Growing Grace-full

The Insatiable Hunger (a brief character sketch)

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Thu, 10 May 2012 17:17:00 +0000

Benjamin hadn’t done anything extraordinary. In fact, he avoided most opportunities that remotely smacked of doing something that could conceivably produce an extraordinary thing. The young women that considered him cute mistook his silence as strength. Those closer to him thought him simply odd. Those closest to him knew he was just scared.

Fear marked Benjamin’s life. He recoiled from falling leaves. He would turn around and walk the other way to evade almost-chance encounters with folks he neither cared for or didn’t trust, which was just about everybody. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’d wake up shaking. Uncontrollably shaking. Too many Xanax became the only remedy. But too many Xanax led to that sneaking suspicion that everything was wrong. Brain shivers. Self-loathing. Unreality.

One late morning, after a night of the shakes, Benjamin went for a drive. He had no destination, but he found himself at the local park. He unexpectedly cried for a few minutes before leaving his car, and then moseyed around, eyeballing the many baseball games underway. He saw a yellow Lab walking a child next to the concession stand and felt nothing. Finally, finding a small hill some distance from the fields, Benjamin sat and half-watched the games as dusk approached. His thoughts eventually centered on his wife, Kate, as they often did. He always wanted more from her, but it would never be enough. He had never learned how to love and thus he’d suck the life out of every lover. Fear has an insatiable appetite, a fact he already knew, but suddenly conceded.

Some time ago, he had read, in Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents, about the supposed source of religious sentiments:

“The derivation of religious needs from the infant’s helplessness and the longing for the father aroused by it seems to me incontrovertible, especially since the feeling is not simply prolonged from childhood days, but is permanently sustained by fear of the superior power of Fate.”

At the time, Benjamin escaped the incontrovertible opinion of Freud by positing his own unassailable opinion—that the religious-needs vacuum within his heart existed as a result of his being relationally separated from the divine; that, in short, religion being present in most cultures is a result of humankind’s being created imago Dei.

Benjamin knew he could no longer muster up this belief. Fear, he realized, was far more powerful in creating religiosity than a personal Fate.

Night came. The field lights flickered off. Benjamin was jarred to stand up and walk toward his car, and he didn’t know how long he had been sitting there. Since that long morning, it seemed like he was watching his body live and move and breath, like he had no control over where it was heading, like he was merely observing the day’s events through his eyes with someone else at the helm.

He prayed that he would die on the way home. His prayer was not answered.

A Faith of Whose Own?

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Mon, 07 May 2012 16:03:00 +0000

AS A TWO kingdomite, of the Pannenberg persuasion, I always begin reading “Christ & Culture” books with a sigh and some hesitation. Jonathan Merritt's A Faith of Our Own: Following Jesus Beyond the Culture Wars was no exception.

First, though, I'll warrant that I'm not representative of the target audience of this book, for the following three reasons: (1) I've read my fair share of academic "Christ & Culture" books; (2) I'm in my late 30s (and thus a cynical, disengaged and barely Christian genXer); and (3) I am not southern (though I am intimately familiar with the Southern Baptist Convention and the Royal Ambassadors, Living Christmas Trees, 4th of July Sunday extravaganzas, as well as Freddy Gage crusades). But enough about me.

This isn't to say that I ought not to have read the book, or that I didn't enjoy it, for what it's worth. I do think the target audience very much ought to read this book, however. If you're just coming to the "Christ & Culture" discussion, if you're in your 20s–early 30s, if you were raised in the Bible Belt, or (which I didn't mention previously) if you're from an older generation and desire to get a glimpse of the angle from which Millennials are engaging these matters, then read this book.

I think I'd commend it even if I didn't largely agree with it; I remain somewhat surprised that I did, actually. I was expecting a conflation of the kingdoms at least on every other page, but Merritt is refreshingly aware that if he were to simply swing the pendulum the other way, to simply react to the cultural construction in which he was raised, that he'd end up being just another side of the same coin (e.g., Fundamentalist/Modernist; Christian Right/Christian Left; Mohler/Wallis, etc.). In the end, Faith of Our Own is essentially a lay-level version of certain bits of James Davison Hunter's To Change the World.

Nutshell message:

"As one plunges deeper into the culture wars, one loses a sense of reality and embraces a partisan perception" (p. 35).
Christians are not to abandon the public square, but we need to learn how to engage it in a less worldly and politically partisan way.
"Good Christians are good citizens, and as such, they should establish a faithful presence in the public square as in media, business, science, education, and the arts" (p. 40).
"Ousting is a typical culture-war tactic," leading to third-degree separationism. (And I would add, it's a typical tactic among those who think they have the corner on dogmatic truths.) "The result is an insulated group in an isolated echo chamber where conservatives become more conservative and liberals become more liberal. No one has permission to think for themselves" (p. 61).
"We take a slice out of the Bible-pie and then call it the pie" (p. 88).
"The change we're witnessing is a shift from a political faith to an incarnational faith. One that seeks to be a faithful presence in the public square but knows that real change happens when we heal and help each other" (p. 153).
In his role as public representative of his church (and, by default, Christianity), he "never wades into debates about specific legislative proposals," and "where the culture wars are fought, unity is almost always absent" (p. 160).

It wasn't until the last chapter that it became clear to me that Merritt's thinking about the relationship between the church and state (or "Christ & Culture") was one that I hope others of his generation and younger pick up. Merritt recounts a time when Richard Mouw had written an essay on social ethics that caught the eye of Carl Henry. Henry wanted to publish it, but not without implementing a few edits. Here's the text (from pp. 173–74):

Mouw argued that the church should take stands on specific issues of social justice, but Henry wanted to change the wording to speak of individual Christians' needing to take stands. But Mouw . . . believed that the church as an institution should speak to specific social justice concerns in the public square, so he turned down Henry's offer.

Note that by "specific social justice concerns" what's not meant is the church as an institution decrying in general poverty, racism, criminal justice reform, hunger, etc. (I mean, who would disagree that those are societal ills?), but rather specific legislative solutions to those problems. As the story goes, after a few weeks of back-and-forth, Mouw let Christianity Today publish the essay:

The final version asserted that the church must maintain its prophetic voice and say "no" to the status quo of injustices, but stopped short of saying the church should endorse specific policy solutions. . . .

[Mouw later wrote] "What I really wanted to say is that the church—in the form of both preaching and ecclesial pronouncements—could do no more than merely utter a 'no' to some social evils. There were times, I was convinced, that the church could rightly say a bold 'yes' to specific policy-like solutions. I now see that youthful conviction as misguided. Henry was right, and I was wrong."

What else can I say? [queue: Handel's "Hallelujah" chorus] If this isn't a good two-kingdoms start in the right direction, I'm not sure what is. God bless you, Jonathan, for not offering the same old reactionary tripe.

But this wouldn't be a proper review without some critique, right? While I'm not familiar with Merritt's other writings, the prose is just okay. Not much literary flair here, even if there's a good handful of quotable content throughout it. He also nudges up against pietism at times, spiritualizing everything. And despite his caveat in chapter 9, his generation comes off smelling a little rosy. He sometimes conflates the two kingdoms in his desire to alleviate societal ills through Christianity, as if the gospel itself is about making the world a better place. Sure, it may serve as an impetus to do this or that, but more properly this is where the concept of natural law would enter, which for obvious and forgivable reasons didn't have a place in this book. Finally, his brief recognition of the sinful fragmentation of the church catholic in chapter 9, while commendable, offers little more than the typical Protestant low-church ecclesiology (pp. 162ff.; but Merritt is Baptist, after all).

Because Faith of Our Own is, as one endorser put it on the back cover, "part memoir, part manifesto," the reader ought to move beyond it pretty quickly. Anecdotes can only take one so far. Here's my short list of "Christ & Culture" must-reads, for those whose palates have been whet (in a somewhat arbitrary chronological order of reading):

The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge

The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion

The Politics of Jesus

Resident Aliens: A Provocative Christian Assessment of Culture and Ministry for People Who Know that Something is Wrong

The Way of the (Modern) World: Or, Why It's Tempting to Live As If God Doesn't Exist

A Peculiar People: The Church as Culture in a Post-Christian Society

To Change the World: The Irony, Tragedy, and Possibility of Christianity in the Late Modern World

The Cost of Discipleship

Free Is Not Cheap

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 19:32:00 +0000

The ovens of Buchenwald | © Chris Donato

WHEN JESUS PREDICTED his death to the disciples (Matt 16:21), it surprised them. The Messiah wasn’t supposed to die—especially at the hands of the pagan Roman empire. In another sense, however, it wasn’t all that surprising.

Prophets like Jesus, Jeremiah, or John the Baptist often met with less than happy endings. In this case, it’s equally surprising that he pushed on toward Jerusalem. But such was the cost of discipleship.

Jesus understood well that his messianic work of establishing God’s kingdom entailed more than preaching and eating with unclean sinners. It included suffering and death, and, of course, vindication through resurrection. Upon these final acts, the whole battle hinged. If the creator God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, would have the effects of his kingdom bear on earth as they do in heaven, then his Messiah would have to shoulder the battle that would eventually end all battles.

Jesus therefore easily makes the connection from his suffering to ours, not because ours redeems anyone but because he was fulfilling God’s plans through the cross, which began in the garden; thus we too must go his way. That is, if we want to belong to the new covenant community in this time when the Evil One continues to wage war, then we also must say no to our selfish desires, pick up our crosses, and follow him.

This call so captured a young Lutheran pastor during the rise of the Nazi regime that he wrote in 1937 what is now the classic Cost of Discipleship. And Dietrich Bonhoeffer, like so many with a prophetic voice before and after him, paid the ultimate price for refusing to consider his Christianity, his following of Christ, as nothing less (but certainly more) than active protest against injustices—an undeniable facet of bringing God’s will to bear on earth. Jesus knew such sacrifice all too well (and his disciples would also learn this soon). He didn’t doubt for a second that the likes of Caiaphas, Herod, Pilate, and Caesar would cut him down the first chance they got. His message challenged their little kingdoms by undermining their pathetic attempts to grasp for the kind of power that sets itself up against the throne of God.

Hitler’s Germany posed a threat to the world and a challenge to the Christian church. History sadly records how badly the established church in Germany did in facing that challenge. After the Reformation, Bonhoeffer argued, the church again cheapened the preaching of the forgiveness of sins, and this has seriously weakened her witness: “The price we are having to pay today in the shape of the collapse of the organized church is only the inevitable consequence of our policy of making grace available to all at too low a cost. We gave away the Word and sacraments wholesale, we baptized, confirmed, and absolved a whole nation without condition. Our humanitarian sentiment made us give that which was holy to the scornful and unbelieving. . . . But the call to follow Jesus in the narrow way was hardly ever heard.” Thus the collective consciousness of the country went on with business as usual, baking their bread, selling their goods, with a prison camp like Flossenbürg just a few miles outside of town.

It was in the Flossenbürg concentration camp, incidentally, that Bonhoeffer met his untimely death in April 1945, just as the American forces were approaching. The account is gruesome. Suffice to say it was slow and painful. Thus Bonhoeffer understood well the difference between what he called costly grace and cheap grace: “Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline. Communion without confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ.” Or, to put it even more clearly, it is to hear the gospel preached as follows: “Of course you have sinned, but now everything is forgiven, so you can stay as you are and enjoy the consolations of forgiveness.” If the gospel made no such demands for discipleship, then Bonhoeffer could and should have happily joined the ranks of the organized church in Germany. And we too can happily join the church in America at those precise points where it baptizes the injustices of its culture.

Nazi Germany, however, is an easy target. Wading through the subtleties of idolatry and calling them out in America is another matter. Where do we begin? How do we avoid both extremes of baptizing anti-Christian culture or withdrawing to the point of quiet inaction? The cost of discipleship in these United States doesn’t seem all that costly. Or have we missed what it means to be a disciple? Consider again Jesus’ warning to us: “If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will save it” (Matt 16:25). What good will it do for us to accumulate bigger, better, and more things and yet lose our lives?

{Part of this originally appeared in Tabletalk 32.7 (July 2008): 28–29}

Confirmation & Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 19:03:00 +0000

OVER AT JESUS CREED, Scot McKnight posted about a "note from a pastor in a denomination that baptizes infants and then proceeds to catechism and confirmation, but this pastor has his doubts." (There are some good thoughts/advice in the comments section over at JC, btw.)

I too responded in the combox, but this issue is one that's near to my heart, having taught such classes for a few years, which teaching challenged me more than any other to date (whoever said "if you can't explain it to children, you don't understand it well enough," was right in my opinion).

The discussion can easily turn into a perspectives match on why—or not—baptism is efficacious (covenantally binding and enabling grace), essential, and preferably paedo- to following the Christ. But that's not the point of this post. Rather, it's simply to get at an answer to the question: What do you think would improve confirmation? By way of personal anecdote, I'll try to offer part of a suggestion:

I was raised Baptist, which of course didn’t use words like confirmation but nevertheless had a baptism preparation class that carried with it all the automation and pressures of most confirmation classes. To be sure, a profession is expected before enrolling in this class. I was six, though, which for the majority of Baptist traditions is kind of young (perhaps not among Southern Baptists).

At the time I started practicing Christianity more seriously (around 20 years of age), I was not re-baptized, as many of my fellow Baptists were wont to do. However nascent my theological understanding was in these matters, it seemed to me one dunk was clearly enough.

Some five years later, I married in to a confessional Lutheran family, and my wife’s experience in confirmation, despite the automatic feel among that crowd, was, according to her, absolutely confirmatory (a bolster) for her faith.

I should note at this point that I think we fail to grasp what confirmation is, not least as a result of its relationship to (the historic church’s view of) baptism, if we’re losing sleep over this “automatic” flavor. That said, I understand why (theologically) Baptists and Anabaptists take umbrage with it.

Fast forwarding to my own practices and experiences in the local church as a teacher: At the church I had been a member of (an independent Reformed congregation) for six years during the first decade of this century, I taught the communicants (confirmation) class for four years.

Here’s what was cool about this particular church’s practice: We asked parents to decide when to put their children in this class. This meant that during any given year, I had children ranging from 5 (the youngest) to about 12. Average ages were 8–10. All throughout the class, I spent time with each parent discussing their children’s “progress.” Receiving first Communion was by no means automatic after taking part in this process. The final class(es) consisted of walking through the gospel (in age appropriate Q&A form) with a (senior) elder present. That elder would make the final call regarding the child's understanding of the gospel (if Scot reads this, I made sure it was not the potentially truncated "soterian" version being rehearsed, despite his book on the subject not being published yet!).

Now, given my conviction regarding baptism and confirmation (that the former is efficacious and enabling, and the latter is meant to confirm—sacramentally, though not in the same sense as baptism and the Supper—what has been promised and thus presumed in the former), I’d made sure that each of my kids would be admitted to their first Communion. But even then, a small handful over the years would come back the next year for a do-over.

I hope this last personal experience and example helps answer the question. In short, what do I think would improve confirmation? Put the ball in the parents’ court to decide when to put their children forward. Move past the notion that every child has to be a certain age before he/she can enter confirmation. And get a spine—imagine the words coming out your mouth, “Your child is not ready,” and then brace yourself for the consequences. Finally, see each family as a mentoring opportunity—both for the child and her parents.

Or sidestep this whole issue and just go Eastern Orthodox—their children receive confirmation (chrismation) right after they’re baptized (but whence comes catechesis, which is what I think constitutes at least one major import of confirmation in the West [along with the sealing of the Holy Spirit], in the Orthodox tradition?).

Church of the Open Wound

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 12:37:00 +0000

A COLLEAGUE recently brought my attention to this portion of Jürgen Moltmann's The Trinity and the Kingdom (p. 49):

God and suffering belong together, just as in this life the cry for God and the suffering experienced in pain belong together. The question about God and the question about suffering are a joint, a common question. And they only find a common answer. Either that, or neither of them finds a satisfactory answer at all. No one can answer the theodicy question in this world, and no one can get rid of it. Life in this world means living with this open question, and seeking the future in which the desire for God will be fulfilled, suffering will be overcome, and what has been lost will be restored.

The question of theodicy is not a speculative question; it is a critical one. It is the all-embracing eschatological question. It is not purely theoretical, for it cannot be answered with any new theory about the existing world. It is a practical question which will only be answered through experience of the new world in which ‘God will wipe away every tear from their eyes’. It is not really a question at all, in the sense of something we can ask or not ask, like other questions. It is the open wound of life in this world. It is the real task of faith and theology to make it possible for us to survive, to go on living, with this open wound.

The person who believes will not rest content with any slickly explanatory answer to the theodicy question. And he will also resist any attempts to soften the question down. The more a person believes, the more deeply he experiences pain over the suffering in the world, and the more passionately he asks about God and the new creation.

Moltmann's underpinning panentheistic doctrine of God notwithstanding, let's focus on two themes that arise as he writes of theodicy and the so-called "problem of evil":

The question of God and suffering is an "all-embracing eschatological question," because it can "only be answered through experience" of the new heavens and earth. Right now, it is, in fact, not really question at all. It just is; it simply hangs here all heavy and stifling, just like an . . .
. . . "open wound." Theodicy is the open wound of life in this world. It can't be answered sufficiently this side of the eschaton: "Life in this world means living with this open question."

It seems to me that the reality of a fragmented church in a world that has witnessed the ascension of God's Christ also falls under the "question" of theodicy. And it is a great evil too easily dismissed by Protestants in general (Carl Trueman and others like him being exceptions)—and by evangelicals in particular (leading to a kind of gnostic ecclesiology, as the folks over at Called to Communion often note).

Just a few short centuries ago, we Protestants were, of course, Roman Catholic. And our forebears—of the first generation, at least—from the start had their eyes on reforming their Mother, the church of Rome. In this, I'm reminded of Stanley Hauerwas' 1995 Reformation Sunday homily:

Reformation names the disunity in which we currently stand. We who remain in the Protestant tradition want to say that Reformation was a success. But when we make Reformation a success, it only ends up killing us. After all, the very name ‘Protestantism’ is meant to denote a reform movement of protest within the Church Catholic. When Protestantism becomes an end in itself, which it certainly has through the mainstream denominations in America, it becomes anathema. If we no longer have broken hearts at the church’s division, then we cannot help but unfaithfully celebrate Reformation Sunday.

To put it as Trueman did in the hyperlinked article above, "Protestants need a positive reason not to be Catholic."

At any rate, my Roman Catholic friends would deny the possibly of real body fragmentation, that is, of members of the body being severed from the body. No doubt, they do think people can be separated from the body, but they're not taking a part of the body, so to speak, with them.

I, along with everybody who isn't Roman Catholic (and perhaps Eastern Orthodox), demur.

The notion of a "perpetual divine protection of the unity and orthodoxy of the church through the apostolic succession of the bishops, by virtue of its being a continuation of the life and ministry of Jesus Christ, in his mystical body" makes little sense in light of the realities of the church's history, which continue to surround us ("St. Ignatius of Antioch on the Church"). It's not the latter points with which I have problems (apostolic succession; the church being a continuation of the life and ministry of Christ); it's the former—the "perpetual divine protection of the unity and orthodoxy of the Church." That conflates the truth with the proclamation, or participation in, the truth (ousia vs. metousia). Scripture, tradition, and reason demand otherwise. And "the person who believes will not rest content with any slickly explanatory answer" that attempts to justify God's ways in this matter.

Thus, the disunity of the church catholic is an open wound. Put another way, I think Roman Catholics (helped by none other than John Calvin, who took his cue from Cyprian & Cyril!) are right to demand that the ontological connection between Christ and his church by the power of the Spirit be upheld, but I think they're wrong that her being necessarily leads to an infallible act. Again: the church's union and communion with Christ in ontological relation doesn't by its very nature procure infallibility. The words of Jesus and his apostles regarding the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church, like the prophetic utterances of old, are to be construed as goadings toward righteousness—toward that oneness, holiness, catholicity, and apostolicity—not as absolute promises or blueprints of infallibility that will simply unfurl throughout the course of history.

Let me try to put it more plainly: I think that the church is to be one in this time between the times. One, not just in will and purpose, but one physically and ontologically—in a collegial episcopate (in contradistinction to the universal jurisdictional claims of the Roman pontiff). I think this is what God wants. But I also think that we have failed miserably in this regard, that the body has indeed fragmented, that toes have left their feet, that wrists have left their arms and have caused whole hands to suffer the same.

In other words, the church—both catholic and local, invisible and visible, one and many—suffers from an open wound. I therefore think God would have us continually aching for reattachment, of having broken hearts at the church's division, or else we're left with being an end in ourselves, that is, anathema.

But whence the credo? How can we pray, "I believe in one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church," if it doesn't quite exist?

With hope.

It may be that this open-wound ecclesiology can only be resolved in "the future in which the desire for God will be fulfilled, suffering will be overcome, and what has been lost will be restored," but ignoring the charge to be one (or worse, to theologically justify fragmentations) is fatalistic at best and heresy at worst.

Yet More Perspectives on the Sabbath

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 16:52:00 +0000

Scott Oakland of ReformedCast called me on Monday for a live podcast revolving around the book Perspectives on the Sabbath.

The time flew by, but I do think this was one of my more articulate presentations. I could be totally wrong on that score (I know one thing, participating in radio/podcast interviews are quick lessons in humility—the boring, monotone sound of my own voice; the fumbling diction; incorrect facts; sticking my foot in my mouth, etc.). Why not listen for yourself?

Dominical (& Ecclesiastical) View of the Sabbath

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:03:00 +0000

ON PAGE NINE of Perspectives on the Sabbath, I outlined the four views ensconced in the book. As a final note, I wrote that "Roman Catholics, traditional Anglicans, and the Orthodox, while maintaining a much stronger magisterial and thus 'dominical' view of this matter, exegetically fall somewhere in between Arand [the Lutheran] and Pipa [the puritan sabbatarian]."

Truth be told, I had wanted the Lutheran position position to fill this gap, but, as it turned out, Arand ended up being a little too close to Blomberg. Had I known, I would've also invited an Anglo-Catholic, Roman Catholic, or Eastern Orthodox thinker to contribute (while retaining Arand's important discussion in the mix as a mediating position between the aforementioned group and Blomberg).

When writing the above, I footnoted two sources: the Cathechism of the Catholic Church, III.ii, 1.3 (also para. 1166); and These Truths We Hold—The Holy Orthodox Church: Her Life and Teachings ("Orthodox Dogma and Doctrine: The Ten Commandments, no. 4").

All this to say that I came across Taylor Marshall's brief synopsis of Aquinas on the Lord's Day. I had not read this bit from Thomas in quite some time and thus forgot about it as I was preparing the manuscript for Perspectives on the Sabbath. It doesn't contradict any of the above, of course, just further elucidates the so-called "dominical" view and its quasi-sabbatarian leanings (in even asking the question, "May Catholics Work on Sunday?"), even though it does posit a significant (redemptive-historical) break between old covenant sabbath observance and new covenant worship.

AS AN ASIDE, it is commonly asserted that Calvin and other early reformers held to this "dominical" view. At least as far as Calvin is concerned (and Luther, with a slightly different twist), I think this holds true. Put differently, I think Gaffin is essentially right in his thesis that Calvin represents a via media. While Gaffin downplays the disparity between the reformer and Westminster on this point, he nonetheless acknowledges it. This is another reason why I wrote in the introduction to the book that the view "exegetically falls somewhere in between Arand and Pipa."

As an aside to this aside, Gaffin also argues that Calvin saw Rome as perpetuating a strict continuation of the old covenant sabbath. I forget what the literature concludes on this subject, but I do recall some of it highlighting the increasing sabbatarianism of the medieval church (e.g., Bauckham argues that starting in the sixth century pockets of legislative activity supporting Sunday sabbatarianism began appearing, until finally it became assumed practice by the late Middle Ages [From Sabbath to Lord's Day, 302–304]).

What I'm sure about is that there was increasing canonical enforcement of Sunday worship (and thus "servitude to another man," in Aquinas' words, was forbidden on the Lord's Day); what I don't think holds up, however, is the notion that it was "any day is as good as another" when it comes to the gathering of God's people before that, in the early church and in apostolic times. Gaffin's use of Rome as a foil is, I think, overstated. And, besides, criticizing High Middle Ages sabbatarianism is a bit ironic for a Westminsterian, don't you think?

Final aside: the "dominical" view is also necessarily an "ecclesiastical" view, because everybody that holds to some form of the dominical view, to varying degrees, grounds Lord's Day practice both in scripture (e.g., Jesus' resurrection on the first day of the week—as opposed the idea that the old covenant sabbath carries over into the new covenant) and church tradition (some of which is actually inscripturated).

1 Out of 7 Is Bad

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 12:34:00 +0000

TWO MISTAKES accompany most discussions on gluttony. The first is that it only pertains to those with a less than shapely waistline; the second is that it always involves food. In reality, it can apply to toys, television, entertainment, sex, or relationships. It is about an excess of anything.

The ancient pagans got this right. At Delphi (in lower central Greece), the sanctuary of Apollo had inscribed upon it, wisely, “Nothing in Extremes.” The problem with this, of course, was that the judge of such excessiveness was the individual, whereas for followers of Christ it is the Creator God Himself. And we know His thoughts on this subject not because we fall into some kind of trance and speak his words—as the oracle at Delphi supposedly did—but because we have his Word to us. See, for example, Proverbs 23:1–3: “When you sit down to eat with a ruler, observe carefully what is before you, and put a knife to your throat if you are given to appetite. Do not desire his delicacies for they are deceptive food.” This is basically a warning to exercise self-control when faced with the extravagance of the ungodly rich who may seek to lure you into their way of thinking.

Sound familiar? Whose life, before Jesus was born, best illustrates this for us? Daniel was the one who sat at the opulent table and “resolved that he would not defile himself with the king’s food” (Dan. 1:8). Again, this same principle applies to any good thing that God has created. Surely we are to enjoy them (this is no call to rigid self-denial), but we are not to consume them with ravenous gluttony, demanding more from these simple pleasures than Spirit-filled prudence allows.

Prudence, by the way, is the opposite of gluttony. Prudence, in the sense of wise frugality or temperance, is the heavenly virtue that, according to the church fathers Chrysostom and Jerome, was severely lacking in Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden; indeed, so much so that due to their wild appetite they were cast out of Paradise, for they exalted themselves as the judges (much like the ancient Greeks and Romans) of what was excessive.

Gluttony, or a lack of moderation, also leads many of us to demand all things to be exactly the way we want them. A more subtle form of gluttony, this vice is not merely tolerated in churches today but acclaimed. It has become respectable. You’ll be hard-pressed to find someone who, as the old Romans did, desired so much pleasure that after eating a meal they purged themselves in order to eat some more. But a keen eye will notice in many quarters what we may call a gluttony of delicacy.

In his Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis describes this vice as it inflicts “the patient’s mother.” She is a “positive terror to hostesses and servants . . . always turning from what has been offered her to say with a demure little sigh and a smile ‘Oh please, please . . . all I want is a cup of tea, weak but not too weak, and the teeniest weeniest bit of really crisp toast.’” Lewis points out that because what she wants is smaller and less costly than what has been set before her, she never recognizes as gluttony her determination to get what she wants, however troublesome it may be to others. She will, in fact, “be astonished to learn that her whole life is enslaved to this kind of sensuality.” And it is this kind of gluttonous sensuality, Wormwood instructs Screwtape, that has as its chief use “a kind of artillery preparation for attacks on chastity.” On the battlefield, the artillery bombarded the enemy’s defenses to prepare the way for an incisive attack. As long as we are deadened to this in us (and the fact that this is seldom discussed among us doesn’t help), we will continue on our merry way and in the end be as astonished as the patient’s mother.

Along with this gluttony of delicacy is often found a tendency to demand too much from others, thus exasperating them to the point of withdrawal or anger. Friendships (to say nothing of the marital relationship) are true gifts from God, yet they too can be objects of gluttony. Having high expectations is one thing; having unrealistic expectations—demanding more from others (like from a child) than is appropriate—for the gluttonous pursuance of pleasure is another thing entirely.

But there’s good news. Gluttony, which is admittedly a matter of the heart, is nonetheless often limited by our bodies. If we eat in excess, many times our bodies let us know. If we are too fussy about having everything just so, we’ll be told to do it ourselves. If we demand too much from others, they will not want to be around us. And all these can serve as catalysts to change.

Thanks be to God, change is possible. By the power of his Spirit, we are enabled to pursue such changes, to practice self-control and a healthy dose of self-denial (hard for us Americans, to be sure).

We Christians have unthinkingly embraced our society’s desire “for just a little more” as we pursue our supposed main objective in life — upward mobility. But these are little more than the sanctified vice of gluttony; indeed, they are respectable sins.

{Part of this originally appeared in Tabletalk 32.5 (May 2008): 12–13}

Out of Africa?

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 19:06:00 +0000

THOMAS C. ODEN'S How Africa Shaped the Christian Mind: Rediscovering the Seedbed of Western Christianity made its way across my desk more than two years ago, and I have been meaning to publish this short response to it. I remember at the time having my own personal list of books I wanted to read that year already "set in stone," so I resisted the urge. But it just sat there staring me, all short and interesting looking.

So I picked it up.

And I'm glad I did—though not because Oden makes an open-and-shut case for his thesis, which is, in a nutshell, stated in the title of the book itself. The book has indeed given me much to consider and remember when it comes to the magnanimous influence African churchmen have had on Western Christianity. Now, I'm not too familiar with Oden, only by way of his Justification Reader and a few of the Ancient Christian commentaries. He's not above sometimes chipping away the corners of a square peg, as a few reviewers of his Reader have noted. This short book is no different in that regard; one gets the sneaking suspicion that some conclusions have been slightly exaggerated. But Oden anticipates all this, which does his argument service.

The evidence for the thesis itself apparently became manifest to him (and others) during the course of his many years of work on the Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture. "We were not prepared for the breadth and power of this evidence," Oden writes. "Nowhere in the literature could we find this influence explained. Everywhere in the literature it seemed to be either ignored or resisted. It came only from decades of experience with African texts and ideas. Finally we learned to trace the path back from Antioch, Jerusalem, Constantinople, Nisibis and Rome to its origins in Africa" (p. 29). From this good report comes one of the more annoying features of the book, however. And that is Oden's penchant for seeming somewhat shrill in his brief and scattered diatribes against the neglect of his thesis over the past few generations of historical scholarship. But once you get used to those jarring interruptions, the easier it is to tune them out.

At its best, this short book does serve as an exhortation to be on the lookout for "European chauvinism" (p. 23), when the evidences for the history of the transmission of African Christian traditions have been largely ignored, when the movement of Christian thought headed north out of Africa instead of south into Africa.

Closer to Fine

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 21:46:00 +0000

IF SPIRITUAL AUTOBIOGRAPHIES disgust or madden or bore you, then you'll want to visit here another time. I usually don't read them, so I understand. It's well-nigh narcissistic to think others would want to read these kinds of details about one's own life.

Life. Nice segue. I'm trying to tell you something about my life / Maybe give me insight between black and white.

During that angst-ridden era of flannels, Camels, and Reality Bites, I found myself barely hanging on to some semblance of spirituality. This guy Jesus really existed a long time ago, but we couldn't be much surer about anything else. It took a few years after my "conversion experience" to get to this place, but it had been moving in that direction since the very night I wept at the end of the aisle. (The reason being, overemphasis on the experience of conversion by nature sets people up for failure—unless you're on the road to Damascus, I suppose.)

If I could put my finger on one particular moment I began noticeably to unravel, it was after saturating myself with the Renaissance humanists. Or, rather, it was after misconstruing the entire movement that we now call Christian humanism. In short, my puerile understanding and attempt to put into practice the ideals of this movement quickly devolved: the Christian part fell by the wayside and I was left with the humanist part alone. But the wages of humanism is death. (In a moment of perfect confluence, "Imagine" just came on the radio as I write this.)

Literature and music. Both play a key role in my spiritual development, which gets me to the point of this post.

During my early-to-mid 20s, the liner notes to Moby's Everything Is Wrong (Mute, 1995) became my manifesto. It had all the right mix of disdain for the Christian Right, support for environmentalist causes, social justice (for the poor and hungry), universalism, and syndicalism. This was the kind of stuff that preached to me. I rarely rolled out of bed on the Lord's Day. Music and literature, especially that which employed biblical allusions, remained my primary source of inspiration and discipleship.

Enter the Indigo Girls. While I haven't kept up with them that much since, nor did I rush out to buy everything they ever produced at the time, one particular album remained my daily bread in the mid 90s: the self-titled Indigo Girls (Epic Records, 1989).

Each track, in some way or another, seemed to describe my journey: "Secure Yourself"—choose your identity wisely, this world is dark, and the journey is long; "Kid Fears"—the juxtaposition of normal childhood fears versus those tragedies we sometimes hear about on the news; "Prince of Darkness"—a testament to family, friends and support systems in the face of diabolical forces that threaten to pull you under; "Blood and Fire"—all about the obsessive-compulsive, and thus dangerous, kind of love; "Tried to Be True"—faithfulness and compromise in the little choices you make everyday; "Love's Recovery"—the redemptive power of selfless love; "Land of Canaan"—the shame and pain and loneliness of unrequited love; "Center Stage"—through several allusions to historic nursery rhymes, we are given the exhortation to make our actions sure and to accept the consequences; and "History of Us"—a double entendre: make certain your story tells the tale of one who was present in every moment, who entered into the often pain-filled messiness of other's lives, who answered the call of the living God, before time makes history of you.

How did they do it? How did they sound so naturally a part of my world? Come to find out later that Amy Ray graduated Emory with a degree in English and religion, and Emily Saliers, who also went to Emory, is the daughter of Don Saliers, professor emeritus of theology and worship at Candler School.

My favorite was the album's opening song, "Closer to Fine" (read the lyrics). It struck all the right chords. It also became a favorite cover for the folk band I started (as a ploy to get my now wife to fall in love with me). In the first line (quoted in the second paragraph above), the singer sets the tone: seeing the world in blacks and whites alone avoids the issue. She needs help to see all the shades of gray (in order to realize that the answer lies in the seeking), and coming to grips with this leads "me [to] take my life less seriously" because "it's only life after all." In other words, relax. You're not expected to find all the answers.

Analyzing every lyric from this tune would turn this already long blog post into an unbearably long one. But at its core, this song sings of gaining stability through the awareness of instability—becoming "closer to fine"—in the face of the vertigo-like symptoms that result from the apparent relativity and confusion of life that appears in response to the search for something definitive, something black and white, from one source. Add to this the realization that that search is couched in an everyday life clearly dependent on its social construction, and seeking "solace in a bottle or possibly a friend" sounds about right.

These days, I've learned to be more critical—less gullible—when listening or reading. And I've certainly learned to cling to God's Word (enfleshed and spoken/written/tasted in the bread and wine and passed through in the waters of baptism) and thus seek more from this "source for some definitive." Nevertheless, I'm still a recovering progressive; I'm still a humanist ever-seeking for the Christian to gain ground. I'm still walking that "crooked line."

God Is Against Us, After All

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 13:54:00 +0000

[This is part five in what I'm thinking will be an eight-part series.]

God is indeed against us. And how could it be other? In the face of genocide in Europe, Russia, Africa, the Balkans, or the south side of Chicago (for that matter), of child prostitution in southeast Asia, of the killing of untold millions on various battlefields of this earth — just in the last century, one cannot forever presume upon the kindness and mercy of God (once again, see Rom. 2:4).

One hardly needs to make the case that God is holy and just, that is, perfect and fair. His holiness is incomparable—no other gods even come close (Ex. 15:11). His throne room occupies the highest penthouse one can imagine (Isa. 57:15). And just like anything else that can be said about God, he doesn’t simply act holy or just, he is himself holy and just (Deut. 32:4). Given all this, surely he couldn’t be considered perfect and fair if he turned a blind eye to all the atrocities mentioned above. His faithfulness depends on it.

But it’s all too easy to point the finger at the likes of Auschwitz or Hiroshima. We’d do well to remember that we’ve all added to this mess. From the time of the disobedience and fall of Adam and Eve, sinfulness has been bequeathed to all their heirs (however that was done), and all their heirs have contributed their own share to it (Rom. 5:12). None of us escape this problem, at least not on our own.

We all reenact the same sin of the first pair too. In the garden, an open, honest and loving relationship with the creator was rejected for the supposed pleasure of making their own rules. It was a failed grasp at autonomy, to do things according to their own agenda, not God’s. In so doing, Adam and Eve betrayed their confusion: they thought they were God himself, rulers and sustainers of all that is. Being the pinnacle of God’s creation, they clung to that status and, indeed, became intoxicated with it.

We all do the same.

The result of this fall was that God cursed the serpent who deceived them (Gen. 3:14–15). He then cursed Eve, and thus all women, to suffer during childbirth (which childbirth, ironically, paved the way for the history of God’s unfolding plan of redemption) and to become profoundly alienated from her husband, especially through tedious power struggles in their relationship. Adam, of course, also receives these curses, along with every man related to him and who acts like him; there is indeed a cosmic significance attached to his sin (see, for example, Rom. 5:15–19). The earth, too, faced God’s judgment (Gen. 3:17–19):

You listened to your wife and ate the fruit which I told you not to eat. Because of what you have done, the ground will be under a curse. You will have to work hard all your life to make it produce enough food for you. It will produce weeds and thorns, and you will have to eat wild plants. You will have to work hard and sweat to make the soil produce anything, until you go back to the soil from which you were formed. You were made from soil, and you will become soil again.

And finally, they were both kicked out of Paradise (Gen. 3:23–24). God’s temple-garden had to be cleansed, protected—both acts that Adam failed to do. Upon seeing that old dragon he should’ve throttled it and wrestled it out of the garden. But in that crucial moment, he sat back, all lazy and careless like we men are wont to do.

Kahnweiler's Boon

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 13:35:00 +0000

AS I MENTIONED in the last post, one painting in particular jumped out at me when I was last at the Institute. A little lie. Another one did too, but not as boldly. They're totally different from each other, though stylistically Chagall's White Crucifixion follows the trajectory of this one.

Picasso's Portrait of Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler (1910) was the first to grab my attention. Kahnweiler was an important person in Picasso's life, not least because as an art dealer (he's also an under-appreciated art historian) he championed Pablo's new, 'radical' style (Cubism) and thus worked tirelessly to promote his and other's (almost always those who had no audience or collectors) works in his gallery in Montparnasse.

Picasso wrote of Kahnweiler, "What would have become of us if Kahnweiler hadn't had a business sense?"

What, indeed. Creatives would starve if not for the Kahnweiler's of this world.

In this portrait, the subject has been fractured into various planes and shapes, and is presented from several points of view. From flickering, partially transparent planes of brown, gray, black, and white emerges his upper torso, hands clasped in his lap. Typical of cubist art, Picasso, is inviting us to examine the figures and shapes that are broken down and recombined in totally new ways.

The reason this painting has stuck with me is hard to articulate, however. There's something slightly pensive about it, and, being the melancholic type, it spoke into my life and hasn't let go. I'm no art critic, so no doubt much more could be said about this piece. I am, however, an aspiring theologian, and, like all good theologians ought, I'm going to resist shape-shifting this into some pious point or another, but rather enjoy a little art for art's sake.

The Painter & the Painted

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 16:42:00 +0000

AS I LEARN MY WAY around Chicagoland, one spot has become a semi-regular stop—the Art Institute of Chicago.

The last time I was there, one painting in particular jumped out at me—Chagall's White Crucifixion (1938). There's a couple of elements in this painting that have kept me thinking about it:

The first is the juxtaposition of the central figure—Jesus on the cross—with the surrounding images of Jewish oppression (from all over: Nazi Germany, Lithuania, and communists in Russia). Jesus the suffering Jew is thus shown to be in solidarity with the suffering Jews of history.

Thumbing his nose at the typical taken-for-granted notion (not by Jews, of course) that the cross of Christ represents Jewish oppression (a misconstrual of St. Matthew's "Crucify him!"), Chagall depicts Jesus' crucifixion as a symbol (if not one in a long line) of suffering and oppression against the Jews. This further reminds me of a passage from Moltmann's The Crucified God (one that, if I remember correctly, my old professor, John Frame, railed against once in class). The main quote itself actually comes from Auschwitz-survivor Elie Wiesel's Night:

The SS hanged two Jewish men and a youth in front of the whole camp. The men died quickly, but the death throes of the youth lasted for half an hour. “Where is God? Where is he?” someone asked behind me. As the youth still hung in torment in the noose after a long time, I heard the man call again: “Where is God now?" And I heard a voice in myself answer: "Where is he? He is here. He is hanging there from the gallows . . .."

"Any other answer would be blasphemy," Moltmann writes. "There cannot be any other Christian answer to the question of this torment" (pp.273–74). Love it or leave it.

The second aspect of this painting I wish to highlight (one that Chagall may not have had in mind but one to which Moltmann points), I believe, is the corollary to the first aspect—the cosmic or universal nature of the Messiah's atonement. That is to say, given the Christ's solidarity with all who suffer, God's Christ is the one through whom all can be rescued from the day of judgment. He is not the property of any one people group, not least those who would argue, like the elitist gnostics of yesteryear, that he was crucified and resurrected for them alone.

Incidentally, it also represents with the brush what theologians would increasingly articulate and emphasize with their pens: the Jewish roots of the Christian story (note that Jesus is wearing a tallit).

Finally, what I think Chagall succeeds in painting here is, in short, the gospel. Only suffering overcomes suffering. "Through his own abandonment by God, the crucified Christ brings God to those who are abandoned by God. Through his death he brings eternal life to those who are dying" (God Crucified, p. 47).

Christ the Center

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 14:13:00 +0000

I FAILED TO POINT THIS OUT when it hit the podcast shelf back in August, so here's the link to Christ the Center's interview with me, Camden Bucey, and Jeff Waddington discussing Perspectives on the Sabbath.

As one commenter noted, "Doesn’t sound like you cleaned up the audio very much," to which Mr. Bucy replied, "You should hear the original recording." The moment provided some challenges, technology such as it is. But it was thoroughly enjoyable, and I hope you may find it the same.

New Job, Cut Me Some Slack

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 15:27:00 +0000

I'll be around, but as I've just begun a new gig at Trinity International University (director of communications), things will be quiet here for a couple more weeks.

C.

Uncommon Grace: the Rain God

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 15:21:00 +0000

Baal statuette
14-12th cent. BCE

I ONCE HAD A PROFESSOR who repeated a particular mantra throughout the course of his class on the first five books of the Bible: “Rain + Grain = Life.” His point was simple enough: in the tribal atmosphere of Canaan, the Israelite’s loyalty to the true God alone (see Deut. 6:4–5) would have constantly been challenged. But they needed to remember that their God (not Baal), was also the creator God. As such, he was the one who brought rain needed for grain, which, of course, was needed for sustaining life itself. Here we see how creation and promise-keeping are bound together: if God promised to Abraham that through him all the nations would be blessed (Gen. 26:4), then God was determined to sustain the family (Israel) through which that would happen (in other words, praying for rain was to 'remind' God of his promise).

Importantly, it wasn’t just the Israelites who received such kindness from God; everyone around got it too. The big difference (or ought to have been) was that God’s chosen people thanked him for such kindness. The same principle applies to us today, of course. One major difference between Christians and the rest of the world is (or ought to be!) the simple act of expressing gratitude to the one and only God, our utterly faithful Lord, for his kindness in giving us the things we take for granted everyday.

Such blessings even extend to the smallest details—like birds, lilies, and the hairs (no matter how few) on our heads (Matt. 6:26–30; 10:29–30). Hopefully, this doesn’t give us the picture of a really big and powerful meddler. Rather, I hope the picture is one of a really big, powerful and personal God, one who doesn’t so much meddle in the affairs of men as much as lead, in love, all creation toward his goal, which is, in brief, to fill his creation with his glory (Isa. 6:3).

This particular point, that God lovingly directs his creation for a purpose, to a destination, is often called God’s “government” of the universe. In Romans 8:18–21, the apostle Paul writes about how all creation can hardly wait for what is coming next. Both creation and the history of humankind are moving toward that end (or is it a beginning?), which, according to the author of Hebrews, is a big part of the Messiah’s work, to bring creation to that goal, for he is carrying the world from one point to another through time (Heb. 1:3).

This goal toward which all of creation is being driven, again, shows us that God’s continued kindness in sustaining the universe becomes something of a self-imposed necessity. After all, if his renewal plans for the cosmos include the cosmos, he’s going to have to sustain the cosmos until that day. It is as if God continually calls every moment into existence. “The creation of the world was completed . . . but its administration is perpetual, and God incessantly works in maintaining and preserving its order. . . . all things stand so long as the Spirit of God enlivens them, and they would immediately cease if they were deprived of his vigor” (John Calvin, 1536 Institutes 6.1). Creation, while certainly having a beginning, must also be thought of in terms of being continually sustained by the power and kindness of God.

This is not because, as we’ve already seen, that to keep the universe together is to keep God himself together. Remember, the two are separate, even if the creature is utterly dependent upon the creator for life. Stressing this distinction again also highlights the destiny for which all things were created—to be filled up with the glory of God—because currently it’s not. This stated purpose doesn’t mean the universe itself will become part and parcel of the triune God, but it does mean that God will be in everything, that his glory will fill his creation to the brim (see 1 Cor. 15:28).

God’s preservation of his creation reminds us simply of the fact that everything besides God needs him to survive. Without that intention, as mentioned in previous posts in this series, all the galaxies of the universe would be reduced to a heap of scrap.

*This is part four in what I'm thinking will be a six-part series.

Uncommon Grace: Good God

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 17:50:00 +0000

IT SHOULD GO without saying that the creator of the universe exercises control over that universe. To be sure, he exercises that control in ways that are not so evident to the naked eye. Now, I don’t intend to suggest that “control” here means something close to “puppeteering,” but it ought to come as no surprise that the creator God has created the world with principles and laws that reflect his rule. Freedom may abound, but not outside the order with which he himself has gifted his universe. Consider the care of the earth, the rain that is needed for growth, the grain that is needed for life—we needn’t hesitate to ask such things from God and to give him credit when such things occur:

You show your care for the land by sending rain;
  you make it rich and fertile.
You fill the streams with water;
  you provide the earth with crops.
This is how you do it: you send abundant rain on the plowed fields
  and soak them with water; you soften the soil with showers
  and cause the young plants to grow.
What a rich harvest your goodness provides!
Wherever you go there is plenty. (Ps. 65:9–11)

God waters the mountains, the psalmist sings, so that the earth is supplied with plenty of water. He makes sure the hay grows for the livestock so that they can plow the hard ground. He calls forth the vines so that people can cultivate them and drink wine and be happy. Indeed, they’ll have “faces glowing with health, a people well-fed and hearty” (The Message, Ps. 104:13–15). This is, of course, not to deny the existence of such evils like flood, drought and famine; it is, however, to admit that the blessings of rain and feast are the rule, not the exception. God is happy to feed his creation (Ps. 135:5–7), giving us the blessing of ordinary seasons (Gen. 8:22) while keeping the tumultuous waves where they belong—in the sea (Jer. 5:22).

He does all these acts of kindness, and we’d be missing the point entirely if we became anxious over how much control he actually has, as if our lives are to be spent clenched in the dreadful anticipation that God is going to zap us at any moment. This principle actually applies across the board to everything that happens. Just because God acts on something does not mean that we humans are unable to simultaneously act on that same thing. The two are not opposed. God is no puppet master, and humans are not God. So long as we keep these two facts in mind, we might be less inclined to think God is out to get us.

His control ought to give us comfort. Why? Because God has said he is good: “My love is constant, and I do what is just and right. These are the things that please me. I, Yahweh, have spoken” (Jer. 9:23–24). These characteristics, in other words, are his trademarks; they’re what he’s known for, and he delights in those who practice them. No doubt, if the creator God were a God filled with hate, then we’d have much to fear (the wrong kind of fear, that is). But such is not the case. His control, his rule, is good because he himself is good.

*This is part three in what I'm thinking will be a six-part series.

Uncommon Grace: Creative Love

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 14:39:00 +0000

WHEN GOD LOVINGLY and self-sacrificially assigned functions¹ to the cosmos, to the satellites, to the earth, its creatures, and its vice-regents in Genesis 1, he saw that it reflected his glory, that it was made for him and that therefore it was “very good.”

The act of creation was loving and self-sacrificial because God didn’t have to do it. This means that he was not coerced, either from without or within, to do so. It’s not the same as saying that God can still be God and not be faithful, for faithfulness is characteristic of who God is. He does what he says he’s going to do (he doesn’t have to say he’s going to do anything, of course) precisely because he is himself faithful. If he did not, then he would not be the God revealed to us in the Scriptures (Isa. 49:7; 1 Cor. 1:9; 1 Thess. 5:24).

But the same doesn’t apply to his creative act of calling the earth and all that is in it to fulfill the purposes he has planned. He could have done otherwise (like not create) and still remain God. So it is that creation itself was a free act of God, and as such, it was a gracious and kind act. Creation therefore has no claim on him; it can’t demand anything from him, nor does his deity, his “Godness,” depend upon the earth, the sky, the stars or anything else. This leads us to one more (hopefully obvious) point about the creation: it is not God.

God is not on one end, the holy end, of the spectrum, while his creation is at the other end. The two are distinct, yet creation depends upon God; indeed, all things exist “by his grace, his will, and his word . . . so that they can even cease to exist, if the creator so wishes” (Athanasius, Against the Arians, 1.20). While good, the creation itself was nevertheless fashioned bearing the marks of transience. Now, that transience (like the decay of autumn and the new life of spring) itself points us to a further purpose for creation, which humans, according to Genesis, were to help bring about. (So much for that.)

The creator has his own characteristics that are his alone, and the same holds true for the creation (both of these come together, of course, in the God-man, the Messiah. See the Definition of Chalcedon for more about this). This Creator-creature distinction has the benefit of keeping us mindful of our place in this universe. God is in control; the creation serves him by serving its purpose.

In all of this, we must remember that it was the material world and the functions he assigned to it that the creator God was referring to when he called it good (Gen. 1:4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25, 31); he is not as concerned with things that we cannot touch, taste, hear, see or smell as much as we might think. Proof of this is seen in the fact that God so loved the world, the groaning creation (Rom. 8:22) and all the fallen people in it—not wispy, ethereal shadows—that he sent his one and only son. In fact, we know from Revelation 21 (where the new Jerusalem descends to earth) that God’s plan doesn’t end with people dying and going to heaven, “graduating” to some spirit world with wings and harps on clouds. Rather, it ends in a glorious picture of bodily resurrection on a renewed and material earth.² This picture, this glimpse of future hope, is precisely why God continues to be kind to his world. He has plans for it.

This last point is important for a lot of reasons, not least because God’s act of creation was not an end in itself. It was one act, indeed—as it turned out—the first act, of God’s redemptive purposes. Such purposes are hinted at in the event of Adam and Eve’s disobedience to God’s commands. What happened when they disobeyed? The creator didn’t drop them—he didn’t kill them immediately like we would’ve thought (Gen 2:17, though they did die in one sense that day); he didn’t turn his back on them, nor did he discontinue his care and concern for the entire universe. Creation and redemption go together. But that’s getting ahead of what we need to look at next if we’re going to stop thinking that the Almighty is against us when life doesn't go our way: God’s providential care for the world. We'll take up this theme in the next part of this series.

———————
1. See John H. Walton’s The Lost World of Genesis One (IVP Academic, 2009) for more on this idea of “created” as “assigned functions.”
2. See Cornelis P. Venema’s The Promise of the Future (Banner of Truth, 2000), pp. 454–88 and Tom Wright’s Surprised by Hope (HarperOne, 2008).

*This is part two in what I'm thinking will be a five-part series.

Even at the Close of the Year

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 11:30:00 +0000

Even at the close of the year
the sun beat down, fighting

back cold bones. The girls
were playing on the north-side
of the lake when it crept in,
feeling good at first. Before long,
branches soon broke under their icy burden,
pre-shaping what spring would be:
heavy wheat fields overgrown with tares,
the ground never giving
the plow-blade its turn.

In June, more than our tools nearly broke
when the weed pressed against the grain—
fearful of the thresh and imminent fire.
We could only wait for the wheat to hold
(my reluctant conviction).

But the poor neighbors'
stubborn hands
took to action,
ripping the unwanted tares by the root,
confusing wheat for that bitter weed;
damaged irreparably, it suffered
the same fate.

By the beginning of Advent
at the close of that next year,
the lake,
slick-white,
drove the girls to dolls and tea indoors,
while I faced the empty farm, leaning,
arms crossed, hollow on my porch.

Uncommon Grace

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 11:52:00 +0000

“Don't you have better things to do than pick on me?” —Job

Job's Complaint, William Blake (1793)

Some time ago, a well-established middle-aged man entered into what seemed to everybody around him like a curse. He was known for being an honest man, filled with integrity in all his dealings. His investments portfolio was strong; he had many resources, and much capital besides. Even more striking, he was a man of God. He was truly committed to him, so much so that he was not only mindful of his own holiness but for the holiness of others as well. In fact, he was known to intercede on behalf of his family, so concerned was he for their right standing before God.

But then his skies darkened—and all at once too. In no time, his investments had plunged, and his remaining surplus was spent on just staying afloat. Then the real tragedy struck. One evening, while his children and their friends were all gathered at his eldest son’s house, a tornado swept through town and completely flattened it. When the chaos had cleared, the extent of the horrors became clear: not one of his children had survived.

Despite all this, he remained, at least on the outside, steadfast. It wasn’t much longer, however, before his health began to give way. In time, the man could only wallow in his newly cursed life, fatigued as he was and unable to move because of the pain. A few friends ventured to visit him, to console him, to sit with him, to listen to him and, of course, to offer their advice. Some of it was good; some of it was bad (some of it was real bad). He became indignant. Believing in his integrity with which he followed God, he began to wonder just what had gone wrong. He began to seek his day in court, as it were, with the great judge himself. Anger began to creep in, until one day he looked up (to God) and said, “Why are people so important to you? Why pay attention to what they do? You inspect them every morning and test them every minute. Won’t you look away long enough for me to swallow my spit? Are you harmed by my sin, you jailer? Why use me for your target practice? Am I so great a burden to you?” (Job 7:17–20).

At one time or another, we all face trials. Call them what you will—unexpected deaths, heartbreak, depression, financial instability, sheer discontentment. Almost equally universal is our penchant—whether we’re Christian or not—to think that God is against us when painful experiences come our way. We think that there's a big, cosmic bully up there stepping on our backs and spitting in our faces, that he has made it his priority to pick on us (as Job thought). Put another way, we’re thinking that God doesn’t love us.

But despite all appearances at times to the contrary, such is not the case, and those who are united to Christ, who have been baptized and confess with their mouths and believe in their hearts that Jesus is Lord and that God raised him from the dead (Rom. 6:1–14; 10:9), of all people ought to know and practice this reality. The fact that we don’t tells us a lot of things—about our thoughts, lives, churches and society. In reality it just shows us that “the world is too much with us” (as William Wordsworth wrote in his poem of the same name).

Thinking that God doesn’t love us when trials come simply won’t do, especially since, at least in one important sense, God loves everything he has created. In seeking to undo such misguided, knee-jerk reactions to life’s trials, we might as well start with the first act in recorded history: the creation of the earth (which we'll look at in the next post in this series). In it, we see God’s beneficence, or kindness, toward everyone and everything.

*This is part one in what I'm thinking will be a five-part series.

10-Minute Spill

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 12:44:00 +0000

Fr. Henri tapped on my window earlier
than usual this morning, which means he
probably skipped or kept short his intercessions.
Just as the dawn broke light on the world
and reached the sharpened pencil on my study table,
the old prior shuffled inside, wearing,
oddly enough, an orange waistcoat.

“But it’s St. Patty’s Day!”
My laughter was met with a mutter:
“I lost a bet.”

There's No Turning Back?

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 10:52:00 +0000

YOU KNOW THAT OLD CLICHÉ, "There's no turning back"? You know how in almost every circumstance when it's employed that it's not exactly true? More often than not, it's a cop-out, used when we've stepped in a steaming pile and subsequently refuse—out of pride and stubbornness—to clean off our shoe and turn around.

It has its origins in the "die is cast" metaphor/cliché, which was apparently coined by Julius Caesar in 49 BC to describe a military move into Italy across the river Rubicon, which he knew would give rise to a conflict that he must then win.

I faced such a conflict once—in the middle of the High Peaks Region of the Adirondack Mountains. Turning back was as equally dangerous as going forward, but with the added displeasure of defeat. In October 2007 I was playing the best man in a cousin's wedding in the Cascades, after which a small group of moderate hikers (myself included) made our way west to Phelp's trailhead from the small town of Keene Valley. What follows are a few journal entries from that trip.

18 October 2007
Camp. Shoulder of Mts. Basin and Saddleback,
Adirondack, New York.

I've seen the most spectacular vistas this day; I've also accomplished the most challenging hike of my life. From Slant Rock, we hiked up Mt. Marcy. It was a moderate hike, and it took most of the morning. After lunch, we then caught a spur up Little Haystack (overlooking Panther Gorge) and then on to Mt. Haystack, ascending some 400 feet with a few near vertical pitches (the so-called "Devil's Half Mile"). We climbed with our packs on (average weight about 40 lbs.). I don't recommend this (turns out, neither does the guidebook).

After reaching the summit, we immediately began our descent to the foot of Mt. Basin via the State Range Trail, with hopes of finding some water, since we were running out of both it and light. This descent (part of which we had just ascended) was the hardest and dangerous hike of my life, not least because of the burden on my back. The most nerve-racking part was the single-foot width path along a ledge that simply . . . vanished. Mt. Basin's peak was our third for the day, which I also don't recommend attempting, what with the shape we were in. By the final descent to the pocket below my legs were shaking from the strain. Finally, we entered the shoulder—battered, bruised and exhausted, and with no water!

For now: Sleep. Tomorrow: Saddleback, and then on to child's play.

It wasn't until we set up camp and I consulted the trail book, however, that I realized what was "comin' round the mountain." The next entry, which I wrote on the flight home, chronicles our final day.

As expected, we awoke around 6:45 on the 19th. All night the wind had been howling, spitting constantly with a rattle above our heads on the tent roof. I wondered how it was that our tent wasn't lifted up, the wind as furious as it was. That, coupled with my fear of climbing in such weather and the guidebook's warning: "Turning L at the end of the ledge, the trail descends [we ascended, coming from the west] precipitously over ledges where extreme caution is needed"
—made for a restless night. To be honest, it bordered on anxiety with intermittent fits of panic. I worried about someone in the group getting hurt; I worried about myself; I worried about slick, iced-over rock; I worried about the paralyzing fear that can overtake someone on a precipitous ledge; I just worried.

But in the end, it was for naught. It's hard to describe—climbing ledges where a single slip meant death; climbing such ledges as an inexperienced climber with a backpack on—but it was every bit as precipitous as you'd imagine. The wind continued to push and the rain pelted our faces and made the rock slippery. It was stupid or brave. Perhaps both?

Of course, all this blather is relative to my experience. Were I a seasoned climber, I'd probably laugh at the drama. But it's drama we all experienced—together. We learned very little at the top of each summit; the mountainsides taught us the most. The hike ended thus:

Reaching Saddleback's summit in about an hour and a half, we saw nothing but fog and mist and decided to move on quickly before the weather worsened. Our descent took about the same time, but it was mostly hiking with less climbing involved. We had been out of water since the previous night. I spared a gulp for everyone when we reached the summit, as B.P_____ had done for us that morning. Every muddy puddle looked delicious. At around 10:45 a.m., we hiked down to the headwaters of the Orebed (now on the Orebed Brook Trail), and gorged ourselves with water and Ramen Noodles. From there, we made our way to Johns Brook and stuck close to it on the Southside Trail, one that offered magnificent views of the rapids and popping yellow and auburn leaves that lined its banks. After hopping a few rocks (thankfully, the water wasn't too high), we walked out of the woods earlier than expected—Friday evening instead of Saturday midday—on account of foregoing the climb up Gothics and putting our LORD God to the test.

So, that night we hobbled into the Ausable Pub & Inn, and, enjoying the food and ale, we decided to stay at this trustworthy establishment for the night. Therewith we proceeded with much mirth and merriment.

I'm sure there's a few devotional points embedded in this story somewhere, but I'll let the reader figure those out. All of these photos were taken with a junky point-and-shoot Sony Cypershot. Click on an image to get up close and personal.

Atop Mt. Marcy

Marcy Men: B.P., K.S., C.D., C.O.

A fairly typical climb—but not one of the steepest by a long shot

Random barn

Our walk out, flanked by the rushing brook on our left and wrapped in golden yellow

Photography Friday (7)

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 20:27:00 +0000

MAYBE IT WAS OUR VENTURE onto the island of Mykonos that led me to tack on a few visual escapades from a couple of other Greek isles next: Santorini and Rhodes. My usual intent is to mix it up a little more than this, say, from a paradaisical island to the horrors of Buchenwald. Perhaps subconsciously (and now quite consciously) I don't want to go anywhere near that stuff today.

We'll start with Rhodes, as I only have two from our stop there. There's a remarkable acropolis atop the ancient city of Lindos that has a killer vista of the coastline and the sea beyond (facing east). From there I offer five more photos from the eye-candy isle of Santorini (notably revealing my obsession with doors and facades).

One of the more memorable bits of tid about Santorini was the fact that water is a precious commodity on the island, and so they conserve it religiously. A glass of Vin Santo is often poured in its stead. I suppose it could be worse. As is typical, all of these photos were taken on a Canon AE-1 with E100VS (slide film). Click on an image to get a closer look.

A side shot of the Doric temple of Athena (the entrance is around the corner to the right),
the dominating feature of the acropolis in Lindos, which was completed in 300 BC.

With my back to the temple, I snapped this shot of the horseshoed Lindos Beach,
aka St. Paul's Bay. I think only the tour guides call it this, because there's no evidence
that the apostle stopped here on his way to Patara in 51 AD (see Acts 21:1). Given that the
city of Rhodes was a hopping place in those days, it seems more likely that
the travelers would've stopped there.

To my immediate left and down the rock face exists a cave where The Guns of Navarone was filmed.

A cool brick facade and door in Santorini's principal city, Fira.

The red pops against the white wall and the blue Aegean, doesn't it? I think on
the other side of this door were stairs leading to a house's entrance.

One of the many (understatement) chapels that dot the island, though this one
was bigger and stood alone (most are attached to houses).

There's something about this palette of colors . . .

Here's a view of a part of Fira across a collapsed volcanic caldera (Santorini is
essentially what remains of an enormous volcanic explosion that tore apart a
single island around 3,600 years ago), with a cool tilt-shift effect
added by me in Photoshop.

This Pornographic Life

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 16:43:00 +0000

YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN. Once more, you find yourself looking where you ought not. And this you have willfully done. You’ve begged God to remove this blight, these gross desires. You even made some headway. But you’ve gone off and done it again. Forget confession, God doesn’t want to hear that same old prayer, especially not when you know you’ll be breaking your commitment before long. But wait, maybe God doesn’t care that much about all this? After all, he made you; he knows your natural desires, he knows what you need. Why would he make you this way and get all worked up when you act on it? It’s not that big of a deal if done in moderation; he doesn’t think you need to confess.

Well, you couldn’t be further from the truth—on both counts.

It's well known that marriages fall apart at an alarming rate these days. Challenges come from all sides, not least from within. Our failure to recognize that life is not about feeling happy but about bringing glory to our God starts us off in the direction toward marriage FAIL, and a great deal of the way is paved by our collective addiction to pornography.

A quick glance reveals a few surprising statistics from 2010:

89% of porn is created in the United States
Close to $3 billion in revenue was generated from U.S. porn web sites
$3,000 per second is spent on porn
72% of porn viewers are men
The average age a child first sees porn is 11
There are 116,000 searches for "child pornography" every day

This, of course, doesn’t take into account the sex industry as a whole, which topped at around $5 billion. In the case of the internet, this means that any and all types of pornography can be easily accessed, with spouses none the wiser—in this case, mostly wives. For those not willing to pay for such thrills, the number of free sites is equally staggering. All of this amounts to the ruin of the marital relationship—in the case of single men and women, before it even comes into fruition. (For those who want their heads to spin with more stats, here's a 19-page .pdf.)

There was a time when pornography was a luxury reserved for the upper echelon, and there was a time, more recently, when one had to drive to a sleazy part of town, walk into a certain section in the video store, or ask the clerk behind the counter in order to find pornography. It was public. But no longer. All that has changed. Everyone can afford it now, and in the privacy of one’s home too. And even though there are many “free” web sites out there, the cost is never free, for the toll it takes is destruction itself.

The reason for this is simple, and scripture speaks to it clearly. When the creator God commanded Adam and Eve to take care of his earth, part of that calling involved sexual intimacy (Gen. 1:28). Indeed, because woman was “taken out of man,” a man therefore “shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh” (Gen 2:23–24). Holding fast, or cleaving, unites them as they become one. At the least, this involves sexual intimacy, and it provides a wonderful picture of God’s covenant commitment to his people as well. It ought not surprise us, then, that upon breaking God’s command Adam and Eve became ashamed of their nakedness (Gen 3:7).

From the narrative of Genesis to the poetry of Solomon’s Song, we see that God has created and values sexual intimacy within the context of marriage. Saint Paul also assumes as much in 1 Corinthians 7:2–5 when he writes of the mutually satisfying and God-glorifying intimacy between husband and wife, which models the very love Christ has for his bride. But all that can be trashed in moments. This is why the use of pornography is so dangerous—it’s an act of hatred toward the spouse, toward the community of believers, toward the very God who has called us to covenantal commitment.

Like any addiction, it requires more from us the more we use it, which is why it cannot be dealt with alone, nor can it be ignored once confession has been made. Slaves are not freed on their own. Confession, repentance, accountability, openness with the spouse, and counseling must come into the equation. There is no quick fix for this, just as there are no quick fixes for the killing off of our sin in its entirety. Only through the everyday, rote, pursuance of the healing power of God’s grace—in participation with other believers—can we avail ourselves to this cause.

It's bigger than you too. The eyes into which you've looked into for six minutes or so could be the eyes of a desperate, manipulated, or outright trafficked human being. You never know. Why feed it?

This pornographic life must begin on our knees, agonizing over what God would have us do to deepen our love for him, for our spouses, for our fellow believers, and, finally, for a world that hates the one, true God, and us, by flaunting its twisted view of sex in our faces, in our children’s faces, and in the face of our God, the Creator.

{Part of this originally appeared in Tabletalk 32.3 (March 2008): 24–25}

{Update: found a helpful infographic for your viewing displeasure}

Two Cheers for Existentialism

noreply@blogger.com (Chris Donato) — Tue, 31 May 2011 12:55:00 +0000

ONCE UPON A TIME, I was reading Jürgen Moltmann (I believe it was God in Creation) wherein he wrote in passing on his way to some point or another how the only serious atheists were the likes of Sartre and Camus. I remember being somewhat surprised at this, mainly because the two folks mentioned were also the most enthusiastic and consistent existentialists; I daresay they have no competition even today. At any rate, I decided to re-read The Stranger, as well as portions of Being and Nothingness (though I can only read philosophy in small chunks separated by periods of both being and nothingness), and I was quickly reminded of why atheists such as these ought to be taken seriously: they almost got it right.

The first cheer for this brand of atheistic existentialism comes because it recognizes the absurdity of life and the universal desire of humanity to attain authenticity nonetheless. In Voltaire’s Candide, for example, the characters face the meaninglessness of life (embodied in Leibniz’s “metaphysical optimism”) by doing the authentic—ending up where they started, working in their gardens. Throwing off such naivety and exhibiting real human resilience was for Voltaire the authentic existence.

That life is absurd hardly needs much support. The radical contingency of this world is everywhere evident. The star philosopher of the ancient Near East, Qoheleth (the Preacher), conveys this through his incessant use of the leitwort (an intentional use of a word over and over again to highlight a theme within a text), hebel: “Life is useless, utterly useless” (Ecc. 1:2b). But despite this absurdity, the Preacher still calls on the individual to an authentic existence: “Have reverence for God, and obey his commands . . .” (Ecc. 12:13a). Thus for all who take this text seriously, God is stable, all else is uncertain. The parallel here is clear. Just as the existentialist would have us throw off the shackles of non-definition, non-essence, so too are we who know God to be separated from the world by fearing God and keeping his statutes, thus defining ourselves by our actions in the present. Put differently, as the meaning unfurls, it unfurls correlative to the application. Action dictates meaning. Ironically, both for the existentialist and the Christian, freedom comes as a result of throwing off the universe. What that universe is, of course, would be hotly debated.

The second cheer for this brand of existentialism comes because it recognizes our freedom to make moral choices, as well as puts responsibility of a particular action squarely on the shoulders of the individual who performed it (a fact the language of pop-Christian culture does everything in its power to negate). In other words, the only people we have to blame for the atrocities in the history of this world are we ourselves. Seeing that society and reality are in a reciprocal relationship (Providence not precluded), this point should not be too hard to assume. What the concept of “bad faith” is to Sartre, the doctrine of human responsibility is to the Christian (to pretend something is necessary when in fact it is voluntary). In the midst of an often intolerant culture, true Christian authenticity comes by standing for the Word of truth despite the consequences. Hiding behind socio-cultural roles, mores, and norms is indeed a move in “bad faith.” For example, the judge who administers capital punishment because “the law requires it,” while at the same time being convicted of its moral reprehensibility, has become the ultimate imposter. He is no human, after all. The choice to take the bench and resign before the sentence is given had always been an option.

Ministers and church leaders ought to take note of this. Too often, we find ourselves relinquishing the high-ground for the sake of expedience or because “this is the way it has always been done” (“always” almost always referring to the past two or three generations). Can we all not think of at least one action within the practice of the church that is taken for granted (and would be better left off)?

Man is radically free to choose, and he is responsible for the effects this choosing has on others (the very possibility of "bad faith" exposes the reality of freedom). To be sure, it is a dreadful freedom; one that we cannot shirk; one that sits heavily on our shoulders every day—how we work, vote (or not), worship, eat, etc.—freedom such as this reminds us that every time we complain we are in part complaining about ourselves. Every time we bemoan practical atheism in the American church, of not taking the challenge of Jesus seriously, we must see that we are part of that problem. Every time we choose expedience over loving God totally and our neighbors as ourselves, we treat ourselves and others as objects, sighing (in self-justification) at the inevitability of the decision we have made in light of our pasts and stations in this life.

What stands in the place of a final cheer is a jeer. Existentialists like to harp on autonomy, as if such a thing existed. Sartre’s authentic man simply trades in one lie for another. Even when this so-called authentic character does something completely out of character, the action itself has no weight, no basis (and indeed, it baselessly values that “authentic” action). He or she has done it for entirely irrational reasons—reasons, I might add, that have been shaped by the culture at-large (which, ironically, relativizes the relativizers). This is the same for the believer, and especially for the modern American Christian. The herd mentality has taken over. And this is “bad faith” in the extreme. In the end, maybe we are not free at all. And thus the choice we have to face is, to what will you be chained?

As Bob Dylan sang, “You Gotta Serve Somebody.”