Streetwise: Rowan Williams on the church's authority and obedience

‘Theologically speaking, an appeal to the Church’s charter of foundation in the saving act of God, rooted in the eternal act of God, can never be made without the deepest moral ambiguities, unless it involves an awareness of the mode of that saving act as intrinsic to its authoritative quality and as requiring its own kind of obedience. That is to say, the God who works in disponibilité, vulnerability and mortality is not to be ‘obeyed’ by the exercise or the acceptance of an ecclesial authority that pretends to overcome these limits.’

Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition, p. 239

Deconstructing the deconstruction of the church: further thoughts

I had a few more thoughts in the wake of what I wrote last night on Jamie Smith's essay offering an appreciative critique of some of the elemental notions of John Caputo's book What Would Jesus Deconstruct? (Smith's blog is here.)

First, while I entirely agree with the notion that the church is the body of Christ, and more than simply a voluntary human institution among others, it is also true that it is, in fact, a human institution as well. (This is not a disagreement with Smith, but a slight expansion of my own ruminations.) Doing away with this dualism, owing to scruples surrounding 'purity' or a misunderstanding of 'holiness' is quite important. But this should never mitigate our own self-criticism, the honest searching for our idolatries and inhumanities, the ways we've hated and betrayed God and neighbour. In short, we should attune our ears to the judgement of God. The presence of the Lord is never undialectical, unambiguous - never, never a possession, nor a merit, never anything but the active gracious presence of the - to borrow Barth's terms - One who loves in freedom.

This doesn't give us a status or power over others - as if the status of the Empire were simply transposed onto the church - but it does give us (I think this is Paolo Frere's phrase) a power for, a status for others; or, even better, (Frere again) it gives us power with, status with others.

Second, while I disavow the idea that the church is simply a voluntary aggregate of like-minded individuals (or disavow that as a regulative ideal, anyway; that's not what we're meant to be), nevertheless, I feel strongly that there is a necessary element of (divine?) patience involved in the being of the church. That is to say, to affirm that it is an organic body isn't meant to imply that it is a closed body, nor that all those 'parts' (i.e. members) of that body should look alike. It is crucial, it seems to me, within the church, to make room for others and the ones they are, to come in at their own time, with their own gifts and concerns and sins and betrayals. This doesn't betray the elementally corporate nature of the Body of Christ, but elaborates on it. And it might cut against some of our most cherished practices and intuitions in the way that body is formed. It also means that the church is always an 'open' body, always receiving the ones that it needs (although it didn't know it), the organs and limbs it cannot live without and yet has for so long. This also means that we cannot make a final judgement on the shape or life of the church, for it is an emerging reality which will only be known eschatologically. (This doesn't at all mean that we cannot make sensible proximate and not-yet final judgements on it; I encourage just as much above from within, and the church needs to hear those judgements from without as well.) Moreover, if we are constituted by the other, then there is a sense in which our corporate and individual identities are opened out eschatologically by those who are not yet here.

All of this implies that, as I mentioned above, there is a quietness (if not a silence) and a patience at the heart of the church (or, again, there ought to be). I have begun wondering if this patience might not be a means of thematising time as ordered to the glory of God. By this I mean, in part, that to be patient is a renunciation of our own power, our own means of resolving everything (or anything), but rather to look in faith and hope to God: to, by the power of the Spirit, grow to embody - however imperfectly - the patience of God, a patience in God which is correlated with his wisdom (Barth again!). This wisdom is not ours, of course, and the patience cultivated in us by the Spirit is a patience which is not the same as God's, but responsive to it.

A subsidiary point about the church not being simply voluntary: to reject voluntarism takes some imagination. That is to say, we must be cautious in rejecting voluntarism and individualism not simply to affirm in some broad and uncritical way their polar opposites. This would be to let the entire individualist problematic to have the last word; we need something better, more faithful. What might that look like? I wonder if 'honouring the other as the one they are' begins to get at it; much more remains to be done here.

Third, while I cling to the notion that orthodoxy is the more radical (and more faithful) way, I mean to clarify that by this I don't mean 1) a closed, decided once for all system that's simply read off and answers all questions (or at least gets people to stop asking them) or 2) a club to beat others with. It seems to me that orthodoxy is established, emerging, and eschatological. That is to say, the basis and subject matter of orthodoxy is God and particularly God's revelation and act in the incarnation (taken to include the cross and resurrection). It's this and not something else, so it is established.*

Yet also it is emerging. It took decades** for John the Evangelist (and his community) to get to grips with the depth of who Jesus was as the Word of God - indeed, God. I take it that his gospel is different not because he needed more time to make up some good stuff, but because there is an endless depth and intensity to the identity of Jesus which simply cannot be 'read off'. Moreover, it is a question whether John would have endorsed the orthodox beliefs of the incarnation (wherein Jesus is fully human, fully divine) and the Trinity (wherein God is three and one) in just the way that they were encoded later in the church. That's not to say either that John was a heretic - not at all - nor to deny that his text served as an important basis for just those formulations. But again, given the intensity of the identity of Jesus, His Father, and the Spirit, it is not unexpected that this might not be recognised in toto in the first generation. More recent questions have to do with questions about God's suffering (and death?), the status of philosophical theism, and who may be (or is) included in the church and its ministry. Because there are strong - often vehement - sentiments on either side of these issues such that opponents may be dismissed out of hand does not in itself change the fact that these are emergent issues about which we are not yet settled; indeed, this kind of strong, heartfelt engagement just shows that we are not yet settled on them.

Finally, orthodoxy is eschatological. A true orthodoxy - to the extent it gestures towards or describes the real God - is always aware of its own incompleteness, for it does not, cannot, encompass or master God. It cannot be exhaustive or final; although it can manifest a measure of confidence in its confession of the Lord, the truth of that confession - indeed the constitution of the one so confessing - is entirely dependent on that same Lord. And being aware of our own sin, incompleteness, idolatry, ideology, and so forth, we ought to be deeply suspicious of a contentment that comes from a closed doctrinal system, or a confidence in ourselves as independent experts. As Paul says to the Corinthians, 'Now we see in a glass darkly (in all sorts of ways, not merely doctrinal), but then (eschatologically) we will know in full, even as we are known.' And so one of the attitudes of the orthodox (it seems to me) should be a certain sort of 'startled humility' (Barth, again): not that our truths are not true, but that they are not ours. I hope the connections here between these doctrinal affirmations and the practices of the church such as prayer, Eucharist, Scripture-reading, conversation, baptism and so forth are manifest.

*In fact, God doesn't need our orthodoxy: we do, for it names - and glorifies - the true Lord.

** That is, John is written several decades after the synoptic gospels; not that he was writing all that time, but that the author and the community had more time behind it between them and Christ.

Picture - Rembrandt's Christ At Emmaus, 1648

Oh yeah, well deconstruct this!

It's been awhile since I've posted. Of all the habits of blogging, doing it consistently, regularly, has been the hardest for me. I'll get a streak of several posts within a week or so, and then be dark the next week as my 'real life' (ha ha) gets busy. All of which is not to say that I'm going to be better on this front, just that yes, I know...

Anyway, I ran across an article by Jamie Smith - who is usually assistant professor of philosophy at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, but just now is overseeing their exchange program at York St. John's University - on The Incarnation as More Radical Hermeneutics. It is a critical yet appreciative review of John Caputo's What Would Jesus Deconstruct?

I like the sort of stuff that Smith does, and this is a good introduction to part of it. Part of his critique of Caputo is that his portrait of Jesus is (ironically) hard to tell from contemporary liberalism, and that the Jesus of the gospels - indeed, for those with ears to hear, of orthodoxy - is far more radical than that. One way this is so is that the scandal of the incarnation creates a body, an institution, which carries on in the Spirit down the ages, witnessing to the Word, the living God; this body is scandalous (to us) by not simply being a voluntary organisation of like-minded people, a benevolent organisation whose watchword is laissez-faire individualism. At least in this way, we are different from the world around us.

Or so we're supposed to be.

Go and have a read of Smith's essay, it's good. I've borrowed a couple of terms and intellectual moves from him for the above, which is an improvisation on one or two aspects of the essay.

Mature Christians and Willow Creek

I have had - at best - an ambivalent relationship with Willow Creek and what they're about. Of course, evangelism is crucial, and they've tried doing it in a focused and specific way, and so should be praised for that. But I have far more questions and hesitations than I have endorsements for them.

They've come out with a self-study entitled Reveal*, which Christianity Today writes about here. They have discovered that, on the basis of a survey, people who are not yet Christians or who are new Christians find that Willow Creek (and churches like it) is wonderfully helpful. Growing and mature Christians however find it unhelpful and are moving to leave the church. The CT essay is right on in a number of ways. First, it questions the - at least potential - spiritual narcissism of someone who is 'mature' and is looking to be 'fed'. Bill Hybels said that they need to learn to be 'self-feeders', with the church giving them the tools to continue growing on their own. There is something basically right about this, and I've always been concerned about Christians using this phrase 'being fed' when it comes to teaching or preaching in a church: presumably when we are adults we can feed ourselves - and feed others as well. But I'm also concerned about this idea of being a 'self-feeder' to the degree that it is pretty isolated, something one does alone and apart from the church.

The essay expands on this helpfully:

Should we be encouraging this apparent spiritual narcissism by helping people become "self-feeders"? This does not strike me as a healthy way to describe the mature disciple of Jesus Christ. While there is great wisdom in developing for individuals a "customized personal spiritual growth plan"—which looks very much like the venerable practice of spiritual direction—I wonder if we want to make "my spiritual growth" the focus for the mature believer.

The more mature we become in Jesus, the less we try to measure or chart or describe "my spiritual growth." Instead, we are called to think less about ourselves and more about God. We're less interested in what the self is experiencing and more interested in the Jesus we're serving. The self, including the spiritual self, is increasingly crucified. The key question of the mature disciple is not "Am I growing?" but "Am I serving?"

'Not being fed' might also be about depth, too. (In fact, the phrased isn't parsed out.) If the only idiom in which the church can speak is an introductory one, then perhaps there just isn't much there to encourage depth of growth or engagement. Maybe instead of using the image of eating or being fed we might talk about a massive multi-generational conversation, which incorporates people at all levels: it isn't dumbed down for children, but neither are they excluded (indeed, the conversation is what they are brought into, even they don't understand it all).

Through all this, there is also a pretty anemic ecclesiology; there is no sense of the church actually being a body, and of the relationships among the various constituent parts being a crucial aspect of that body's identity. Indeed, one gets the idea that the church is primarily for getting people over the threshold, rather than being a differentiated body engaging the mission of God in the world; in Willow's model, it seems that the primary locus of discipleship is the individual, someone who is mature enough to be responsible for himself. But that's pretty limited; it seems instead that we are called as the church and as people to a kind of interdependence.


* Disclaimer: I have not yet read the survey and - like so many other commentators, no doubt - am relying on second-hand reportage.

Egads! Shop now and (be) save(d)!

I think I have a book to write about this, but I have something else to write just now, so I'll just supply the link and a little more:

Naomi Schafer Riley reviews briefly and well the book "Shopping for God" by James B. Twitchell in the Wall Street Journal. Twitchell claims, without evident irony, that "Choosing a religion, he argues, is much like choosing any other product - from breakfast food to beer"* It sounds shocking but not surprising - turn the word 'pastorpreneurs' over in your head a bit - and if Twitchell is serious in what he says, this seems a wakeup call for the church in America (not the West as a whole). It poses the serious question of how to imagine our faith and the church in a way which is not wholly compromised by marketing, consumption, and economic metaphors.

It is worth noting, though, that it is not the opposite of such things, and there is a hallowed (?)tradition of combining consumption with Christian faith - purchase of mementos from pilgrimage sites being an early and obvious example. In some ways (not totally) the entire travel and souvenir industries stem from this practice of pilgrimage. This is only one example of a number that could be given. It might be worth looking closely at the practice of consumption - perhaps from a phenomonological perspective - to see, anthropologically and sociologically speaking, what human need is met, and how that might relate to religious faith.

But that aside, it does seem - and here I'm trying to be discerning and make a judgement, an activity which always implies that it could be otherwise** - that this might be one of the major tasks of the church in America (in particular***) in the early twenty first century: how do we imagine Christian faith as something other than business or personal preference? And how, through that, can we imagine genuine human life as something broader and richer than economics and consumption, both of which properly serve human life as a part of it, rather than becoming dominant modes of discourse and imagination?

I think I ought to read Twitchell's book - although I don't know when I possibly can - but I expect it will make me sick to my stomache. (Maybe Christmastide would be good.)


*This is Riley's summary of Twitchell's thesis; I am at the mercy of her summation skills!

**As opposed to, say, an arithmetic equation or logical syllogism, which require no judgement, discernment, or argumentation per se.

*** My experience of the church in England is quite different than this; there is generally a rather different sort of imagination here about such things which is not as easily reduced to these (economic) kinds of metaphors.

Theocapitalism and theological economics

I'm surprised to find it's been a fortnight since I've managed to post anything. I've been ill, and crazy busy, between writing up and preparing for lectures and whatnot.

But I ran across a post over at Scot McKnight's blog The Jesus Creed, in which he is exploring some of the ideas of Brian McLaren's Everything Must Change.

(I don't know about you, but whenever I'm confronted with a book title like that, I am instantly skeptical - oh, yeah? says who? on what grounds? to serve the interest of whom? and so forth. The odd thing about McLaren is that usually when I get around to reading him - and I do - I find that what he's saying isn't very radical or new at all but just seems, well, common. Odd experience, I don't know if anyone else has encountered that or not. Maybe I'm just not his audience, maybe he' s intending to 'rock the world' of an older group or a different part of the church or something. Or maybe I'm just radically out of step with massive parts of the church.)

So anyway, Scot has posted four points that McLaren makes about Jesus' counter-stories to the theo-capitalist mythology. In order not to simply reproduce that post, I will just provide a link to it - go and check it out, there are some very important points made here. Also check out, in the third comment, the very potent and rich phrase: 'Would it not be a good idea to have a group of people from different disciplines work on these ideas to design a “sacred ecosystem” as a genuine alternative to theocapitalism...' Indeed, developing that 'sacred ecosystem' may be part of the church's task for the foreseeable future, as it provides - often unintentionally, and in many cases less so now than in previous years - one of the few viable or widespread alternatives in America to theocapitalism.

(What is theocapitalism? Apparently McLaren says more in his book about it being an 'economic idolatry', and McKnight says a bit more here. As a term, it at least serves to place a wedge between our present arrangements and the Lord in such a way as to open some space for thinking.)

There have also been two provocative postings by Scott Stephens on Faith and Theology recently on theological analysis of political economics, one entitled Marx and Hitchens among the Theologians, and another called On Capitalism, God, and Mammon. They are not without their limitations - I've indicated as much in a comment on the latter one, (and further, although I don't see it, to the extent he actually is taking a Marcionite perspective on things, he wins no points from me). But in the former one, whilst incisively critiquing Christopher Hitchens' latest work, he also helpfully reminds readers that, for Christians, Marx may actually be (at least) as much of an ally as an opponent.

Streetwise: Rowan Williams on Sacraments and society

A couple more salutary quotations from Rowan Williams in On Christian Theology, this time from the essay 'Sacraments of the New Society'.

'Sacramental practice seems to speak most clearly of loss, dependence and interdependence, solidarities we do not choose: none of them themes that are particularly welcome or audible in the social world we currently inhabit as secular subjects. We are told, in effect, that the failure to see ourselves and find ourselves in one or another kind of corporateness is a failure in truthfulness that is profoundly risky. Our liberty to choose and define our goals as individuals or as limited groups with common interest is set alongside the vision of a society in which almost the only thing we can know about the good we are to seek is that it is no one's possession, the triumph of no party's interests. The search for my or our good becomes the searc for a good that does not violently dispossess any other -- and this not on the basis of rights who balance must be adjudicated, but because of a conviction that the creative regard calling and sustaining myself is precisely what sustains all. And what make this something different [than] an imposed collectivism is the fact that it is appropriated by no force but by trust, by the recognition of the hidden unities of human interest: our own transition, our own 'passover', into the need of the other, whereever and whoever the other may be.' (p. 219)

'It is this capacity to imagine a 'faithful people' [which the sacraments bring] that seems to me the most significant irritant offered by sacramental practice to the contemporary social scene. One of the most ill-disgnosed features of the present crisis in capitalist society (fast being exported to aspiring capitalist societies everywhere) is the decline of trust. Privation today brings cynicism in its wake: there is little reason for anyone to believe that others are dependable, that resources work for the common good. If this is a fundamental perception or experience of the social order, it becomes practically impossible to 'socialize' people who see their world like this -- the young or the old, marginal or suspect communities of any kind, those in prison, the disabled. This invites an adverserial relation to those institutions felt to have betrayed the disadvantaged, directly or indirectly (why are schools in impoverished areas regular targets for arson?) We can easily misunderstand the much-discussed problem of a so-called 'culture of dependency' among the disadvantaged. It is not, surely, that the ideal of collective welfare as such is disabling: welfarism becomes disabling when society is such that recipients or clients of social and health services are frozen in the attitude of suppliants, never becoming fellow-agents with those administering aid. They need but are not needed. It is not surprising, in such circumstances, that a discourse of rights and claims becomes more and more strident and -- often -- uncritical, unexamined.' (p.220)

The Irony of Cyberspace

Thomas Curwen, travel writer for the LA Times, has written a 'travel shorts' column entitled Travelling Through Time, in which he explores the changing nature of travel and particularly our seemingly spiralling anger and frustration with it. He contrasts this with previous generations' experience of travel; he does not romanticise these previous generations, just the opposite. Compared with them, we have it good. Usually.

He muses that it seems the difficulties of travel have to do with several factors at once: rising expectations of the experience, coupled with a sense of 'needing' or 'deserving' a holiday, along with a growing but unrealistic expectation that it will be cheap. He approvingly quotes Pico Iyer in part of his analysis:

"I think it's more than possible that we are growing more angry these days as we grow more spoiled, more used to having our own way, more masters of our own tiny domain," says traveler and writer Pico Iyer. "Cyberspace, in fact, tempts us to live ever farther from the world at large and ever more within our own ideas and niche interests and selected friends. In that regard, going out into the world, where things can't be controlled, may be a greater shock than ever."

Beyond its service to Curwen's point, I find that a striking quotation, for if Iyer is right (and I suspect he is) then the very thing which hastens globalisation and shrinks the world ever more is also the same thing which distances us from the world, cocoons us off from all but those (like-minded) we allow in. We ensconce ourselves in a fantasy world, an echo chamber in which we do not need to negotiate with others, or even listen to them, only to emerge now and then and find - yikes! - that the world is populated with idiots who don't think like me, and don't do what I want. The irony of Cyberspace.

I thought at first Iyer's use of 'spoiled' was a bit over the top, but on reflection I think it is right on, for if this analysis is correct then this is essentially a matter of childishness on our part.

This dynamic - for now let's call it a fragmentation based on special interests and echo chambers and agree to come up with a better term later - reflects in all sorts of facets of our contemporary world in the West, but I might just mention two.

The church wrestles with this dynamic on at least two fronts. First, the church is increasingly satisfied with niche marketing: this is seen in churches planted to reach 'boomers' or 'xers' or whatever. It is also seen to some extent in its use of marketing techniques in place of evangelism (and the unbalanced and occasionally sick way we do evangelism). And it is seen across denominations as we are increasingly content to either simply 'take care of our own', defined usually by race, class, marital or family status. These are all ways of lining up people who are (more or less) like minded; to put it another way, it is a recipe for a sect rather than a church.

The second front on which the church is faced with this is in the controversies it faces - and here, of course, I have in mind the Anglican Communion particularly, but it is no different across the board (although of course it takes different forms, with different issues, with different degrees of openness or publicity). The ill-kept secret reflected in the actions of most conservatives and most liberals* is that we are quite eager to split, despite rhetoric to the contrary. If we split then we don't have to deal with those with whom we disagree, we don't need to hear what they have to say, we don't have to acknowledge that they are Christians or that we might be wrong. We will have not only an authoritative Scripture, but also our - my - authoritative intepretation. The fragmentation, distancing, and echo-chambering in this case is obvious; it reflects a lack of maturity and ought to be occasion for shame.

Both of these fronts are temptations to idolatry.

The other facet I had in mind is the disappearance of anything like a public square. I mean that literally, in terms of civic design, but it is also true metaphorically. A public square - unlike its ersatz contemporary form, the shopping mall, which anticipates the narrowing found in internet echo-chambering - is an open, public space in which life unfolds. The best public squares combine commerce, municipal functions, church presence, housing, and flexible space for multiple uses. They are places which are easily accessed by a wide variety of people (including the homeless or those on the margins), and admit of spontaneous 'trial enounters' in differing ways: meeting a new friend, children playing, encountering a stranger, protesting or rallying, or simply spending time in a place which is both ours and not ours. A well-designed public square is the heart of a city and allows for sociality in its many varied forms to unfold with a richness - specifically in terms of people who are different from oneself - that cannot generally be found elsewhere. Their loss (in terms of usage) is deeply unfortunate, but would be less so if it were replaced by some other forum which served the same purpose. In the event, however, we are just poorer for not realising the potential of the public square and settling for that which is far less.



*I specifically mean reflected in our actions, not in what we say; I also don't take 'liberal' and 'conservative' to exhaust the field of options theologically or ecclesiologically.

Streetwise: The Face of Christ

Again, I find myself surprised at how long it has been since I've posted. To the two or three people who bother checking in to see if I have written recently: Sorry! I've been busy...

Streetwise is an occasional feature on Gower Street wherein I share and sometimes comment on or expand one or more quotations from something I am reading.

I'm still reading - but nearly done with - Rowan Williams' fine On Christian Theology, but I am also reading Meaning and Truth in 2 Corinthians by Frances Young and David Ford, in preparation for writing on 2 Corinthians in my dissertation. (What an amazing epistle, btw!) As one would expect from a book written by such as Young and Ford, one finds numerous insights and deep theological probings into the the apostle's letter: much that is quotable, as well, but a couple particularly worth keeping for later:

"The main features of Paul’s idea of authority can be related to the face of Christ. This face represents the gospel and the revelation of what was hidden by Moses’ veil. Its authority is relational, interactive and non-coercive. It is both and embodiment of ultimate authority, the glory of God, and also is distributed, ‘shining in our hearts’. It has been vulnerable to the point of actual death. It is an interpretative authority, communicating knowledge, and is eschatological, a vision imperfectly grasped by faith until the final ‘face to face’. To live in faith before this face is to have a criterion for all authority and a liberation from the idolatries of power. Above all it is to live in freedom and love, in which the very issue of authority, which is always secondary for Paul, is swallowed up in the reality it serves, ‘transformation into that self-same image, from glory to glory’ (3.18) That is the Church being built up, which is the only purpose of Paul’s authority." (p. 232)

‘All of this [viz. the centrality of the face of Christ] questions our use of the concept of ‘identity’ referring to God, Christ, and ourselves. If identity implies something self-same, with a permanent centre and discernable boundaries, that that is inadequate. If God’s glory in the face of Christ shows who God is, and if this glory is shared with us in a way that ‘transforms us into that self-same image, from glory to glory’ (3.18), usual notions of identity need to be transformed, too. This ‘self-same image’ denies any individualism or autonomy in being a person, but constitutes identity in a new way, through being part of God’s sharing of his own glory. This changes the very idea of the boundaries of self in favour of concepts such as coinherence, exchange, mutual indwelling and living for others. Above all, the new identity is summed up in te face, which is at once the mark of unique personality and the embodiment of receptivity to others. The welcome of the face is not a threat to other selves but is the supreme sign of the possibility that we can live in free, non-competitive mutuality. Yet this is a freedom that is in its very essence responsible, because it only exists face to face with the other who continually puts the self in question and calls us to live responsively.’ (251,2)

Streetwise: On Christian Theology

First, I should say that I was startled to realise that it has been three weeks since I last published - where does the time go?

Streetwise is an occasional feature on Gower Street wherein I share and sometimes comment on or expand one or more quotations from something I am reading.

Right now, I am reading Rowan Williams' On Christian Theology.

'And because we assume the analogy between our time and the narrative time of Scripture, and Scriptural time moves toward the specific time of renewal and liberation in Jesus, we [in the church] in our own conflicts can maintain hope. We are not spared the cost of conflict or promised a final theological resolution; rather we are assured of the possibility of 're-producing' the meaning that is Christ crucified and risen, through our commitment to an unavoidably divided church - not by the effort to reconcile at all costs, but by carrying the burdens of conflict in the face of that unifying judgement bodied forth in preaching and sacrament. In that openness to the plain historical difficulty of belonging to the Church, we open ourselves to the gift of Christ.' (p.58)

A Few Links for the Week

I am going to be busy at a conference for most of the rest of the week, and so I wanted to post the links before I forget them. They look as if they will be good reading.

D.W. Congdon is writing on the Spirit of the Lord, and in his first post he inveighs against the Sanitised Savior of Suburbia. This Jesus, he writes:

is innocuous, non-confrontational, safe for the consumeristic spirit of Santa. He has no beef with the materialistic society of America. He has no quarrel with the economic oppression of First World countries against the Two-Thirds World. He puts up no nonviolent resistance against the political persecution of Muslims, against the military brutality in the numerous interrogation camps around the world, against the extreme poverty and disease that ravage entire continents. This Jesus is the one who blesses dualism: who only claims a person’s soul and leaves the body up to others, whether to the noncommittal social programs of the governmental or to the oppressive regimes of power which feed off of the subjugation of those lowest in society. This Jesus is the one who blesses suburban complacency, who wanders the urban streets in order to shopbut never to sit and talk and love, who always walks on the other side of the road when there is a homeless person asking for money or a man beat up and left for dead. The SSS is the god of America, and insofar as the SSS is understood as “Christian,” we indeed live in a “Christian nation.”

A bracing start to what sounds like a promising series.

I am particularly intrigued by the proposal of a Pneumatology which will be embodied, public, political, rather than simply internal and private, a matter of 'God and me'. I have been moving in the direction of this kind of account for some time, but simply haven't had the time and opportunity to follow it up in as much detail as I would like. But it seems to me that a biblically faithful pneumatology would be an 'external indwelling', encompassing the 'internal' but also decentering it. Congdon's posts are not specifically a Pneumatology, but a critique of the sort of gnostic dualism which is often found in the church and its preaching, and a constructive account of 'The Spirit of the Lord'. But I think it will be quite interesting and helpful.

Anyway, D.W.'s second post giving the impetus for the project (with the above excerpt) is here, and here is the unfolding index for the project. I hope to read it all soon.

Also, Poserorprophet has a series on Christianity and Capitalism which I hope to read soon. Having skimmed a few of them, it looks as if it will be a good theological critique of the regnant system the world has for ordering, distribution and deserving. First post here.

Blessed unclarity?

I am still acclimated to having diminished hearing. Sometimes I still find, especially in bad acoustic situations, that I just can't hear properly at all. Other times things come out garbled or I mishear what people say. Sometimes this mishearing can be funny, and every once in a while thought-provoking.

Today I thought I heard the person leading the prayers of the people pray 'for those in authority under us'. I thought I was sure I misheard (and, asking later, this was verified), but what a neat image. We're so used to authority being 'over' us, as if to keep us down, or keep us in line, put us in our place. What if authority is something 'under' us, to support us, uphold us, lift us? This would be a way of construing what true authority is in the church: service. And the greatest will be called servant of all. This is a service and authority which elevates people and makes possible the fullness which God intends for us, an authority authorised by the very flourishing it gives rise to.

Heresy and schism: an unfolding conversation

Just today I've discovered Dave Belcher and his blog, where he blogrolled me and linked to Marshall and I (and I think others, earlier) on our discussions on heresy and schism, and he has made his own contribution as well. Here is the relevant post. I began replying but found that my response was turning into a post in its own right, so here most of it is, with a few little changes.

Since so much of this is response, it really is important to go and see his original post and the distinctions he draws within it. It is a helpful illumining through the lens of Augustine and the Donatists. I will quote sections I am responding to below:

1) It is worth reinforcing that in my original post I was trying to find a common source for schism and heresy in human pride, rather than trying simply to equate (or conflate) the two.

2) As I have thought about it, though, it certainly seems as if they are related. I'm not at an end of my thinking, but I would say that it seems as if schism is a form of heresy. I have in mind, here, John 17:20-23, where Jesus is saying that our love and unity (effected by the Father, through the Son, in the Spirit) witness to the love and unity of the Son and the Father. For us to be rent asunder -- and that deliberately leaves ambiguous who rends and who is rent -- as schism does, separates the members of the Body of Christ, and in a real sense contradicts the truth of the unity of Father and Son (which I would take to be heresy).

Dave says: Augustine's point against the Donatists' conception of the necessity of right performance is that faith (moral purity) without an intentionality towards unity (caritas) is meaningless. In other words, if the minister and the recipient of Baptism are both pure in faith, but have no intention towards catholic unity (if they do not know how to love), then that faith is dead (James 2:26). This does not mean that dead faith is the same thing as heresy, however. Heresy is a strict contradiction of the faith (and here it is important to note that in early Christianity, especially in connection to Baptism, faith is often used to signify the Creed), whereas "dead faith" is a faith that does not lead to the "works" of charity (and the absence of charity--love--is the absence of unity...schism). The issue for me, here, is that if schism ruins one's faith in addition to the loss of charity, then what have those to give them hope? Is there not hope even for the one without faith? (recall that heretics are always instructed and disciplined in order that they might be brought back into reconciliation) Is there not hope even for the one without love? (and also recall how often Augustine lamented over the Donatists, and wished in all sincerity that they would return to unity--even as he severely demonstrates the errors of Petilianus' ways, for instance) But, without faith and love is there any place from which to reach out? To whom are we then reaching out? To those who have rejected unity, but in so doing have lost the gift of faith that first granted them Baptism? Are they then to be rebaptized? Is it not faith (and thus also the Creed) that first gives us the possibility of love (and thus also unity)?

3) As for your first point, drawing on Augustine, I may not fully grasp your point -- and if so, please inform me. But it seems to me that if faith without intentionality towards love is meaningless (that is, that faith implies and is expressed fully in love), then contradicting the faith (heresy) implies a lack of love (schism). To put it another way, the lack of love just does mean a lack of faith. (I need to be explicit here that I am taking a slight ambiguity in your entry, on faith (moral purity, creed) and bringing the two into close connection. I'm uncomfortable with the notion of 'creed' or 'faith' being only a matter of certain notions or propositions -- certainly they are at least that, but they are also much more!)

Dave's second (last) point: But, really, the issue is this: If we are indeed all schismatics, then doesn't that also make us all heretics? And if that is the case, what is necessary for unity? Simply a (re-)affirmation of faith? A wholesale rebaptism of all of Christianity? And at this point are we not rejecting the efficacy of all baptisms by virtue of the power of the Holy Spirit ("ex opere operato")?

4) And for your last point, which has some existential bite to it, I don't have an answer. I think it is worth letting ourselves be interrogated a bit, let ourselves doubt, not take refuge in conventional pieties solipsistic self-assurances*: maybe we are all schismatics, maybe we are all heretics? This isn't much different than many of us would confess already, that we are all schismatics and some of us are heretics, is it? Perhaps both the purity of truth and the fullness of love are only meant to be manifested eschatologically, that the optative mood in John is not meant for now but for the eschaton**, and our heresy and schism, while not acceptable, are nevertheless part of our present reality, living as a 'broken sign'.

There is of course more, much more, to be said, and I haven't even had a look yet at Marshall's latest post.


*(not that I'm saying you would, in particular, Dave -- I think it is a temptation for us all, at times.)
**I think this unlikely, but what if?

Schism: The Handmaiden of Heresy

Communion in Conflict: Schism: The Handmaiden of Heresy

Marshall Montgomery has been ruminating on schism and heresy, too. (Although, unbeknownst to me, before I did.)

He expounds on three theses:
Schism generates heresy.
Schism perpetuates heresy.
Schism reinforces heresy.

He takes a slightly different tack on it, but I quite think we are in basic agreement. While I maintain that they are both aspects of the same thing, he envisions something more of a cause-effect relationship. I don't think I object to seeming them complexly related as cause to effect, so long as the relation is not only in one direction.

In any event, he sifts through the issues well, and it's worth a read.

Schism and Heresy

I was talking informally with someone a couple of weeks ago and he mentioned that there was a bishop in the Episcopal Church (USA) who said that schism was worse than heresy.* In response to that he scoffed, finding it risible.

I don't want to speculate too far on my conversation partner's point, as he did not elaborate. I think it fair to say, though, that most likely he would have prioritised it the other way around: schism is warranted on grounds of heresy, or at least far less serious than heresy.

But after considering it awhile, I don't think they can be prioritised in that way. It seems to me, rather, that they are both awful, both to be resisted. Or, to put a somewhat finer point on it, they are simply two species of the same thing: human pride.


* The identity of the bishop and my interlocutor are unimportant to my point.

Hypotheses offered, argumentation and evidence to follow

Hypothesis 1) Church marketing grows out of secular marketing.

Hypothesis 2) Secular marketing grows out of American revivalism, particularly of the nineteenth century (i.e. the "Second Great Awakening" and its successors.)

Hypothesis 3) The Second Great Awakening used pragmatic, instrumental methods to bring about conversions (i.e. the means did not match the ends). This shows a distinctively modern triumph of method in church practice, not necessarily the first, but probably the most prominent early use. (I take it that Modernity is ultimately nihilistic and inhuman, based on violence, and hence a problem for Christians.)

Hypothesis 4) (strong version) The ecclesiology that endorsed the Second Great Awakening is dubious (or at least infelicitous in our present American context) and ought to be rejected

Hypothesis 5) (strong version) The Christian church ought also to reject secular marketing as the outgrowth of a heretical development in the church during the nineteenth century.

...or if you don't like that...

Hypothesis 4) (weaker version) A certain sort of ecclesiology (largely Baptist and other free-church Protestants) supported the Second Great Awakening, and left its mark indelibly on that revival and subsequent developments from it (like church marketing).

Hypothesis 5) (weaker version) Certain segments of the Christian church -- Anglican, Orthodox, Roman Catholic, many Lutherans -- ought to reject the practice of church marketing as based on an incompatible ecclesiology.