could so adamantly assert, “…if Christ is not raised, our preaching is useless, and so is your faith.” (1 Cor. 15:14) It is precisely the fact that these things actually and historically happened that is the cornerstone of faith. As such, it is both amazing and tragic that such a ‘quest’ for the Jesus of history would lead to such a spiritualized, universalized, mythologized and disembodied figure. It is as if we have decided that the news readily before us in scripture is just too good to be true, and therefore simply cannot be.
In glancing over the progression of scholarship regarding the role of the historical Jesus in relationship to broader Christology, it is interesting to me that it has consistently been at the hands of those who would claim to be most concerned with gaining an accurate picture of the Jesus of history that, in their inability to recognize and detach themselves from their own philosophical aims, the context, audience, evidence and aim of the Gospel has suffered the most violence. How is it that, again and again, those who seek to take up the ‘Quest’ for the historical Jesus have lead us instead into the arms of a timeless Christ, a disembodied moral exemplar, a universal human principle; the furthest thing possible from that concrete, frustratingly particular and purposed reality that is the person of Jesus of Nazareth, the 1st century Jewish Rabbi and self-proclaimed messiah? Indeed, while this incongruous universalizing of Jesus seems surprising when considered in it’s own right, its origin becomes clear when we recognize that the aim of this quest has never been to genuinely clarify the reality of this inescapably important historical figure, but rather to seek to find a way out of a scriptural understanding of Christ that is simply too uncomfortable to bear. Too influential to dismiss, yet too dangerous in his own right, our ‘quest’ begins with a simple presupposition: he must not have really been/done/said those things. Rooted in distrust of the best available sources, these scholars have repeatedly opted for the authority of their own conjecture and imagination; creating sensible ‘christs’ in their own image, a neutered and confused figure, deeply tragic, but somehow still universally inspiring.
It is further fascinating to me that it is these same scholars who continually miss the radical significance of the historical story, even as they claim deep concern for it. Attempting to fit the gospel into their pre-existing religious paradigms of polemic and instruction, they miss the revolutionary uniqueness of the moment. They fail to appreciate that the reason the evangelists of the early church recorded the life and teachings of Jesus in the form of narrative, in the shape of a historical moment, is that it is precisely the fact that it IS a story, and a true one, that makes it unique, profound, and the foundation of hope itself
Every religious text on earth can basically be boiled down to a series of instructions: live this way, and achieve your proper end. They are essentially compilations of instruction, sprinkled with stories to illustrate that instruction. The Gospel, on the other hand is ESSENTIALLY a story; it is not an instruction manual to tell us what to do, rather it is the good news – the joyful report – about what God has already done on our behalf. While there is a good deal of excellent instruction to be found in scripture, that instruction is MEANINGLESS if the STORY isn’t true. This is why the apostle Paul could so adamantly assert, “…if Christ is not raised, our preaching is useless, and so is your faith.” (1 Cor. 15:14) It is precisely the fact that these things actually and historically happened that is the cornerstone of faith. As such, it is both amazing and tragic that such a ‘quest’ for the Jesus of history would lead to such a spiritualized, universalized, mythologized and disembodied figure. It is as if we have decided that the news readily before us in scripture is just too good to be true, and therefore simply cannot be.
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