Author: Lee M.

Hey, it’s the Feast of the Ascension!

I like this:

Consider this. Suppose Jesus was resurrected and returned to earth. But like any person who has come back from a near death experience, after a brief period of euphoria, things would have returned to normal. The days would have passed like those of any other life … and the years and the decades, to be followed as it is for everyone of us, with death.

Resurrection without the Ascension is a one day wonder, soon to fade. As it did for Lazarus who came back from the dead only to be remembered as the passive figure in one among many miracle stories of the Bible.

With Jesus the story does not end in this way. As the creed attests, “he ascended into heaven and sits at the right hand of the Father.”

Visually the scene is dramatic. A body defies the force of gravity and ascends towards the sky until it disappears. But behind the visual imagery, there is a still more stunning reality.

When the gospel writer refers to the “right hand of God,” that phrase would have been understood to mean not that God has a left hand and a right hand, but rather that God is powerful and active. Speaking of the hands of God is the biblical writer’s way of saying that God is present in the here and now, taking part in the stream of events that touch us all. The right hand in particular is the hand of vitality and power. Those seated on the ruler’s right hand share in the ruler’s power and authority.

It’s not Christ in outer space, but the Christ within that counts.

Further, since one of God’s remarkable features is omnipresence, this means that in the Ascension Christians affirm that Christ, too, is present now, at all times and in all places, whether one is conscious of the divine presence or not.

To affirm that Jesus has “ascended” connotes his continuing activity in and through all the miracles of daily life. Whereever the work and will of God are done, that is where we see the spirit of the living Christ at work.

And how is the work of God to be done in this world? As many a gospel hymn expresses it, “we are the hands of God.” The community of faith consists of those who consciously or unconsciously carry out the will of God by doing the work of Jesus in the world today. And the work of Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever; it is the work of peace, of justice, and of loving kindness.

Affirming that Christ has “ascended” as the Church does when it celebrates the Ascension constitutes a declaration that Christians are called be a visible and active in the world today, representing the will and the ways of God to all of humanity.

If by the Ascension it is understood that Jesus disappeared from view to reside in some distant, supernatural realm never to be seen or heard from again, the meaning of the holiday is lost completely. Understood correctly, the Ascension means that the Spirit of the living Christ rules in the hearts, the minds, and the wills of those who dare to call themselves his disciples now.

This is the only way that Christ’s victory over death will ever be complete. The miracle is completed in the community where Christ’s love reigns. This happens both within and outside the walls of any church. And thus is Christ’s own prayer fulfilled, and God’s kingdom has come “on earth as it is in heaven.”

Isn’t it kind of funny that people tend to use the expressions “desert island” and “deserted island” interchangeably? Usually when talking about things like “What five books” etc. would you want to take to a desert/deserted island.

Surely what we usually mean is deserted island, right? As in being stranded alone somewhere. Though I guess desert islands would probably not tend to be that populated either.

But are desert islands even that common? Most of the islands people frequently go to are quite tropical. Don’t deserts usually exist on large continents?

No larger point there, really.

Today I received an e-mail from Sojourners calling for military intervention in the Darfur region of Sudan to protect civilians from government-sponsored militias. This seems to have become a kind of cause célèbre among certain elements of the Christian left (for lack of a better term). And it’s certainly a worthy one.

Still, as I’ve said before, one needs a clearer idea of what actually we should do once we’re there.

Justin Logan has suggested that committing U.S. troops isn’t necessary (and it’s not entirely clear that we could); we should, instead, provide logistics and materiel to African Union troops on the scene.

I’m symathetic to such a plan insofar as I think it would be better all things considered if regional conflicts were handled, when necessary, by local powers. The idea that the U.S. should jump into every conflict is a recipe for disaster (Somalia, anyone?). Think of it as the principle of subsidiarity applied to international politics.

Still, there may be times when the U.S. is the only power capable of intervening and circumstances warrant it.

Here’s a question though: are those of us who would like to see a drastically scaled back U.S. military establishemnt (a pretty utopian goal, admittedly) prepared to accept that such a reduced force would likely not be capable of intervening every time there’s some kind of humanitarian crisis? (This applies to the quasi-pacifist types on the Christian left as well as “seamless garment” types and traditonalist non-interventionist conservatives.)

There’s a post at Here We Stand that is relevant to some of the things we’ve been discussing around here: “The Paradox of Submission to the Governing Authorities.”

This seems like as good a time as any to resume blogging Robert Kraynak’s Christian Faith and Modern Democracy (you thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? For earlier posts see here and here).

Earlier we saw that, according to Kraynak, the Christian tradition, far from uniformly supporting democracy has been remarkably insouciant about the form of secular government. The “two cities” tradition has generally supported whatever government was in power so long as it left the church free to preach and evangelize and served the temporal ends of providing peace and security, and, under fortuitous circumstances, encouraging virtue and piety.

Nevertheless, one might still argue that Christianity is “essentially” democratic due to its emphasis on the dignity of every individual human being. Shouldn’t that provide a kind of leveling effect on Christian politics?

Kraynak thinks that this argument rests on a confusion between the modern liberal democratic notion of human dignity and the biblical one. The former usually founds human dignity on the quintessential Enlightenment notions of reason and free will. But the latter, Kraynak thinks, is based in the biblical concept of the Imago Dei, which is by no means to be identified with our rational capacities. Kraynak surveys the passages where the Imago Dei is mentioned and comes to conclusions that differ widely from the rationalist notions of human dignity:

In these three passages [Gen 1:26-28; 5:1-3; 9:5-7], we have the only explicit references to the Imago Dei in the entire Hebrew Bible. All three make procreation and lifeblood the Godlike image in man; yet these are things that man shares with other animals. This is a real puzzle, one that is fraught with important moral implications. Many of the great commentators pass over the textual problems too hastily, usually because they have a preconceived notion of the attributes that reflect the divine image in man (the most common view is that reason and free will are the distinguishing features, although they are not mentioned explicitly in the passages on the divine image). What, then, is the Bible saying about the Imago Dei?

The only sense I can make of this puzzle is that procreation and lifeblood, while common to man and animals, must have a deeper meaning for humans than for animals. Procreation and lifeblood must be pale reflections of the original vitality and life-giving power that man alone possessed before the Fall when he possessed immortal life. The image of God in man would thus refer to man’s original immortality—an immortality that animals never possessed and that is different from God’s immortality in the crucial respect that man’s original immortality could be lost (it is an image of immortality, after all, not the real thing). In the biblical view, then, man stands between the animals and God as a creature with special dignity because he once possessed the Godlike attribute of immortality but lost it and became mortal, without, however, losing the hope of recovering it and gaining true eternal life. (p. 57)

The other aspect of the Imago Dei that the Bible focuses on is humanity’s capacity for holiness:

After the book of Genesis, there are no more references to the Imago Dei in the entire Hebrew Bible. Beginning with Exodus and continuing in subsequent books, man is compared with God in the capacity for holiness (kadosh). … To be “holy” in this sense has many connotations which are hard to define precisely. In a formal and almost tautological sense, holiness means being set apart from the profane. But it also implies separation from the profane in specific ways–by superior purity in sexual and dietary matters, by transcendence of the mundane through the mysterious presence of the invisible God, and by a high degree of righteousness in the execution of justice and social responsibilities. The divine image in man found almost exclusively in the Book of Genesis is thus superceded but not abolished by the imitation of God’s holiness in observing the divine law–making people more Godlike in their purity, transcendence, and righteousness. (pp. 58-9)

In the New Testament, says Kraynak, the notion of the Image of God is often applied to Christ, but also as reflected in the hierarchies of creation. Paul’s notorious statements about husbands standing in a relationship to their wives that is analogous to Christ’s relationship to his Church, for instance.

The upshot, says Kraynak, is that

[i]n the biblical view, dignity is hierarchical and comparative; in the modern, it is democratic and absolute. The Bible (both Old and New Testaments) promotes hierarchies because it understands reality in terms of the “image of God” which is a type of reflected glory–a reflection of something more perfect in something less perfect. Hence, dignity exists in degrees of perfection rather than in abstract equalities. The dignity or glory possessed by something made in the image of a more perfect being carries claims of deference, reciprocal obligation, and duty rather than equality, freedom, and rights.

[…]

[H]uman dignity in the Bible is both universal and selective; It proclaims the spiritual dignity of every person in light of their original perfection, but it permits and even requires different degrees of dignity in the created and fallen world based on God’s election of special people and the institution of human authorities. The Bible also seems to imply that while dignity in some sense is given and therefore ‘inalienable’ (as we would say today), it is also something to be won or lost, merited or forfeited, augmented or diminished. And it implies that obedience to emperors and masters, who are a part of the fallen world and largely conventional in status, does not violate the dignity of the Christian believer because true dignity lies in the possession of an immortal soul and interior freedom. (pp. 60-1)

This relative and comparative notion of dignity, reinforced by a metaphysical concept of the “Great Chain of Being,” has allowed the Christian tradition to comfortably coexist with hierarchies in family, church, and state. Although some hierarchies (those of the family, say) are natural, others are merely conventional (e.g. king and subject), the latter are still to be obeyed since they are willed by God as constraints on human sin.

In the last analysis, the New Testament teaches obedience to created, natural, and conventional hierarchies because the dignity of every person is a matter of inner freedom that is independent of external authority. Unconditional submission to Christ as Lord and King is the only absolute demand; all other obligations (to one’s nation, emperor, social class, the whole natural world, and even to one’s family) are conditional. … Everyone has an immortal soul with an eternal destiny which has at risk its eternal salvation or damnation. Compared to this question, the various forms of external obedience are of secondary importance. Thus, it is possible for the Bible to uphold the dignity of every human person as a creature made in the image of God and redeemed by Christ while supporting created, natural, and conventional hierarchies.

[…]

If this interpretation is correct, then the main conclusion we should draw is that both liberalism and the Bible seek to defend human dignity, but they define human dignity in different ways and draw different political conclusions. Liberalism equates dignity with autonomy of personality adn mastery of one’s destiny–political ideas that are inherently tied to democratic human rights. By contrast, the Bible equates the dignity of human beings with their relations with God, especially in their original immortality and their capacity for holiness–spiritual notions that permit spiritual hierarchies as well as undemocratic and illiberal politics. (pp. 63-4)

Kraynak makes a good case, I think, that liberal democracy can’t be read off from the Bible or the Christian tradition in any straightforward way. However, I do think there are a couple of places where we could take issue with some of his conclusions.

First, while the early Christians certainly didn’t preach revolution, it doesn’t follow that they were content to leave the social structures of society exactly as they were and were only concerned about a realm of “inner” spiritual freedom. Kraynak downplays the notion of the church as a social reality of its own that may have transformed social relationships between men and women, Jew and Greek, master and slave. Recent exegetes have paid more attention to this idea that the church was a new social body all its own with a distinctive way of life (John Howard Yoder and N.T. Wright come to mind among others), something which could not have failed to impact the larger society, at least indirectly. I would have liked to see Kraynak engage some of these thinkers.

Additionally, there is one other argument for liberalism/democracy that one might draw from the Bible and tradition that Kraynak doesn’t address (at least in this chapter). We might call this the pessimist’s argument. This kind of argument would begin not with human dignity, but with human sinfulness. Since “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” it’s foolish to trust any one person or group of people with too much power over their fellows.

One Protestant view emphasizes that the only righteousness we “have” is Christ’s righteousness, and without that we are nothing but sinners deserving death. This is summed up in the Lutheran phrase simul iustus et peccator – we are both entirely righteous (in Christ) and entirely sinners (in ourselves). Virtue is not something we come to possess; we are radically dependent at every moment of our lives on God’s grace. As Luther wrote, in what was probably the last note to come from his hand, “We are beggars. This is true.” In this respect we are equals.

Luther’s sense of human sin seems to have created a horror of anarchy in him, as demonstrated by his response to the Peasants’ revolt. But those of us who have lived through the 20th century, when tens of millions of people were murdered by their own governments, might be forgiven for seeing a greater danger in excessive power and authority. Or at least we might conclude that there’s something to be said for liberal democracy after all.

In later chapters Kraynak is going to discuss how the Christian tradition came to embrace democracy and also what a “politics of the two cities” might look like today, so he may address some of these concerns as we go on.

Earlier I suggested my approval of the liberal theory of government that holds that “governments are instituted among Men” to “secure” the rights of “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,” and that governments dervie “their just powers from the consent of the governed.”

On its face, though, this seems to contradict the Christian understanding of government given in what Josh called the “much-abused” Romans 13:

Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently, he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves. For rulers hold no terror for those who do right, but for those who do wrong. Do you want to be free from fear of the one in authority? Then do what is right and he will commend you. For he is God’s servant to do you good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing. He is God’s servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer. Therefore, it is necessary to submit to the authorities, not only because of possible punishment but also because of conscience. This is also why you pay taxes, for the authorities are God’s servants, who give their full time to governing. Give everyone what you owe him: If you owe taxes, pay taxes; if revenue, then revenue; if respect, then respect; if honor, then honor. (Rom. 13:1-7)

On the one hand we have governement as essentially a human construct that exists to serve the needs of people (and could theoretically be changed or even abolished if it failed to do that).

On the other hand we have a notion of government as an instrument of divine wrath that serves to punish evil, requiring obedience. But how does that fit with the idea that we must “obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29)?

Are these two notions compatible? Or does one or the other have to go?

I was afraid that in relying on a review I might have been unfair to Alan Wolfe in this post. But reading this interview in Mother Jones has assuaged my conscience.

Wolfe confirms my worst suspicions by offering his list of “great” figures in American history:

MJ: Who in American history would you put in the greatness camp? Who’s made this a priority?

AW: Well, for the first hundred years of the existence of our nation-state, the greatness idea was essentially a conservative idea. So its great advocates were Alexander Hamilton, at the time of the constitutional convention; John Marshall, very conservative US Supreme Court Justice; Abraham Lincoln; and, into the turn of the century, Theodore Roosevelt. I also argue that, in the 20th century, the mood shifted, and greatness swung in the direction of the Democrats, and of liberals. So that Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Teddy’s cousin, and the Kennedy-Johnson years really embodied the idea of greatness in the 20th century.

This list is virtually a who’s who of the great centralizers (UPDATE: and proponents of territorial expansionism, as Marcus points out) of American history – the political figures who made a point of disregarding the constitutional limits placed on government power in the service of their agendas. You may think (as I do) that at least some of these men were justified in what they did. It is, for instance, hard not to credit Lincoln for extirpating the scourge of slavery from our shores, despite the cost in blood and freedom that it required.

But that’s kinda the rub. Wolfe doesn’t seem to recognize that all these projects of “greatness” have costs associated with them that may well outweigh their purported benefits. I mean, who now looks back on the presidency of LBJ as one of greatness?

I just wish that people who advocate this or that policy of “greatness” or “purpose” or “world-transformation” would be up front about what following said policy will entail. Like, “American boys (and, increasingly, girls) will die and kill to implement my vision about what a better world would look like.” Could such a policy be sold in all candor to the public? Just asking.

Wolfe is optimistic that we can be bullied into it, though:

MJ: Turning back to home, a big challenge is going to be to convince Americans that they have more to gain than to lose from a stronger national government. What are the prospects for making that case?

AW: It is difficult, and I don’t pretend otherwise. As I argue in the book, greatness has really been the minority taste, where we seem to be more comfortable with the other tradition generally. Nonetheless, one of the ideas that really emerges from a study of the past is the idea of using the presidency in what TR would have called a tutorial manner, bully pulpit, politicians who are willing to engage with the American electorate in the form of playing an educative role. We’re probably a long way from that. Right now we seem to be in a more populistic kind of mood, where the people just express themselves and politicians run around and try to do whatever they’re articulating at any particular moment. I hope that this mood is one that was produced by the initial shock of 911, and that as we have more time to absorb that into our consciousness, we’ll come to realize how unsatisfactory that way is of responding, and Americans will come to appreciate that politics does involve leadership, and that a leader is one who speaks to our higher ideals and then tries to move us in those directions.

Get it? The president can “educate” us into doing the right thing. And given that the office has of late been occupied by men of such sterling character, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to be educated by them?

(Also, what’s up with the puffball interviewer at the allegedly leftist Mother Jones? Could they ask Wolfe one tough question? Just because someone bashes George Bush doesn’t necessarily mean he’s on the side of the angels, y’know.)

A good corrective to proponents of “greatness” would be this essay by Robert Higgs.

End of rant.

Today the Philadelphia Inquirer carried a review of Alan Wolfe’s new book How America Lost Its Sense of Purpose and What It Needs to Do to Recover It. Wolfe, a sociologist and author of several popular books, contrasts two approaches to American power:

Most Americans, Alan Wolfe believes, belong to “the party of goodness.” Preoccupied with virtue, individual freedom, and the pursuit of self interest, they fear that “too strong a government, too ambitious a domestic agenda, and too overreaching a foreign policy” will corrupt the very values that make this nation exceptional.

Wolfe prefers, however, the “party of greatness,” which involves “maintaining and extending liberty and equality; empowering government to promote the common good; and using force to defend and spread our principles abroad.” Unlike the party of goodness, proponents of “greatness” are willing “to bend principle, and sometimes law and custom, to achieve their goals.”

So Wolfe is presumably a fan of the Bush administration, right? No way! The Bush administration has used the language of greatness to mask an agenda that primarily serves private interests. To restore greatness we need high minded leaders devoted to the public weal like John McCain, Joseph Biden, and Wesley Clark.

Now surely Alan Wolfe has been around the block and must be aware that the language of “greatness” has frequently been used as a cover for the pursuit of private advantage. But Wolfe seems shocked that the Bush administration would do such a thing.

More fundamentally though, I’m with the “party of goodness” in getting nervous when I hear talk of “national greatness” or “America’s purpose.” Why should we think America has a purpose beyond secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity? I’m still enough of a Lockean to believe that governments exist primarily to protect the lives, liberty, and property of their citizens. That is the purpose for which they are established, as T.J. and co. pointed out.

But some have never been satisfied with that and have wanted America to have a more exalted, transcendent purpose. (e.g. being a “light to the nations,” “making the world safe for democracy,” even putting an end to evil). But where, pray tell, does this purpose allegedly come from? Are we talking about some Hegelian History-with-a-capital-“H” here? Or divine purpose maybe?

But as a Christian I believe that precisely two social entities – Israel and the catholic Church – have been endowed with a divine purpose. Beyond that, I can see no grounds for thinking that America, or any other nation-state, is the bearer of any kind of transcendent purpose. Such messiaic claims usually result in massive bloodshed and tyranny.

The idea of a government that protects the life and liberties of its citizens and helps them to live in relative peace and proseperity in order to pursue their own ends has always aroused suspicions from certain intellectuals on the Left and the Right. They yearn for a political order that directs its subjects to some kind of transcendent purpose. But history seems to show that those kind of regimes have a tendency to subordinate ordinary people and their happiness to the whims of those fortunate enough to be on top.

Graham at Leaving Münster (a very good site, by the way) writes a thought-provoking post on what it means to be “pro-life”:

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been anti-abortion. Okay, I know the party-line: we’re not anti-abortion, we’re pro-life. Well, that’s bollocks.

I’m not even sure what “pro-life” means? We’re in favour of Life? As in, existence or as a concept? Surely if we wanna be pro anything, we need to be pro the living. And that doesn’t stop at birth.

I know people who are anti-abortion who couldn’t give a toss about campaigns like Make Poverty History or One or the whole issue of trade justice. How is that pro the living? Or is it simpy the unborn living with which we concern ourselves?

And how do we make sense of those who voted for Bush because of his stand on Abortion but didn’t seem as bothered by the innocent deaths of Iraqi babies and their mothers?

How on earth is that pro Life?!

This isn’t just about the nutters who blow up abortion clinics (pro Life?) or hassle women on their way in (pro the living?), it’s about being consistent. And, surely, the only consistent life ethic is, er, a Consistent Life Ethic.

I agree with a lot of what Graham is saying here, and I’ve expressed strong sympathies with a “consistent life” ethic before.

Still, as I mentioned in a comment over there, I am somewhat wary of including under the “consistent life” too much in the way of specific policy prescriptions on a variety of issues. Not because I think issues other than abortion (or war, capital punishment, etc.) are unimportant, but because I think there are well-intentioned people on various sides of issues like trade.

Trade is indisputably a “life” issue in that it affects the very livelihood of billions of people. Nevertheless, what the right trade policy is depends a lot on (among other things) complex empirical information requiring analysis and interpretation.

Some people who are very much on the side of the poor think that trade liberalization is the best way to increase the material well-being of the world’s poor. Others favor various schemes of “fair trade.” For the layman it’s often not clear what the best policy is.

Plus, there is a chance that throwing a lot of disparate positions together may dilute the focus of a “seamless garment” approach. As Mary Meehan has written:

Although an advocate of the consistent-ethic philosophy, I have long thought it a mistake to toss welfare issues into the mix as though they are on the same level as abortion, the death penalty, euthanasia, and war. Whether one supports rent subsidies or the food stamp program is just not on a par with whether one supports direct killing. And some Democrats, including pro-life ones, are so eager to support government social programs that they forget their Jeffersonian, small-government roots. An immense and powerful government invariably threatens civil liberties and tends to view citizens as its wards instead of its masters.

Maybe I’m being too pedantic, but if we’re going to talk about a consistent life ethic, then we’re talking about certain normative positions. Everyone (or nearly everyone) agrees that it’s important to help poor people improve their standard of living. Where disagreement arises is over the question of means – what welfare program, what trade policy, etc. will best do the job.

By contrast, the rightness or wrongness of abortion, euthanasia, capital punishment, and war are fundamentally normative questions that don’t require a great deal of empirical evidence to resolve.

Graham correctly points out that not knowing what the answer is can become an excuse for not doing anything. We shouldn’t say “Oh trade policy is too complicated” and think that justifies taking no action.

Which is why I think C.S. Lewis (“Another Lewis quote??” Yes, I know, C.S. Lewis is virtually the patron saint of this blog. So sue me) was right in saying that what we need is professionals in the various fields, motivated by Christian love, to help devise policies that will put the Golden Rule into practice:

The second thing to get clear is that Christianity has not, and does not profess to have, a detalied political programme for applying “Do as you would be done by” to a particular society at a particular moment. It could not have. It is meant for all men at all times and the particular programme which suited one place or time would not suit another. And, anyhow, that is not how Christianity works. When it tells you to feed the hungry it does not give you lessons in cookery. When it tells you to read the Scriptures it does not give you lessons in Hebrew or Greek, or even in English grammar. It was never intended to replace or supersede the ordinary human arts and sciences: it is rather a director which will set them all to the right jobs, and a source of energy which will give them all new life, if only they will put themselves at its disposal.

People say, “The Church ought to give us a lead.” That is true if they mean it in the right way, but false if they mean it in the wrong way. By the Church they ought to mean the whole body of practicing Christians. And when they say that the Church should give us a lead, they ought to mean that some Christians–those who happen to have the right talents–should be economists and statesmen, and that all economists and statesmen should be Christians,and that their whole efforts in politics and economics should be directed to putting “Do as you would be done by” into action. If that happened, and if we others were really ready to take it, then we should find the Christian solution for our own social problems pretty quickly. But, of course, when they ask for a lead from the Church most people mean they want the clergy to put out a political programme. That is silly. The clergy are those particular people within the whole Church who have been specially trained and set aside to look after what concerns us as creatures who are going to live forever: and we are asking them to do a quite different job for which they have not been trained. The job is really on us, on the laymen. The application of Christian principles, say, to trade unionism or education, must come from Christian trade unionists and Christian schoolmasters: just as Christian literature comes from Christian novelists and dramatists–not from the bench of bishops getting together and trying to write plays and novels in their spare time. (Mere Christianity, pp. 79-80)

Of course, layman also have the responsibility of sifting through the conflicting claims of experts. “Christian economists” and “Christian statesmen” tend to come down on different sides of constestable issues just like everyone else. Maybe the problem is that they haven’t fully integrated their faith with their secular training? Is this a role that, say, Christian colleges should fill?

I guess my main point is that ethics tells us what ends we should seek, and what means are morally permissible in seeking them, but it doesn’t tell us what are the most efficient or effective ways to meet those ends. That belongs to the messier world of empirical investigation, so maybe we should be careful about elevating certain methods to the level of first principles.