A Thinking Reed

Category: Lutheranism

  • Theology of the cross as incarnational theology

    Christopher has a powerful meditation on the incarnational emphasis in both Anglicanism and Lutheranism that is very consistent with the “theology of the cross” as Douglas John Hall understands it. Christopher notes that both the emphasis on incarnation in Anglican theology and the Lutheran insistence on the theology of the cross take in the full sweep of God’s self-giving in Christ. “This is what Anglicans have tended to call ‘incarnational,’ that notion, that because God has become a creature, nothing creaturely is outside the purview of God’s concern.”

    As Hall points out in The Cross and Our Context, a theology of the cross is sometimes contrasted with, or even pitted against, a “theology of incarnation.” If our incarnational theology is limited to what we might call “Christmas-piety,” he says, it risks missing the point of the theologia crucis. God “descending” to share our creaturehood is indeed wondrous, but the human predicament isn’t creatureliness as such. Rather, it’s the sin, anxiety, and fear of death that prevent us from living authentically human lives. This is why, Hall argues, the cross is the consummation of the incarnation, so to speak: God enters into the very lowest depths of the human condition in order to transform it from within. And therefore the theology of the cross is the incarnational theology par excellence. And this incarnational movement gives shape to the life of discipleship; we are freed to be human (not angels, gods, or beasts)–and sent into the world to show the same kind of love for our fellow creatures that God in Jesus has shown for us. Or, as Christopher says, we learn a new humility–a word that relates both to humaneness and earthiness–that sends us into the world of flesh to love and serve, not away from it into a realm of bodiless “spirituality.”

    (Previous posts on Hall’s theology of the cross here and here)

  • Friday links

    – The new(ish) blog Women in Theology has been quite active lately, with recent posts on John Milbank and Stanley Hauerwas garnering a lot of discussion.

    – Scu at Critical Animal writes on books that have changed the way he thinks. And here’s the post that inspired his post.

    – Jeremy recently had a good post on what it means when you pray for healing that doesn’t happen. And here’s the post that inspired his post.

    – Russell points to this interesting post from Peter Levine, offering a “civic republican” quasi-defense of President Obama’s approach to politics. Russell follows up with some thoughts of his own on localism and communitarianism.

    – A post on Lutherans and the “new perspective” on Paul.

    – Nick Kristof: in comparing the U.S. to banana republics, I may have been unfair…to banana republics.

    – Post-marriage America?

    – Gateways to Geekery: The DC animated universe (I loved the ’90s Batman cartoons).

  • The great refusal: against the theology of glory

    I recently started reading Douglas John Hall’s The Cross in Our Context: Jesus and the Suffering World, which is an application of the “theology of the cross” (see previous post) to the main topics of Christian theology. Hall begins with an introductory chapter that tries to identify just what the theology of the cross–as understood by Luther and others–is.

    Hall proposes to do this by means of the via negativa–the theology of the cross can be understood in light of what it rejects. This is the “theology of glory.” Hall identifies the theology of glory with the triumphalist attitude characteristic of Christendom (i.e., the established status–both formal and informal–that Christian churches have enjoyed for much of Western history).

    He defines triumphalism as “the tendency in all strongly held worldviews, whether religious or secular, to present themselves as full and complete accounts of reality” (p. 17). It leads to a sense of certainty and of having mastered reality by apprehending it through a neatly delineated conceptual prism. In theological terms, it translates into the belief that we have a complete and accurate theological system that limns the nature of God and provides a ready-made answer to every question. Because of the closed nature of such a system, doubt and outside perspectives need not be entertained (or, in extremis, even tolerated).

    The theologia gloriae confuses and distorts because it presents divine revelation in a straightforward, undialectical, and authoritarian manner that silences argument, silences doubt–silences, therefore, real humanity. It overwhelms the human with its brilliance, its incontestability, its certitude. Yet just in this it confuses and distorts because God’s object in the divine self-manifestation is precisely not to overwhelm but to befriend. (p. 20)

    In contrast, Luther’s theology of the cross takes the fragility of humanity with the utmost seriousness:

    Though he was trained in the humanist tradition, as were Phillip Melanchthon, Ulrich Zwingli, and John Calvin, [Luther] manifests a human and worldly orientation that is at least as profound as the humanists. I would even argue that it is more profound than most humanism, because it is grounded not in a vain boast of human potentiality but in a deep sympathy with human weakness and wretchedness….(p. 21)

    “Because for Luther,” Hall continues, “human existence is a frail and uncertain business, divinity for him is not first of all sovereign omnipotence (as it was for Calvin) but astonishing compassion” (p. 22). God’s self-revelation is preeminently “in, with, and under” (to borrow terms Lutherans often apply to the Eucharist) human weakness and suffering. And God’s glory, in the perspective of the theology of the cross, is to effect the well-being and flourishing of God’s creatures. This is in sharp contrast to the triumphalism of Christendom, which tried to justify the claims of Christianity in terms of worldly power and glory.

    Because of its dialectical nature, the theology of the cross is “anti-ideological.” That is, it is opposed to all closed intellectual schemes that try to fit reality into a set of a priori categories instead of facing it–with all its attendant evil and suffering–squarely. Theology must be submitted to the test of experience in that doctrine should not force us to lie about life. (Think, for example, of many popular theodicies.)

    It is easy enough to devise theories in which everything has been “finished”–all sins forgiven, all evils banished, death itself victoriously overcome. But to believe such theories one has to pay a high price: the price of substituting credulity for faith, doctrine for truth, ideology for thought. (p. 29)

    Hall concludes this chapter by proposing that we can understand the three classic theological virtues as each negating an aspect of the theology of glory. We walk by faith (not sight, that is certitude or straightforward knowledge), we hope for God’s final victory (but do not now experience that consummation in its fullness, either in our personal lives or in the world at large), and we love God, others, and creation (rather than exercising a dominating form of power).

    The cross is the ongoing sign that God does not conquer through force majeure, but attracts through love and works to renew creation through participation in the world’s suffering. The theology of the cross calls disciples of Jesus “to follow the crucified God into the heart of the world’s darkness, into the very kingdom of death, and to look for the light that shines in the darkness, the life that is given beyond the baptismal brush with death–and only there” (p. 33).

  • On the theology of the cross

    Canadian theologian Douglas John Hall is well known for his exposition and advocacy of a “theology of the cross”–that “thin tradition” (as he calls it) that was first named by Martin Luther, but which represents a minority report throughout Christian history. In short, it’s an anti-triumphalist ethos that serves to puncture the pretensions of the church whenever it tries to secure its being or worth through anything other than the radical grace of God manifested and enacted in the cross of Jesus.

    In this lecture–“The Theology of the Cross: A Usable Past“–Hall provides a helpful overview of the theologia crucis as he understands it. It is, he says, “not a specific and objectifiable set of teachings or dogmas; not ‘a theology’–it is, rather, a spirit and a method that one brings to all one’s reflections on all the various areas and facets of Christian faith and life” (p. 2). He does nevertheless identify a set of “informing or overarching principles” that characterize the theology of the cross, which I’ll set down in abbreviated form:

    1. The compassion and solidarity of God. This means taking seriously the biblical and christological affirmation that God was in Christ. God is present with God’s creatures and suffers with them; and this is exemplified preeminently in the cross of Jesus. This view denies that classic position that God is “absolute in power and transcendence, and therefore free of contamination by earthly involvements and passions” (p. 3).

    2. The cross as world-commitment. The cross shows that God is implacably determined to be for the world. “The cross is at once, for Christians, the ultimate statement of humankind’s movement away from God and of God’s gracious movement towards fallen mankind” (p. 4). Far from offering a path of “ascent” out of the world to some eternal hereafter, Christianity speaks of God’s descent into the very depths of created being. And this precisely because “God so loved the world.”

    3. Honesty about experience (Christian Realism). As Luther says in his Heidelberg Disputation theses, the theologian of the cross is one “who calls things by their proper name.” In other words, she takes a frank and stark look at the evil and suffering in the world and does not pretend that they’re really good. Even the cross is not good in itself, but only as a sign of “God’s concealed presence and determination to mend the creation from within” (p. 5). Christians aren’t supposed be happy shiny people who never dwell on evil or suffering; that sort of forced cheerfulness often manifests itself as insensitivity to suffering and injustice.

    4. The contextual character of theology. A theology of the cross, Hall argues, is always alive to the particular context in which it is situated. This is in part a consequence of a historical consciousness that recognizes the conditioned and partial nature of all our speculations. It also grows out of a theological impetus for practicality. “It is not interested in pure theory. It is inherently critical of ideology. It drives always towards incarnation, towards enactment” (p. 6).

    5. The refusal of finality. In contrast to a “theology of glory,” a theology of the cross recognizes that final redemption is still a future reality and that we as yet see through a glass darkly. Cognitively, this means we live without certainty; ethically, it means that we should beware of perfectionism or a sense of having arrived at our destination. Further, it issues in “human and ethical solidarity with all who suffer,” (p. 7) because the entire creation yet groans in anticipation of its liberation from bondage.

    It may seem, says Hall, that those who stand in this tradition are too pessimistic or that they deny the reality or the power of the Resurrection. He responds:

    Contrary to many critics of the theology of the cross, this theology does not overlook or downplay the victory of the third day; what it critiques is the use, or rather the misuse, of the resurrection in order to render the cross null and void. And that misuse is by no means a minor thing. Especially in North American popular Christianity the resurrection–or what I call resurrection-ism–functions to turn the religious away from the cross as a thing well and truly overcome. And that means not only the cross of Jesus, but the cross of reality; so that the religion thus mythically bolstered becomes a primary factor in the deadening of otherwise sensitive people to the pain of God in the world. I suspect there is no greater theological task in North America today than to refuse and redirect this false and dangerous functioning of Easter in this society. Rightly to grasp the meaning of Christ’s resurrection is to be turned towards the cross, with understanding, not away from it. (p. 7)

    This kind of ethos represents what I think is the Lutheran tradition (broadly conceived, which means it’s not the property of officially “Lutheran” churches) at its best, and a big part of why I find it a compelling interpretation of Christianity and human experience. I just ordered Hall’s book, The Cross in Our Context, and will likely blog more about this.

  • Stendahl on glossolalia

    Krister Stendahl has a really interesting essay in Paul among Jews and Gentiles called “Glossolalia—The New Testament Evidence.” He argues that what we usually call “speaking in tongues” was a widespread part of early Christian expeience that was later damped down by the institutional church. He maintains that glossolalia as discussed in Paul’s letters were an “ecstatic” form of religious experience that is proper to Christianity.

    It seems to me that the witness of the New Testament texts as to the phenomenon called glossolalia is quite clear and quite simple–and quite up to date. The various texts carry with them a certain critique of the situation today. The history of our main traditions is one of fragmentation and impoverishment within the Christian community. As I read Paul it seems to me crystal clear that if the Presbyterians and the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, and all the “proper” Christians, including the Catholics, did not consciously or unconsciously suppress such phenomena as glossolalia, and if other denominations did not especially encourage them, then the gifts of the Spirit–including glossolalia–would belong to the common register of Christian experience. (p. 121)

    He also says that it’s a mistake to separate charismatic experience from Christian witness against injustice because the one time the NT promises that the Spirit will provide Christians with words to speak is when testifying to the faith before the authorities.

    There are those who identify the public impact of the Spirit with spectacular religious exhibitions on TV and maximum publicity for evangelistic campaigns, while casting suspicion over those who challenge the authorities by their courageous witness to Christ’s justice in the courts. It seems that the biblical model is the opposite one. In the courts is the confrontation that has the promise of the Spirit. (pp. 120-121)

    Stendahl–a Lutheran–is no charismatic, but he says that the church needs them because “light-bulb wattage” faith isn’t sufficient to meet the difficulties that the world faces. He also thinks, however, that charismatics would benefit from incorporation into the broader church so that they can be nurtured into a more mature faith that doesn’t rely exclusively on “peak experiences.”

    I take it that this essay must’ve been written prior to the inroads made by the charismatic movement into the mainline denominations. Still, I think it has relevance since it would be a stretch, to say the least, to maintain that most mainline churches honor charismatic experience as something normal and desirable. I’m about the least “charismatic” guy around (in the theological sense!), but even I resonate with Stendahl’s point that we mainlainers are extremely wary of the more ecstatic forms of religious experience. He makes the intriguing suggestion at the end of the piece that charismatic phenomena like glossolalia belong to the same spectrum of experience as mysticism–both are forms of living religious experience that a religious tradition should want to nurture.

  • Stendahl’s rules

    Krister Stendahl was a Swedish Lutheran theologian, New Testament scholar, and ultimately a bishop of the Church of Sweden. He’s probably best known for arguing that St. Paul’s letters were responding to a specific context–namely the relationship between Jews and Gentiles and his mission to the latter. According to Stendahl, much Western theology (Lutheran in particular) has misunderstood Paul by projecting onto him later conflicts, such as Luther’s with the Catholic Church, resulting in an overly “psychological” understanding of Paul’s teaching on faith and justification (the “introspective conscience of the West” as he puts it). Stendahl’s argument was an important impetus for the so-called new perspective on Paul. His book Paul Among Jews and Gentiles, which coincidentally I just started reading, collects some of his best known essays on this general topic.

    But I didn’t know–until Christopher noted it in a comment–that Stendahl is also known for three “rules” for interreligious dialogue:

    (1) When you are trying to understand another religion, you should ask the adherents of that religion and not its enemies.

    (2) Don’t compare your best to their worst.

    (3) Leave room for “holy envy.” (By this, Stendahl seems to have meant that we should be open to finidng attractive or truthful elements in other religions that aren’t necessarily present in our own.)

    According to Wikipedia, Stendahl articulated these rules during a press conference in which he was responding to opponents of building a Mormon temple in Stockholm. Stendahl’s rules call for just the kind of approach to other religions that I was commending here.

  • Heart of Christianity 2 – Faith

    I liked chapter two, “Faith: The Way of the Heart,” not so much because it breaks any new ground, but because it clearly lays out what I (at any rate) find to be a helpful understanding of the nature of faith.

    Borg notes that some people criticize Christianity for being more about believing than being a way of life. While this criticism has some bite, he points out that Christianity was originally known as “the Way” and that faith is, properly understood, a way of life.

    Borg distinguishes four meanings of faith:

    – Faith as assent: This refers to giving one’s intellectual assent to the truth-claims of Christianity. Borg claims that this idea of faith rose to prominence during and after the Reformation when the various Protestant sects and the Catholic Church came to be distinguished primarily by their belief-systems. In the wake of the Enlightenment, faith came to be almost identified with the act of believing highly improbable, or at least questionable, things. Borg argues that this definition of faith “puts the emphasis in the wrong place” because it “suggests that what God really cares about is the beliefs in our heads–as if ‘believing the right things’ is what God is most looking for, as if having ‘correct beliefs’ is what will save us” (p. 30).

    – Faith as trust: Specifically, “radical trust in God.” God is the one who keeps us afloat. This means that we can relax and not be anxious because we can trust in the “sea of being in which we live and move and have our being” (p. 31).

    – Faith as fidelity: Borg describes this as a “radical centering in God.” It is ultimate loyalty to God and God’s commandment to love our neighbor as ourselves. The opposite of faith as fidelity is idolatry–putting something ahead of God as our ultimate concern.

    – Faith as vision: This is our synoptic view of reality as a whole. In particular, is God/reality hostile or indifferent to us, or is it consonant with our best interests? To have faith in this sense is to view God/reality as “life-giving and nourishing” or “gracious” (p. 35) rather than out to get us or unconcerned with us.

    Borg cites the last three understandings of faith as particularly congenial to the emerging paradigm because of their relational quality–they define the nature of our relationship with God and shape our response to God, which is lived out in love of and service to our neighbor. He also recognizes, however, that they are important to the earlier paradigm too. The problem with the earlier paradigm, he thinks, is that it over-empasizes the propositional component of faith to the detriment of the relational.

    As a Lutheran, I find Borg’s discussion of faith appealing. Whatever else it might mean, “justification by faith” can’t mean you will be saved if you can manage to believe six impossible things before breakfast. For Luther, it was radical trust in the graciousness of God that constituted “saving” faith.

    However, I’m less persuaded that this approach to faith is distinctive of the “emerging” paradigm. I think that this more relational notion of faith has always been present in the tradition at its best. Even fundamentalism goes beyond “mere belief” to “trust in the Lord” (or “accepting Jesus into your heart”). I suspect that any genuine faith includes elements of all four of the types Borg has identified.

  • Friday links

    – Jim Henley on the high road and the low road

    – The July issue of the Journal of Lutheran Ethics focuses on poverty and development

    – How easy would it be to fix Social Security?

    – The Twilight series: not just bad, but morally toxic

    – Who you callin’ a pescatarian?

    – Marvin writes about teaching Anselm’s ontological argument

    – The AV Club on alt-country pioneer Robbie Fulks

    – The New York Times‘s Nicholas Kristof reports from the West Bank

    – A recently published dystopian novel about animal rights; here’s the author’s blog

  • The trouble with tradition

    Lutheran theologian Robert Benne laments the ELCA’s departure from the “Great Tradition” of marginalizing gay people and its descent into the dreaded “liberal Protestantism.” The problem, it seems, is that the ELCA hasn’t given sufficient weight to the opinions of white male pastors and theologians.

    One thing I’ve noticed is that whenever someone makes an appeal to tradition (or Tradition), there will always come along someone else who’s more traditional than thou. Some of Benne’s commenters are already pointing out that the real problems began when Lutherans abandoned biblical inerrancy (or broke away from Rome). It’s also worth pointing out that some of our most outspoken “traditionalists” on gay relationships are “liberals” on questions like women’s ordination. And almost no Lutherans take the traditionalist position on artificial birth control. One man’s traditionalist, it turns out, is another man’s liberal–or heretic.

    Which isn’t to say that it’s impossible to be a consistent traditionalist. But such a consistency would have to be purchased at the price of plausibility. Why, after all, should we think that all the interesting moral or theological questions were already answered in the first (or fourth, or thirteenth, or sixteenth) century? The Bible itself contains passages where people are wrestling with–and revising–their received tradition (e.g., the fifteenth chapter of Acts). This seems necessary if tradition is to be a resource of wisdom and inspiration and not an ideological rationalization of power and privilege.

  • The gift of self-forgetfulness

    Blog-friend Jeremy, formerly of The Kibitzer, Eating Words, and other sundry ventures, is blogging again at Don’t Be Hasty. Today he has a great post on the Lutheran understanding of sin as being “curved in” on oneself. This understanding of the human condition–and the corresponding understanding of justification by faith–is a big part of what attracted me to the Lutheran tradition.