Enzo Bianchi: “E tuttavia, se l’altro non accetta il perdono, se l’altro non assume il perdono, il perdonante, nel perdonare, afferma la gratuità.  Afferma che lui vuole ricominciare da capo la relazione con l’altro, che gli ha fatto del male.   Vuole in qualche misura dire che non vuole la reciprocità.  Questo secondo me è ciò che è davvero umano, profondamente umano, nel perdonare.”

“In any case, if the other does not accept or receive forgiveness, the one who forgives, in forgiving, affirms gratuitousness.  He affirms that he wants to re-initiate the relationship with the other—the one who wronged him—from the beginning.  He wants in some way to say that he does not want reciprocity.  This to me is what is truly and profoundly human in forgiving.”

Listening again to the podcast (see the foot of this post) of an exchange between Enzo Bianchi (the prior of the Bose Monastery) and Gustavo Zagrebelsky (an ex-member and ex-president of the Italian Constitutional Court), I was suddenly struck by these few statements by Bianchi in the middle of a much larger dialogue.  The theme of gratuitousness (la gratuità) is one to which I am particularly attuned since my translation of Luigino Bruni’s The Wound and The Other: Economics, Relationships, and Happiness (La ferita dell’altro: economia e relazioni umane; forthcoming in English from New City Press).  Gratuitousness is the central term in that book; Bruni asserts the value of gratuitousness as the expression in the market of a more general agapic love.

Bruni argues generally for reciprocity in markets, as opposed to either of the polar opposites of self-interest and altruism (other-interest).  We meet in the market in order to exchange because we need a good the other has, whether a product or a service, and others need something we can offer.  In this sense reciprocity is a recommendable paradigm of economic activity, as we exchange in ways that, at least to some extent, takes into account the attitudes and behaviors of the other.  However, reciprocity is not a complete paradigm: gratuitousness is needed to alter one’s response when one has been wronged.  Being willing to be hurt, absorb the wound, and transform it into a blessing, is the essence of a gratuitous response.

In contrast, Bianchi seems to focus on gratuitousness as only contrasted against reciprocity.  In a situation in which someone has hurt me, offering forgiveness—not from a position of moral superiority, but as a peer—is in direct contrast with a reciprocal response.  In a case of offense, a reciprocal response would be more what we might call revenge, or retaliation—an eye for an eye, that sort of thing.

At first it might seem that Bruni’s and Bianchi’s views of reciprocity are somewhat at odds with each other.  Bianchi’s view is that gratuitousness is in opposition to reciprocity; for Bruni, they seem more complementary, with gratuitousness filling in the spaces in what are otherwise reciprocal market transactions.

On reflection, however, there is no difference in their positions.  Bianchi contrasts gratuitousness and reciprocity in a situation in which offense and wound have already happened, and it is precisely in such a situation of wound and offense that Bruni argues for a response of gratuitousness rather than reciprocity.  In non-injurious relationships, reciprocity is a good and normal sociality; when the relationship becomes injurious, both Bruni and Bianchi argue for a response of gratuitousness rather than reciprocity.

Uomini e profeti, Speciale Torino Spiritualità – “Perché il perdono?” con Enzo Bianchi e Gustavo Zagrebelsky, il 25.09.2010
http://www.radio3.rai.it/dl/radio3/programmi/puntata/ContentItem-be3fc669-44f8-478f-b411-fead492a4328.html

Dal programma “Uomini e Profeti” del 20/3/2011, “Saul: tragedia del primo re”, col rabbino Haim Baharier.

Haim Baharier, a rabbi in Italy, was the guest on the March 20th program of Uomini e Profeti discussing I Samuel 9-15, entitled “Saul: tragedy of the first king”.  In the course of the discussion he made a remark that caught my attention.

Noi parliamo del re d’Israel, Shaul, mentre il testo parla di ‘naghid’, e non parla di un re. ‘Naghid’, che sarebbe poi una guida, è di nuovo etimologicamente una parola che ha a che vedere con ‘narrazione’. Quindi è come se venisse offerto a questo popolo che chiede una guida, un re, gli venisse offerto un narratore.

We speak of Israel’s king, Saul, while the text speaks of a ‘naghid’, not a king.  A ‘naghid’, that is, a guide, is in turn a word that etymologically has to do with ‘narration’.  Thus, to this people who asks for a guide, a king, it is as though a narrator is offered.

I find this a fascinating comment on the role of a sovereign—a king, a president, a prime minister, perhaps even a legislature—as one who, in the process of making decisions toward specific ends which he or she determines, authors and narrates the group’s formative myths in the process.

Foundationalism is an ancient theory of knowledge, going back at least as far as Aristotle, that we can know the world 1) immediately (i.e. directly, in an unmediated manner) and 2) incorrigibly (i.e. with no need of correction).  The problem is, foundationalism does not hold up well under criticism.  Nicholas Wolterstorff has explored the collapse of foundationalism in his brief work Reason within the Bounds of Religion (see also this helpful review).  Some in discussing an alternative to a total post-modern collapse have discussed various versions of a moderate foundationalism in which we can at least partially know the world veridically.  The question remains: what of our experiences are true, and how might we know them as true?  Where do we start?

I have a friend profoundly mired in a post-foundationalist crisis.  His worldview, once anchored in a naïvely foundationalist, modernist Christianity (and he is intelligent and well-educated), has crumbled under the 20 year weight of his experiences in what he thought was an authentic Christian community, which he now understands to be a deeply deceitful cult.  Now nothing at all is certain, and he told me recently that he was well on his way to becoming a Logical Positivist (in which the meaning of a statement is the possibility of its verification; with no possibility of verification a statement is simply unintelligible).  I think I have dissuaded him of that futile path, but he remains without an epistemic anchor.

Having lived through something of the same process as my friend, I have begun recounting to him what for me has been the best fallback to date, which is Karol Wojtyla’s Person and Act.**  This was Wojtyla’s most significant pre-papal work, in which he explores the concept of “person” through a phenomenological lens.  Summarizing extremely, we come to know ourselves through our interaction with others; we are not detached knowers of the world in the typical modern sense, but our knowledge of ourselves is intimately bound up in relation to others and to the world.  Precisely because our self-knowledge is intertwined with our experiences of the world, when we encounter something outside ourselves that seems true, to then deny its veridicality, though perhaps provisionally and subject to further understanding, is in some way to deny ourselves.  We most fully become ourselves in transcending ourselves toward the truth we encounter outside ourselves.

The starting point thus becomes not a near-solipcistic Cartesian cogito, but our knowledge of ourselves through experience of the world, and, most significantly, the other.  This seems the best explanation of how I have come to recognize the truth to which I can hold.  It may be partial, mediated, and subject to correction and fuller knowledge, but certain things ring so true that for me to deny them is to deny myself.  As I experience the world, I find things that present themselves as true, in that I can re-cognize an underlying reality; to deny the truth of the world as it presents itself is at some level to deny my existence in it.  As I experience the love of and for another, to deny that love is to deny my existence as one who can love and be loved.  I have had certain mystical experiences, some of which involve the most immediate knowledge I have ever had of both good and evil, that are as real to me as any sense-based experience; to deny those would perhaps be the most profound denial of myself, as these touch me at my core, well beyond my normal interaction with the world.  In Wolterstorff’s terms, I think of these as my “authentic commitments”, or a set of control beliefs, from which basis I seek to further understand the world.

Such an epistemology loses the comfortable certainly of foundationalism.  So be it; contra Protagoras, I am not the measure of all things.  As I see things at the moment, any certainty that I have does not derive from my ability to reduce the world to the scope of my theories, whether scientific or theological, but from these truths which I re-cognize outside myself, toward which I reach beyond myself.

——

** The text I am reading is the Italian translation of “Persona e Atto” (“The Acting Person” in its English translation) from the original Polish by Giuseppe Girgenti and Patrycja Mikulska, contained in the Italian language compendium of all Wojtyla’s philosophical works Metafisica della Persona, Giovanni Reale and Tadeusz Styczen, eds. (Bompiani, 2003).

All of my life I have heard it taught that Abraham made a mistake in having Ishmael, that in having a child by Hagar he tried on his own to realize God’s promises, thus creating all sorts of avoidable historical conflict.  At a back-of-the-mind level I have always wondered why no later biblical author gave such a criticism, but in general I accepted the contemporary teaching.

I was quite startled recently in reading the story anew that the text itself gives no indication that Ishmael was in any way a mistake or the result of Abraham making things happen on his own without waiting for God to act.  Reading the story chronologically, considering what Abraham knew at each time and the cultural norms of that day, no such conclusion can be drawn.

In the first covenant scene, God simply promises Abraham that he would have countless descendants; nothing was said at that time that the child would be born by Sarah.  The story then follows with Sarah, remaining childless, giving Hagar to Abraham and Hagar bearing Ishmael.  It was only in a much later reiteration of the promise, after Abraham and Sarah are both beyond childbearing age, that God stated specifically that Sarah would have a child; both of them laughed at that promise, it seemed so impossible.

The conclusion is clear: God had in mind something that Abraham could not have known because it was not previously given to him, and thus on the basis of which he could not act.  In having Ishmael by Hagar, Abraham in no way violated or pushed God’s promise to make it happen on his own.  He acted according to what he knew at the time, and his actions were normal in his time.

I wonder if current teaching doesn’t source at least partly from reading contemporary discomfort back into the text regarding the practice of having children by the slave of one’s wife.  There are at least two sensibilities involved, one regarding slavery, the other regarding an exclusive relationship between man and wife.  The problem is that, whether we like it or not, whether or not it tidily fits our theology or praxis, both practices were normal for that day.

A consistent judgment of Abraham having a child by Hagar would also entail an equally sharp judgment of Jacob’s relationship to Leah and Rachel and their slaves, from which the twelve tribes sourced.  Who today would state that the twelve tribes are the result of a mistake, of Jacob making things happen on his own?  Yet, if Ishmael was a mistake, so were the twelve tribes.

Ishmael was not a mistake any more than were the twelve tribes.

Over the past few months I have noticed that there are billboards in the area with a picture of an individual and the slogan “I am second”; there is no other explanation or contact information.  It did not take much to understand that there was some contemporary church marketing thing going on.  Further information may be found at the links below.

http://iamsecond.com/

http://iamsecond.wordpress.com/

http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/news/localnews/stories/DN-billboard_20met.ART0.State.Edition1.4a2064f.html

At first glance this might appear to be an authentic expression of what the Christian church should be like.  It can be difficult to disagree with those behind such a campaign without impugning them as persons or their motives.  That is not my intent.  I do not know those behind this, but in a spirit of charity I trust that they are sincere.

That said, I profoundly disagree with the campaign’s message, partly in what it does say, but more centrally in what it does not say.

What it does say is noted in the very formulation of the statement, “I am second”.  The sole subject of the sentence is “I”, already irrecoverably self-centered.

What it does not say is that I have an essential relationship to my neighbor as well as to God.  The predication of the statement that one is immediately subordinate to an unspecified other, subsequently discovered to be God, only covers the first of the two greatest commandments, to love God with all one’s heart, soul, mind and strength.  The second greatest commandment, to love one’s neighbor as oneself, is absent.  Why?

Considering the second greatest command, the formulation should be something like “I am third”.  Would that sell?  Probably not.  Yet, when did the Gospel become something to be sold using clever marketing methods?

There will probably be some good come out of this, and one might question why I don’t simply accept that and be glad for it?  In response, this campaign may be clever marketing, but it is distorted theology; distorted theology leads to distorted praxis.  It bypasses the essential relationship to the Other that is the core of the church as the eschatological community, living kingdom values now while awaiting its fulfillment.  Because of its “I” focus and its eclipsing of the second greatest commandment, in my view the long term result of the “I am second” campaign draws us yet further away from the understanding and actualization of the eschatological church.  That is its greatest loss.

Money, Greed, and God: Why Capitalism Is the Solution and Not the Problem

http://www.heritage.org/Press/Events/ev050609a.cfm

From the above web site: “The church is bombarded with two competing messages about money and capitalism. The first message is that wealth is bad and causes much of the world’s suffering; the second is that wealth is good and God wants you to prosper and be rich.”

A friend sent me this; I have not had time to listen to the presentation itself so cannot comment on that.  However, snipping this bit of text from the event’s web page for brief comment, there are two foci in the above: wealth and self. This seems a misfocus; the 2nd greatest command is about the relation of self and other, not about self to wealth. With the self-other relationship as primary, I wonder if much of the rest won’t balance itself.

A couple of months ago I mulled over Ephesians 2:6 as a puzzle: what does it mean to be “seated with him in the heavens?” That is past tense, an accomplished state of things now, not a future event.

In a typical Christian dualist way of approaching this, which is how I have seen it until recently, we have an idea that being seated with Jesus in the heavens means that, were we to have the right sort of spiritual “telescope” with which we could see across a flesh/spirit divide, we could look “out there somewhere”, usually imagined at some great distance, and see ourselves literally sitting down with him. Until I rethought this, it never applied to my life here and now; it applied to some future life “in heaven”. Perhaps not all see it that way; I certainly did, as do those with whom I have discussed this.

Yet, if we understand the centrality of Incarnation and Resurrection as happening here, on the earth, that God became human and will never lose that nature, that at the resurrection we will be like him as he already is now on a new heaven and new earth, how we might understand this verse changes remarkably. I think there is reason to consider that we are already seated with him in the heavens, here and now in our present existence, in a different modality of existence that is integral to our present lives on the earth.

What do I mean by “modality of existence”? I mean simply a different form of existence which we are already living now, which began when we received the Holy Spirit as a seal of the promise yet to be fulfilled; with the Spirit living in us we live in multiple “dimensions” or “modalities” at once, though we perceive them but dimly. We are already living our new lives by the Spirit here and now, not in a different spiritual place or time, not out there somewhere, but seated already with Jesus in the heavens, now, here, as I type this. This sounds strange even to me now, as we don’t perceive ourselves that way.

This gives a new dimension to Ephesians 2:10, that we are created in Christ Jesus for good works. That is not later, or somewhere else; that is now, and here, as the manifestation of our new modality of existence, our new lives, which are yet to be fulfilled. I think this is the task of the church, to begin living by the ethics of the Kingdom here and now as evidence of that new life, making that new existence indirectly manifest by how we live.

That existence is summed up in two commands: we are to love God with all our hearts, and we are to love others as ourselves.

The following is a brief translated transcription from the program Uomini e Profeti (“Men and Prophets”), a program on the Italian radio RAI3 (the transcribed Italian follows.)  It is the second in a series of six interviews by Gabriella Caramore (whose comments are marked “GC” in parentheses below) with Paolo Ricca, a Waldensian pastor and theologian, on the theme of the judgment discourses of Jesus; this clip starts about 18:40 into the second program.

To me it seems apropos regarding contemporary trends in church marketing.  For the last few years I have felt a growing concern of exactly what he describes, that the more that churches seek to market themselves the more they lose sight of Jesus.  It is my conviction that were we to focus on living the Gospel instead of marketing it, people would be drawn to the churches without being enticed, and those that were changed would stay of their own commitment, without the need to constantly and increasingly entice, satisfy, entertain, stimulate, titillate, lest they become bored and leave.  We have substituted building the church as a successful organization for building the church as an expression of the kingdom of God, and our marketing and branding programs (which are big business) exhibit that deception.

Paolo Ricca: “Then there is the other extraordinary theme, which is that of “visibility”, we might say.  In our media society we know well that you exist only if you appear, only if you are seen.  And churches are easily and fatally induced into seeking visibility.  (GC: The most important seats of authority, the places of honor, greetings in public places….)  These are all things that are called “the religiosity of public relations” as we might call it, the spectacularization of religion which by now occupies an important place in the collective imagination, and which precisely for this provokes an ever increasing perplexity.  We know the invitation of Jesus; in the Sermon on the Mount he goes exactly in the opposite direction.  Do not make a show of yourself as a Christian.  Do not make an exhibition of your piety.  Do not let yourself be seen when you pray.  (GC: Pray in your bedroom if you must pray….)  What does this signify?  It signifies that the search for visibility has nothing to do with the search for God.  S/he who seeks visibility is not seeking God.  S/he should at least be aware of that… and it has nothing to do with truth.”

“Poi c’è l’altro tema straordinario, che è quello della visibilità, potremmo dire.  Nella nostra società mediatica sappiamo bene che tu esisti solo se appari, solo se sei visto.  E le chiese sono facilmente e fatalmente indotte a cercare visibilità.  (GC: I primi seggi, i posti d’onore, i saluti nelle piazze…)  Sono tutte cose che appunto sono state chiamate “la religiosità delle pubbliche relazioni”, così la potremmo chiamare, la spettacolarizzazione della religione che tra l’altro occupa un posto importante nell’immaginario collettivo ormai, e proprio per questo suscita una perplessità sempre più grande.  L’invito di Gesù lo sappiamo; nel Sermone sul Monte va proprio nella direzione opposta.  Non metterti in mostra come cristiano.  Non esibire la tua pietà.  Non fare vedere che preghi.  (GC: Prega nella tua cameretta se devi pregare.) … Che cosa significa questo?  Significa che la ricerca della visibilità non ha nulla a che fare con la ricerca di Dio.  Chi cerca visibilità non sta cercando Dio.  Lo deve sapere per lo meno … e non ha a che fare con la verità.”

This morning, in the first few minutes after awaking while reorienting to the world, it occurred to me that the Beatitudes have an answer to my perennial bugaboo, the opening of Ecclesiastes:  “Vanity of vanity; all is vanity.”

As I have written elsewhere in this blog, during my late teenage years in the late 60s a confluence within myself of Ecclesiastes 1:2 and the huge cultural seachanges of that time left me with a nagging despair.  Nothing seemed worth it; what is the use in pursuing a career or a life (we did not then think in terms of “lifestyles”) that will end up in a stale, ossified culture that can but fearfully try to preserve itself, only to have it all lost as vain at death anyway?  It was not until many years later that I saw The Graduate; though I was not in a situation like Benjamin’s in essentially every respect, I did closely identify with him in this respect: I felt the pressure of a culture that seemed to demand that one surrender to it, be swallowed up by it, in order to survive.  My response then was an instinctive “no.”  To be sure I could not have clearly described that then, but in retrospect I understand that was my response.

In focusing closely on the Beatitudes of Matthew 5 over the last week for an upcoming discussion with some friends, a couple of days ago the phrase “…will be satisfied” suddenly popped to my attention in the context of those who hunger and thirst to see right prevail (following the Revised English Bible’s reading.)  The promise of that phrase transformed what I have heard all of my life; if justice is what I want, if that is what drives me forward as if it were my very food and drink, I will be satisfied.  (The discussion of John 4 with the disciples after the discussion with the woman at the well comes to mind.)

This morning in the first few minutes of my post-awakening musings I coupled that promise of the Beatitudes to the conundrum of Ecclesiastes 1:2, and I suddenly knew that I had an answer to the despair that has and still does, in varying degrees, whisper in the back of my thinking.  Not all is in fact lost.  If my life’s focus is on what I best understand of Jesus’ purpose, if I am willing to let him form me as I go, then what I put into the coming kingdom of God is in fact not lost.  If what I want is justice, or peace, or the other values of the kingdom of God, those ends are not vain.  Those desires will be satisfied.

What we want is the pivotal issue.  If we want to be well thought of, or comfortable, we will have gotten out of it what we want; our desires will have already been satisfied.  And, by the way, that will exclude us from the coming kingdom; if we do not want it now, why would we want it then?  If we want that which Jesus wants, that cannot possibly be satisfied now; that must await the coming of the kingdom, and he will be delighted to see that we are satisfied together with him at its fulfillment (cf. Jesus’ comments at the Last Supper.)

Once again one’s eschatology seems important.  If, as is broadly accepted in evangelical circles today, our destination is “going to heaven” as a totally separate, independent existence that has nothing to do with this earth and is not particularly coupled to our existence now (except in some sense of judgment for things done here,) this will not make much sense.  If however one understands that our destiny is resurrection on a new/renewed heaven and earth, that our purpose as the church is to work toward actualizing the kingdom now to the extent to which we are able, then our work to that end is not in vain.  That is the promise of the Beatitudes.  From this latter view Matthew 25 makes much more sense; such actions are not merely about “good works” to the poor and helpless with some future judgment in mind, rather they are motivated by living out the radical ethic of the kingdom now, looking ever for the not yet, awaiting its fulfillment at the parousia.

In conversation last Sunday afternoon with someone visiting from the Pacific Northwest, the topic of membership covenants at large evangelical churches came up.  This person is in such a church, and she described that the form to fill out is quite lengthy.  She felt it intrusive, though she did eventually sign it.  At some point they came around again and apparently wanted to be really sure that everyone was with them, and they required each one to re-sign the document.  This person was clearly disturbed by the process.  She was even cautioned by a friend about differing too much with a particular man, as he had the power to “ruin her reputation as a Christian woman” in that particular large city.

My conclusion is that those documents are about power, about control, the power of church leadership to keep the members in subjugation or obligation.  I do not ever expect to be in a church where I would be asked to sign such a document, nor do I see any possible way that I would sign such.  However, if someone were to approach me about signing a membership covenant, my response will be clear: I first want to see the covenant that the leaders signed.  If there is no such leaders’ covenant, or if it is not more binding in responsibility and accountability than what is expected of the members, something is insidiously wrong with the power structure of that church.

I understand that there are serious questions of submission to authority at stake, and I understand from those that have signed such that they desire to be in submission.  Yet nowhere in the New Testament do I see anything like this form of compelled, oppressive subjugation, with even the threat of defamation if one differs too much.  Paul was very clear; his authority was to build up, not to enforce rigid conformity — or else….

A friend recently brought this address by Ronald Sider to my attention.  Though over 20 years old, I find it as challenging today as it must have been then.

God’s People Reconciling

Last week my wife received a letter from a girl she had visited in the county jail.  The girl asked her thoughts on a few questions for a Bible study in their tank, one of which was this:

“If you were in front of God right now, and he asked you, ‘Why should I let you in my Kingdom of Heaven?’, what would your answer be?”

My wife mentioned this to me last Saturday, and after a few moments’ reflection I responded: “Because I want what you want.”

The usual answer is something like this: “Because of the blood of Jesus.”  And that is undeniably true.  It is only on that basis that we have any claim at all before God the Father.  And yet something seemed missing in that response.  Yes, I might respond thusly on the basis of Jesus’ blood, but does it follow that I want to?  I am not so sure.

Sure, we all think we want to “go to heaven”, but I do not think it is as simple as that.  Considering the Beatitudes as reflecting the ethic of the coming kingdom, if we want to live that way now we will be right at home then; if we do not want to live that way now, why do we think we will want to live that way then?  Jesus indicated that many would choose not to live that way, and they will be shut out.

We have a choice to begin living now by the ethics of the coming kingdom: one, love God totally, and two, love others as myself.  That entails living in forgiveness, humility and other such personal virtues, long a part of the broad Christian tradition.

Loving one’s neighbor as oneself also entails living with others in mind.  When we see others oppressed or in dire need, how do we respond?  Do we respond?  Is this not what it means to hunger and thirst after justice (which is interpersonal, rather than the personalistic “righteousness”?)

John concluded succinctly: “If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. This then is how we know that we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence whenever our hearts condemn us. For God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything” (I John 3:17-20.)

Our ongoing responses here and now determine how much we choose to live, or deny, the love of God, the central ethic of the kingdom.  Such love is motivated by the Spirit; if we refuse to respond in compassion, we refuse the Spirit who would change us to respond as God responded to us and wants to respond to the other.  If we choose to respond to the promptings of the Spirit and act toward meeting the needs of another, we can take assurance that we are living as he would, that we “belong to the truth.”  And the evidence of our changed lives is our assurance of becoming more like him.

The “eternal security of the believer” is not just a theological proposition; it emerges from a changed life, and without that as evidence that we are actualizing God’s love toward others, John concludes that we do not and cannot have that security.

James said something similar: “What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, “Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead” (James 2:14-17.)

The faith that James discusses here requires more than the active acceptance of and alignment to a credal formulation of the nature of Jesus as God’s Son, born of the virgin Mary, killed for our sins, resurrected on the third day, ascended to the Father, who will come again to judge the living and the dead.  It includes the understanding that we are to respond to others with the kindness shown to us by God; we are to actualize now what God wants done in the world, one act of love at a time, until he returns to completely fulfill it.

There are limits.  Jesus rebuffed those on whom he had had compassion the day before (John 6:26-27.)  Unconditional love does not mean that we do whatever others demand; it means responding to others as best we understand without conditions that they respond in any particular way.

One could doubtless rebut this as “works salvation;” I leave that squabble to others.  What I want to do is hear what the Scriptures are saying and respond accordingly.  Saved by grace alone?  Absolutely—and changed by the same grace to actualize that grace toward others.

If we choose now to live the love of God, when asked why God should let us in we can truthfully respond that we want what he wants: to see the kingdom fulfilled in all the earth, and we desire to play an active part.  He will be delighted to invite us in.

Jean-Luc Marion, in God Without Being, has given me the first effective response to Quohelet’s charge of vanity with which I have struggled much of my life.  I read this but two weeks ago, and already I find it challenging and transforming a long held instinctive response to the world.

As I have very briefly written previously in this blog, Marion opens with an incisive discussion in chapter 1 of the idol and the icon.  He develops that theme in a remarkable way in chapter 4, “The Reverse of Vanity.”  I will attempt to sketch his arguments here.

Per Marion, to see the world is to see it idolatrously.  To see idolatrously is to have one’s gaze arrested by something in the world, to not see beyond it, to make of it something that it is not, to raise it to the status of an idol, a false god.  In that gaze there is no distance, not understood as physical distance, but as phenomenological distance, or “iconic distance”***; the observer identifies with the observed in the idolatrous gaze, and in that identification the distance between the two is closed.

(*** Thanks to Brett Saunders, a graduate student at the University of Dallas, for this comment.  After a brief conversation with him recently I think that I need to reconsider Marion’s concept of distance.)

When finally disillusioned and disappointed by the world, the idolatrous gaze becomes the gaze of boredom, and in the gaze of boredom a distance from the world opens; from that distance the world suddenly appears vain, in which the observer is detached from the observed; that detachment opens distance from the observed for the observer.  The world which idolatrously appears worthy of hope, in the gaze of boredom becomes as a mist or vapor, which though appearing substantive, is easily dispersed, vanishing in a light breath or wind.

Boredom opens distance, and in that distance the world is seen in vanity.  To see with the gaze of boredom is to see the world from the distance from which God sees it, but not as God sees it.  To see the world as vain is to see it accurately; many times in the Bible our lives are described as a mist that disperses, or as grass that withers and dies.  And in that assessment we can go no further.  We, like Quohelet, are immured in the vision of vanity.

God’s bridge closing that distance is love.  He sees the world as vanity, a mist, a vapor, but he loves, and that love bridges the distance opened in understanding the world as vain.

It is there that I find myself provoked deep within by my own cynical, detached, bored response.  I have long been quite cynical politically.  I think people tend to place a hope in democracy that is idolatrous.  Observing the Democratic national convention this week, where I find myself detached and evaluating the rhetoric as vanity, I find myself challenged by Marion’s analysis that, though God may see the vanity of unredeemed human self-actualization, in response he loves and bridges the gap.

In bridging the distance of vanity, he does not negate vanity, for the world is vain; however, he does offer his hope in the presence of his son, God become flesh, who finally closed the gap by becoming as we are that we might become as he is.  We who now follow him are to close the gap in the same way.  Without negating or denying vanity, we close that distance in love to touch the lives of those around us that either still see idolatrously or in boredom, in detachment, see vanity.

From Marion’s analysis I finally understand God’s love as the response to my all too common cynical detachment from the world, held from my teenage years when the opening of Ecclesiastes, “Vanity of vanity – all is vanity,” accurately summed the confusion and vanity I felt when observing the world in the late 60s, a world into which I did not know where or how to fit.  Mine has since been the gaze of boredom, of detachment, of iconoclasm (or perhaps idoloclasm.)  It is not that I have not had times of deep hope and engagement, but every one of those times has proven vain, empty, only reinforcing my cynical detachment.

God changes us to love as he loves, to bridge the gap of vanity to those that still see either idolatrously or in boredom.  I understand better why we visit the prisoners we do.  I visit one with a life sentence and one with a death sentence.  As a former prison guard expressed it, they didn’t get there by singing too loud in Sunday School.  These are people that most see from the distance that Marion describes, yet the love of God closes the gap of vanity to touch them where they are.

It is love bridging the distance of the Samaritan from the one lying helpless in the road.  It is the love of God imparted to us by the Spirit of God that will transform us to bridge the gap between us and those in dire peril in this world.  It is love that will actualize the radical equality of which I wrote last week.  Without the Holy Spirit changing us to love as God loves we have no hope of effecting that.

A couple of months ago in a discussion with a few friends I came to understand something I had never seen before.  I am still absorbing the implications of this for the life of the church.

Four hundred years of prophetic silence was broken by John the Baptist with a succinct statement of radical equality.  Tom Friedman sees the world flattening now; John saw that two millennia ago.  John spoke of a leveling, a flattening: every hill cut down, every valley filled in.  It doesn’t seem too far a stretch to consider that the valleys would be filled with what was cut off the hills.  When asked what that means, Luke 3:10-14 records that John gave two specifics: one, be satisfied with what you have, though you have the power to coerce from others, and two, if you have two, give one, whether it be clothing or food.

As I have considered this, the usual style of John’s declaration as poetic verse seems a travesty of translation.  John did not live in the desert composing refined verse; his message was a blunt ram against well defended gates protecting entrenched powers, and it must be heard that way.  It must be understood metaphorically, as John was not addressing the alteration of topographical features.  Yet, because it must be understood metaphorically, we perhaps too readily lose the forceful power of John’s words regarding our contemporary personal and ecclesiastical lives.

Jesus expanded this in the sermon on the mount in Matthew 5:38-42.  In a context of coertion, where one was compelled, Jesus said to give two.  We might term this radical generosity.  Though it is a different situation than John was addressing, there is still the noteable 1:2 ratio of giving and response.

Paul, in II Corinthians 8:1-15, concludes that the principle that was to govern inter-church relationships is equality.  Large, wealthy churches who gather much would not have too much, and small churches that gather little will not have too little.  When is the last time you heard that preached from a pulpit?

Radical equality, indeed.

Did John, Jesus and Paul not intend that their words be taken at face value, that the church is to live in a radical equality, a radical generosity?  One might think that it would take an artful exegesis to avoid the force of these texts in the life of the church; on the contrary, most of the church lives in ignorance of these texts and their import.  I certainly have no priviledge in this; I have missed it all of my life until recently.

And none of this is to be enforced by any rule, tithe, regulation, or redistribution structure the goal of which is to level the economic status of individual Christians.  Paul is very clear in II Corinthians 8 that participation is voluntary, not coerced.  Any notion that the church should end up with anything like a typical leftist social structure of wealth redistribution is to patently misunderstand all three (cf. Paul’s analogy of gathering different amounts of manna, as mentioned above.)  Neither is it a typical conservative structure with the goal of individual wealth accumulation in which the public good is accomplished as a by-product.  Yes, individuals must accumulate wealth in order to have sufficient to give, but the purpose is not the benefit of the individual; rather, it is the good of the entire community.

This may be something which has never been seen before on a wide scale, and where practiced locally may not long survive in integrity.  It is an organization that works best in weakness, dependent on the individual discernment and voluntary compliance of all of its members.  Yet, there clearly must be a superstructure that can oversee and balance intra-church relationships.  That was Paul’s role in the various churches he oversaw.

Many questions arise in considering how to implement this.  The most profound is that the focus of the church must change.  Individuals within a single church must think of each other as equals.  Individuals and leaders within a church must consider other churches, large or small, regardless of geographic boundaries, as peer.  Trustworthy and broken inter-church leadership must be in place to balance the needs and correct abuses.  I hesitatingly conclude that what is needed is true apostolic leadership; my hesitation is that many today want to claim such, and I mistrust the selfish motivations of at least some, if not many.

Without doubt this sounds like the stuff of a hopelessly idealistic fantasy that is destined for swift, decisive failure.  I know that.  What I cannot escape is that this is the state of the church which John, Jesus and Paul desired to realize.

The leadership of the church is the pivot on which this can or cannot be implemented.  The primary focus almost certainly must be the care of one’s own church and its gain, in numbers of members and/or income; that is not wrong per se.  Where most fall short is that they do not consider others as equals, rather, competing within a given market for members, whether that market is geographical or, increasingly, on the Internet.

Our eschatology also has a direct influence on our charity.  If we think we are all “going to heaven,” that is, that we will be transformed to a totally different spiritual existence, in a totally different place or state of being, in which God will set all things right there and then, there is little impetus to drive for justice and equity now.  If however we understand that God is about renewing this earth, that this earth is the locus of redemption, of salvation, that the kingdom of God is about reclaiming domination over this earth, and that the church is to begin to live and act now toward the eventual culmination of that kingdom here, our understanding about how we should act radically shifts.

In my view the Incarnation and our promised resurrection forcefully bear testimony to the latter eschatology.  Jesus took a human nature, which he did not have previously, in order that we might participate in his life, his nature, which we could not previously.  When Jesus became human, humanity became part of the Godhead, which nature he will never lose.  He became human to redeem, to reclaim, to renew, to save, this earth.  When Jesus was resurrected, he was resurrected on this earth, though his nature was changed.  Our destiny in resurrection is to be as he is, on this earth.

Finally, the scope of our thinking and our action must be global; we know too much to restrict regionally.  As I have written elsewhere in this blog, the implication of the parable of the good Samaritan is that there is no one on this earth that we cannot call a neighbor, to whom consequently we owe a debt of love.

This is but a summary sketch of my thoughts to date.  Much more can and should be said on these and numerous other points.  To be continued as I develop this further, in the meantime constructive comments are welcome.

Flying the Tuesday after Memorial Day I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman behind me; these were chance seatmates for this flight. He was a geologist, perhaps 50+ years old, and she was perhaps late 60s or 70s.

At some point, as I recall, she was the initiator of the mild sort of conversation that occasionally happens between chance travelers. As it developed, she began to open a Christian witness theme, eventually coming around to stress the need for a “personal relationship with the Lord.” He responded very civilly, recounting that he had never missed a Sunday at a Methodist church until he turned 16; somewhere after that he left Christianity altogether. As a geologist he apparently spends a good bit of time outdoors, and he responded to her, as he said he had to many, that if God isn’t out where he is, he certainly isn’t in a church building. Their conversation was quite cordial and did range over a number of topics for much of the several hours we were on the plane.

While I had some sympathy with what she was wanting to do, and respect for her commitment to acting, she could not respond to him in any adequate way. When the point is about personal relationship with God, and the other thinks they have that to the extent they want such, there simply is no bridging the chasm between them.

The woman, for all her admirable devotion to evangelism, simply has an inadequate message for someone like the geologist, who, having been committed to the church in his youth, does not see that what she is saying has any particular relevance to him. The emphasis on “personal relationship” simply has no meaning for someone that thinks he understands what she is talking about and has rejected it because it didn’t have any/sufficient meaning with respect to his scientific education. He thinks he has the same relationship with God in nature that she has in church and sees no need for limiting it to a church setting.

Even as I listened to them I wanted to tell them that they were both missing the point. It isn’t just about personal relationship with God, and that conversation reflected what I see is one of the deep failures of both the traditional mainstream churches and much (not all) contemporary evangelical thought. As I have come to see the church in the last few years, it is to be, as Scot McKnight (The Whole Gospel) so well put it, “…an alternative society where the will of God is done… where justice and equity prevail.” The emphasis on personal relationship misses the purposeful community of the coming Kingdom of God. Without the focus on community, there does not seem to be much reason to be part of a church, just as the geologist understood.

The judgment discourses of Jesus have to do with our relationship to each other, to those in need, not just in personal relationship to him. Yes, the personal relationship is crucial; the Matthew 7:21-23 rejection of those that he never knew cannot be overlooked. Yet, the Matthew 25:31-46 judgment scene in which the criteria are how we helped those in need defines something of what it means to know him. To know him is to respond compassionately, as peers, to those that are in real need. I John 3:16-20 make it clear that failure to respond to the needs of others means that the love of God is not in us; because the greatest commandment is violated, the second greatest commandment is not lived out.

This morning’s (well, yesterday’s by now) Gospel was Luke 17:5-10; click the link to read it in a new window.

Talking about that through the day we found it perplexing. What is the causal relationship between faith and the self-effacing obedience of a slave? As we discussed it the story of the centurion came to mind from Matthew 8:5-13, and that provided some key expansion of the Luke reading. The two together gave us a better idea of the causal link we were missing.

There are three central correspondences that we saw between these two verses such that the story of the centurion seemed that it might give understanding regarding the response to the disciples.

First, the disciples had asked Jesus to increase their faith, and Jesus exclaimed about the centurion that he had not found faith like his anywhere in Israel.

Second, to the disciples Jesus responded that they should, when they had obeyed what they had been given to do, consider themselves as unworthy, as only having done as they were told; the centurion saw himself as unworthy that Jesus should take his time to come to him.

Third, it was only necessary to give the order and it would be done. The centurion only had to give the order for whatever it was to be done; Jesus only had to give the order that the child be healed.

The essence of our understanding is this. The centurion knew his place in the chain of command; he was unquestioningly committed to carrying out the orders given him. When he had been given orders, he could without reservation, and with full authority, direct those under him to the fulfillment of those orders. There might or might not be strategic or tactical interpretation in the process; that would vary from situation to situation. However, he knew that once commissioned he had the full authority of his superiors to carry out his mission and he could proceed without doubt. Once fulfilled, his superiors might praise him, but that was not his to ask or require; he had simply done as he had been told, and his task was to carry out his next orders, whatever those might be.

So with us. Once we have been commissioned to do something by Jesus, we have his full backing and authority to carry it out. If that includes telling a mulberry tree to plant itself in the sea (not a natural result at all, or a normal way of accomplishing it), so be it; we could so order it. Our task, as was the centurion’s, is to carry out what we have been told or to die trying. Our focus is to be exclusively on what Jesus has given us to do; when we have profoundly understood that, we can do so with the presence and authority to carry it out.

Significantly, this process is not about us, or about our feeling good about our giftings, or throwing our spiritual weight about, or any of the responses all too common today that focus on us. Much of the proclamation that we have seen in the Pentecostal and charismatic traditions is rooted in unbelief, trying to work up belief, or “stir up our faith”, etc.

Does that mean we cannot feel good about what we see happening? Not at all. The deepest pleasure however is not because of us, but from our understanding that his purpose is being accomplished, and his purpose has become ours. As we become more and more integrated into his live, his pleasure becomes ours.

I am not naive about this; I all too well aware from first hand experience that we, as spiritual children, tend to think of ourselves first. Part of growth toward Jesus however is leaving that childish self-focus. If we do not outgrow that self-focus we risk settling for an addictive self-focused gratification which can never be satisfied, as it depends on our constantly doing greater things to bring that satisfaction. At that point we run the very real risk of having had from it what we want; as Jesus said, we will have had our reward. We also risk missing the point; I wonder if something like that didn’t happen to those about whom Jesus said in Matthew 25, “Leave. I never knew you.”

Doing what he says requires that we live consciously in what Jesus is about. We cannot see the whole picture, but we can constantly grow in that understanding, and we can live in what we do understand. When we understand what we have been given to do, our purpose is to fulfill that, and that cannot happen without constantly touching back to what we can understand and growing in it. That is why we have been given the Spirit, to show us these things, to draw us ever more toward him.

Our authority comes not from who we are in Christ, but from who he is in us. When we have understood that and fully commit ourselves to what he is about, counting ourselves as unworthy and doing as we have been given, when we want what he wants, I wonder if we won’t begin to see these things begin to actualize.

I recently found that the Italian national radio station is publishing some of its material in podcasts. Listening to one yesterday (Uomini e Profeti) on the evaluation of current actualities in the light of received traditions, (unfortunately no longer linked online) I heard a fascinating variant on the well known “faith, hope and love” themes of St. Paul’s concluding verse of I Corinthians 13. The Waldensian theologian Paolo Ricca suggested the following formulation.

• Faith: the opposite of closure
  (la fede: il contrario della chiusura)
• Hope: the opposite of scepticism
  (la speranza: il contrario dello scetticismo)
• Love: the opposite of indifference
  (l’amore: il contrario dell’indifferenza)

I responded quickly to the last two; I find that I am most intrigued by the first. I have so long thought of “faith” as a sort of intellectual assent, or belief, that has a certain personal committment that I don’t quite know how I understand his thought of “closure,” but I want to consider it further.

Regarding Christianity and the death penalty, I propose an experiment. Open a public microphone in every church in the US and invite anyone that feels convinced of its truth to state to the rest of the church this one unqualified sentence: “I have committed no sin worthy of death.”

Who would respond? And why?

This is of course aimed more at the churches that have a theology of sin and death; without such an understanding of sin leading to death, the experiment makes little sense. The point is to compel people to an individual, personal evaluation of their relationship to that law of sin and death. Do they believe that they have sinned such that it applies directly to them? Are they now, or were they ever, worthy of death for their own sin?

Only from that perspective can we then pursue a Christian discussion of the death penalty.

About three years ago, pondering I Cor. 6 about judging angels, over the space of a few days this is what I worked out. It was a curious process, one in which I distinctly felt that insight was being given to me that was not my own.

At the occasion of the first sin, we as humans gained something we did not have previously, the knowledge of good and evil. We were irremediably stuck with that new knowledge / awareness  / consciousness, and in the process we lost something as well: life. We died. So, here we are stuck, no way out and hopeless.

In response, Jesus, as God incarnate, took a nature he did not have previously, humanity, so that he, in turn, might give us his nature. That is the essence of I Cor. 15, in the 40s and 50s.  Thus we, through rebirth, by his Spirit, have begun a new life as having his nature.

There are a couple of profound consequences to that. One astounding result is that humanity entered the Godhead, as Jesus will never lose his humanity.  Another is that ultimately we will be like him.

At the end, when our natures are finally perfected, we will still have that knowledge of good and evil, but by becoming as he is that knowledge will be perfected. The reward of right use of money in the parable of the talents is not more money, but authority. Our destiny is governance in the kingdom; this is consistent with so many things through the NT. And that is how we will judge angels.

As this unfolded it had something of the force of personally given revelation; it changed my thinking. Shortly after coming to this understanding, discussing it with someone, I was introduced to the Orthodox teaching on ‘theosis.’

On this view, salvation is more organic, a process of constant becoming more like, ever being drawn toward the fullness of God, becoming as he is, sharing ever more fully in his life. After learning more about it, I admit that it makes much sense. There are many, many articles on the web about it.

I think this is where we are going, to become ever more like him. The clear teaching is about the new heaven and the new earth, not about ‘going to heaven’. I don’t mean to deny that phrase, but that is not our destiny; it is to be incarnate once again, but as Jesus is now, post-resurrection.

As I see the church, it should be becoming now as it will be fulfilled in that coming age. I have recently been thinking of the Beatitudes as the ethic of the kingdom, not just points of personal piety, but as active expressions of the values of the coming kingdom that should shape the church.  As living in his life now, we should be living out these things.

A few of my thoughts adapted from an exchange with a friend:

One of my principal difficulties with the Church of Christ is in their normative hermeneutic of 1st century practice. By that I mean that the practices of the first century are to be continued without change as immutable Law of God, world without end, amen. This quickly devolves, and I think without much possibility of exception, into a rigid, legalistic quibble just as we see it today, as if propagation of the form will somehow reproduce the same results. It cannot possibly do so.

I don’t see it that way any more. In my view the practices must be understood and then contextualized. I don’t mean that the Gospel is relativized at all, but that the expression of the church in a given culture should adapt accordingly.

Just how that is to be done is a matter of many different interpretations. I think that is okay, within reason of course. I don’t think there is a one-size-fits-all-for-all-time ecclesiastical culture.

A particular trap is being relevant, rather than living out a radical discipleship to the principles of Jesus. There seems to be much of that these days. A sign on a church I passed around New Years said something like this: “A new year… got God in your life?” As if he were some essential accoutrement of a healthy balanced lifestyle. Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but that seems to totally miss what Jesus had to say.

A truth that I think I have distilled from my time in Italy is that most people confuse their culture with truth. I trust that is reasonably self-explanatory. That is, most do not ever come to understand that their cultural expression of a particular truth is not truth itself, and that there may be many other ways that some truth may be validly expressed. I think that is why many groups are so insular, or at least have been traditionally. To alter the culture becomes tantamount to altering truth. This I think is the source of many useless squabbles in which we grew up regarding the order of song/prayer/song/communion/sermon and so forth.

Leaving that certainty is difficult; many cannot make it. It is hard work to discern how Jesus would respond today, but ultimately I think it is the only way that we can vitally live the Gospel out in our various settings.

A quick example. The early church practiced a charitable equality well into the 2nd century and probably beyond. I found this in the first apology of Justin Martyr recently (quoted in this same blog below.) A voluntary collection was taken and distributed to those in need. That is precisely what the collection of I Corinthians was about. It was not just a new law, it was to be a purposive support of those in the larger church that were in need, in that instance Jerusalem. On my view the operative term is ‘purpose,’ not ‘first day of the week.’

That requires a radical shift in thinking in which I don’t live for myself, but for the community, both local and global. It also demands mature leadership and oversight to determine real needs and try to direct the life of the community to those needs. That is what Paul talks about in II Cor. 8, the whole chapter; his conclusion is that there may be equity in the church, in which within the larger body each is about supplying the needs of others.

That is the expression of the Gospel in the church as an eschatological community, not a just a weekly collection. The difference between those two ways of understanding that practice is vast.

John started it all. If you have two shirts, give one to someone who needs it. If someone forces you to do something, do that much again willingly. Why? It isn’t law, that sort of living/giving comes out of a radically altered view of the church as the present manifestation of the eschatological community-to-come, in which equity is to be lived out. The Good Samaritan story is the same ethic: live that way toward all. It isn’t at all that good works save; my Christology is far more robust than that. Yet, when by the Spirit we are changed to think as he does, we will begin to live that out as well.