Sacred Veils

SBL Proposals Accepted

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 23:56:00 +0000

I learned recently that my paper proposals for the upcoming New England Regional SBL and the Annual SBL in November have been accepted. Both papers are on Galatians. Here are the titles:

“Of Tombs and Turning Points: Toward a Three-Dimensional Reading of Galatians” (NESBL)

“In Memoriam Apostoli Pauli: Paul and the Body Politic in Galatians” (Annual SBL, Greco-Roman Religions/SAMR joint session)

Quote of the Day

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 13:58:00 +0000

“The poetry of the sane person is eclipsed by that of inspired manics” (Plato, Phaedrus 245a)

Now I know why I’m such a bad poet

Thoughts on Theosis, Part 3: Theosis and Orthodox Doctrine

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 02:52:00 +0000

Previous posts in this series:
Part 1: Vocabulary
Part 2: What the Bible Says About Theosis

Theosis is less a doctrine than a practical outworking of the doctrine of the Incarnation.¹ In that sense it is a response to the question posed most famously by Anselm of Canterbury, but already a millenium old before he formulated it: Cur deus homo? Why the God-Man? Anselm proposed that human beings had violated God’s honor and consequently incurred a debt that no one could possibly repay. By taking on human flesh and voluntarily suffering a penalty he did not deserve, Jesus not only satisfied that debt but stored up a treasury of merit that far exceeded any future debt: the gift that keeps on giving.

Anselm’s theory of satisfaction set an important precedent for later conceptions of the Incarnation and Atonement in Western Christendom, but it is neither the only nor the earliest response to the question posed by the Incarnation. According to Irenaeus of Lyons, Jesus Christ is “the only true and steadfast teacher, the Word of God … [who] became what we are in order to draw us to himself” (Against Heresies 5, Introduction). Clement of Alexandria says that “the Word of God became human so that you may learn from a human how a human may become god” (Exhortation to the Greeks 1.8.4). Similar sayings abound in the Fathers.

The theme of teaching and discipleship provides a helpful way to think about theosis. For many of the Eastern Fathers the Incarnation teaches not only that human nature can be deified but that deification is ultimately what God intended for human beings. I looked at some of the key scriptures supporting this view in my last post, but more can be said about how the Fathers read the Bible through the lens of the Incarnation. This Christological way of to reading is especially remarkable in certain early interpretations of Genesis 1, where the acts of creation are understood not merely as past events but also as anticipating the future perfection of God’s creatures. “God does not judge the beauty of His work by the charm of the eyes,” says Saint Basil the Great,

and He does not form the same idea of beauty that we do. What He esteems beautiful is that which presents in its perfection all the fitness of art, and that which tends to the usefulness of its end. He, then, who proposed to Himself a manifest design in His works, approved each one of them, as fulfilling its end in accordance with His creative purpose (Homilies on the Six Days of Creation 3.10)

In the Greek text of Basil’s Bible, God does not see that what he has created is merely ‘good’ but that it is literally ‘beautiful’. Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder, says Basil, and what God beholds is the final perfection of his creatures. Elsewhere Basil describes creation as “both a school and a training ground where the souls of human beings should be taught, and a home for beings destined to be born and to die” (Homilies on the Six Days of Creation 1.5).

If this world in which we live is both a school and a training ground, then who is our Instructor? Ignatius of Antioch celebrates Jesus as the one person who perfectly demonstrates the integrity of words and deeds thought to be a key virtue of successful teachers. For Ignatius, Jesus is the example for all who desire to teach:

It is good to teach, if the one who speaks also acts. There was one Teacher who spoke and it happened. And the things he has done while remaining silent are worthy of the Father.² The one who truly possesses the word of Jesus is able even to hear his silence (hesychia), so that he may be perfect, so that he may act through his speech and be understood through his silence. Nothing escapes the notice of the Lord, but even the things we hide are near to him. Therefore we should do everything as though he were dwelling in us, that we may be his temples and he our God in us, as in fact he is, and he will appear before our eyes. For which reasons let us love him justly (To the Ephesians 15.1–3).

The goal of Orthodox hesychasts (those who practice what is called the prayer of the heart) is not merely to know God abstractly, through doctrinal or theological propositions, but truly to possess the word of Jesus and to hear His silence, to unify speech and action so perfectly that they pray unceasingly (1 Thess 5:17) and even without words (Rom 8:26–27), and finally to see the deifying light of the Transfiguration.

Despite the title of Norman Russell’s indispensable survey of The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition.

On the speech and silence of Jesus in this passage, see my forthcoming essay: “Hearing God’s Silence: Ignatius of Antioch and the Music of the Spheres” in ed. Ellen Aitken and John Fossey, Late Antique Crossroads in the Levant (full publication information to follow).

Thoughts on Theosis, Part 2: What the Bible Says about Theosis

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 20:57:00 +0000

Previous posts in this series:
Part 1: Vocabulary

Contemporary Orthodox theologians sometimes pay more attention to the doctrinal foundations of theosis than to its biblical roots. This is less a symptom of neglect than a consequence of the fact that the Fathers did not neglect the Bible in their doctrinal formulations. Neither feeling the need nor the desire to reinvent the wheel, contemporary theologians usually head straight for what may well be the most memorable and oft-repeated of Patristic sayings: “God became man so that man might become god.” Athanasius of Alexandria is the favorite authority for this saying (On the Incarnation 54.3), but one also finds nods to Irenaeus of Lyons and Clement of Alexandria.

Irenaus, Clement, and Athanasius link “becoming god” with the prior event of God becoming human—the Incarnation. I’ll have more to say about this connection later, but for now it suffices to say that these Fathers provide the simplest conceptual definition of theosis—“becoming god.” They do not use the actual word theosis.

In fact, neither the word theosis nor any of the technical words and phrases typically used to express the concept have direct equivalents in the Bible.¹ The closest biblical parallel to the idea of participation in God is 2 Peter’s reference to becoming sharers of the divine nature through the glory and excellence of Jesus (2 Pet 1:4),² but the Fathers rarely cite this passage.³ The most frequently cited text in both modern and patristic discussions of becoming god is Psalm 82:6 (81:6 in the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew scriptures). Now a single verse is admittedly a weak foundation for an entire tradition, even by the standards of patristic exegesis, so let’s look more closely at the psalm in its historical, canonical, and traditional contexts.

In its original historical setting Psalm 82 may have had in view one of several possible scenarios:

The assembly of gods (Psalm 82:1 TNIV) could represent a council of divine beings who are truly gods. Such scenes are common in Ancient Near Eastern literature, less so in the Hebrew Bible. In this case the Psalm would envision a council of gods who are essentially equals but administratively subordinate to the presiding God of Israel.
The assembly of gods could represent a council of angelic beings like the “sons of God” mentioned in the book of Job (1:6; 2:1; 38:7). In this case they would not be considered gods in the same sense as the God of Israel, being both essentially and administratively subordinate to the God of Israel.
The assembly of gods could represent a council of earthly authorities who bear the title ‘gods’ by virtue of their official status as earthly counterparts to heavenly rulers.

Whoever or whatever these ‘gods’ are, the God of Israel appears to hold them directly responsible for the plight of the poor and oppressed (verses 2–5), a situation that will become the cause of their downfall. Their exalted status will be revoked and they will die like human beings (verses 6–7). The psalmist speaks in his own voice in the final verse, pleading for God to execute this judgment.

In a tradition that probably dates to the Second Temple period,⁴ Psalm 82:6 had come to be read by some Jews as referring either to the giving of the Law at Sinai or to the exalted status of the first humans. Verse 7 was interpreted as referring either to the incident involving the Golden Calf or to Adam’s transgression. Verse 1, on the other hand, was taken to be an account of the coming judgment, where the assembly of ‘gods’ could refer either to an angelic council or to the community of saved persons.

When understood in this sense as envisioning the future community of saved persons, the image of the assembly of gods in Psalm 82:1 (TNIV) implies the restoration in the end of something that was somehow lost in the beginning: a filial relationship with God. A few short lines thus transform the biblical theme of fall and restoration into a drama of apocalyptic dimensions. It is no wonder that aspects of this tradition show up in sectarian literature like 11QMelchizedek (from the Dead Sea Scrolls) and the Gospel of John.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus quotes the first half of Psalm 82:6 during a dispute with some disgruntled Judeans who had accused him both of blasphemy and of making himself out to be God (John 10:33–34). Interestingly enough, he introduces the quotation as though it belongs to the Law, a curious error if “Law” refers strictly to the five books of Moses (Genesis–Deuteronomy). Either he is using the term “Law” rather loosely, or, what seems more likely in view of the apocalyptic tradition sketched above, his introduction of the quotation as coming from the Law already reflects a particular reading of the Psalm as a commentary on the Law.

The gist of Jesus’ argument is that he ought not be accused of blasphemy for claiming the title “Son of God” when scripture indicates that those to whom the word of God came (in Eden? at Sinai?) were not only called “sons of the Most High” (in the portion of the psalm that he does not quote), but even ‘gods’. His remark that “the scripture cannot be broken” anticipates the objection that his quotation does not actually come from the Law. In effect, he preempts such an objection by reminding his opponents of what is presumably their own view: that the Law and the Psalms belong to a unitary whole.

The emphasis on Jesus’ works in the framing verses cleverly plays on an ancient commonplace assumption that one’s deeds should match one’s words (John 10:32; 37–38). Jesus basically tells his opponents that his works confirm his claim to the title “Son of God,” but readers familiar with the Gospel of John may detect the irony in this response. John does not indicate that Jesus’ claim to divine sonship is legitimate merely because the word of God came to him and is proven by his works. John signals from the beginning that Jesus is the word and that the word is God (John 1:1), a claim that Jesus echoes in the statement “I and the Father are one” (John 10:30).

The irony of Jesus’ remarks in John 10 escapes his opponents, who lack the wider perspective afforded to the Gospel’s readers. In their rush to bring charges against him, his opponents not only fail to see that the word of God has come to them, they also fail to perceive the apocalyptic implication of this event: the way is now open for them become ‘gods’ and “sons of the Most High.”

Readers steeped in the theology of the creeds may fail, in similar fashion, to observe that Jesus’ claim to divine sonship in John 10 is not exclusive. Even if he is the only begotten Son of God, all those to whom he comes can be made ‘gods’ and sons of the Most High by the power of his word (compare the emphasis on divine speech in Psalm 82:6 to the near-rhythmic outbursts of divine speech in Genesis 1).

I expect that informed critics of the Orthodox theosis tradition would not disagree with this conclusion, but they might remain suspicious of the role accorded to human effort in the tradition. I'll have more to say about such criticisms later. For now my point is to indicate that Psalm 82:6 is much more than an ad hoc prooftext. If we maintain that the patristic concept of “becoming god” arose organically from exegesis of Psalm 82 then we ought also appreciate the observation that at least one Jewish tradition—in which the earliest Christians (and arguably Jesus himself) participated—already read Psalm 82 as concise and authoritative commentary on the biblical theme of fall and restoration.

Next up: Theosis and Orthodox Doctrine.

Including Athanasius’ preferred term, theopoiesis.

No less an evangelical luminary than J.I. Packer once suggested that Peter’s amanuensis (scribe) was prone to embellishment—an easy but problematic dismissal of 2 Peter 1:4 (“‘Outside the Church There is No Salvation’: An Orthodox and Evangelical Exchange,” discussion sponsored by the Society for the Study of Eastern Orthodoxy and Evangelicalism, St. Paul’s Orthodox Church, Irvine, CA, 1999).

Important exceptions include the Alexandrians—Origen, Athanasius, and Cyril—and, much later, the Athonite monk and Archbishop of Thessaloniki, Gregory Palamas (Norman Russell, Fellow Workers With God: Orthodox Thinking on Theosis, pp. 65–69).

Carl Mosser, “The Earliest Patristic Interpretations of Psalm 82, Jewish Antecedents, and the Origin of Christian Deification,” Journal of Theological Studies 56.1 (2005): 30–73. Mosser has provided a link to his article here. Non-specialists may find it a tough slog, but worth the effort.

Orthodox Christianity is not Exotic

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 02:50:00 +0000

Since Eastern Orthodox Christianity is most likely to feature in mass media at this time of year, the following remarks by John Anthony McGuckin are worth repeating, both for the benefit of Orthodox and non-Orthodox alike. First, from McGuckin’s recent introduction to the Orthodox Church:

“The Orthodox (generally) do not regard themselves as exotic. If they have come to Orthodoxy from other forms of Western Christian tradition, or from secular atheism, they are often tempted to regard themselves as exotic for a while, but it soon wears off. Apparently, however, many external observers do still retain that perspective, and it can often tempt the Orthodox to live up to it by ‘posing’ as exotic: a dangerous state of affairs which postcolonial theory has put its finger on already as ‘subalternism’, or that state where a small group with a residual minority consciousness tries to live up to expectations foisted on it by the dominant hegemonic powers of the age. The Christian Orthodox, as they have been encountered relatively rarely, ‘in the flesh’, in the ordinary experience of most Western Christians, are certainly a ‘strange encounter’. The root presuppositions, and the basic style of worship and attitude that are so familiar in many forms of Western Christian practice, seem different here. If the Orthodox feature in the public eye of the media at all, it is usually with a view to the ‘strange’ rituals of a church that has a very ancient liturgical style, and often uses languages that outsiders do not remotely understand.”

“The temptation to categorize the Eastern Orthodox as romantically exotic is a powerful one, and is often a fate wished on them by those who hold them in kind regard and who value many of the things Orthodoxy represents in Christian history, such as faithfulness to tradition, endurance under suffering, and reverence in worship. Those who are less enamoured of Orthodoxy look at it from the perspective of their own philosophies, ideologies, and orthodoxies, and sometimes censure it as reactionary, exclusive, patriarchal, rigid in its doctrines and liturgy. Rarely, however, do either its critics who dislike it, or its non-Orthodox friends who cherish it, have much awareness of the wider context of what an Orthodox articulation of church and society would be on its own terms” (The Orthodox Church: An Introduction to its History, Doctrine, and Spiritual Culture [Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2008], p.1).

Now, from Fr. McGuckin’s contribution to the Festschrift honoring the late Jaroslav Pelikan on his eightieth birthday:

“‘We of the East … ’ is a phrase often associated with spokespersons of the Orthodox Christian Church in our age, one of such vastly increased intellectual mobility and ease of informational transmission that the theologians of the past (not excepting many in the present) would have been rendered dumb in the face of it (if such a thing is conceivable for a theologian). Compared to the era when one of the students of Evagrius would have meditated for a week on a couplet from the Sententiae, we now have the capacity in the same time to read, or at least to peruse, books, journals, and ephemera; to see visual iconic forms flashed at us that collectively amount to more literature and far more symbols than an educated ancient might ever have processed in a lifetime.”

“In the bewildering intellectual welter so grandly shored up by the gimcrack nomenclature of “postmodernism,” the phrase, “We of the East” floats reassuringly across the mental horizon, proceeds in stately fashion like a duchess crossing the carpet. It usually precedes an attempt to explain something of our religious identity as Orthodox, in reference to, or more usually in contradistinction from, the more common matrices of Western European Catholicism or Protestant experience. It has a fine cachet, though one that loses much of its shine when the “East” in question turns out to be the East End of London, East Pennsylvania, or the East Village of New York, places where one today is more likely to encounter Orthodox who are engaged in ecumenical dialogue with “the West” than in some putative Orient of our imagination” (“Orthodoxy and Western Christianity: The Original European Culture War?,” in ed. Valerie Hotchkiss and Patrick Henry, Orthodoxy and Western Culture: A Collection of Essays Honoring Jaroslav Pelikan on His Eightieth Birthday [Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2005], p. 86).

Thoughts on Theosis, Part 1: Vocabulary

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 16:44:00 +0000

In view of the recent surge of Protestant interest in the Orthodox understanding of theosis, especially among Evangelicals, I thought I would pull together a few remarks on the subject, with the caveat that the views and opinions expressed in what follows distill my own scarcely comprehensive reading and imperfect (in)experience

Although contemporary Orthodox Christians see themselves as heirs and transmitters of the Patristic and Byzantine tradition, reading the Church Fathers can be intimidating at first; the amount of material to sift through is immense, the learning curve is steep, and the most accessible translations are sometimes incomplete or outdated. Fortunately, Norman Russell’s Fellow Workers with God now provides a clear and readable primer on “Orthodox thinking on Theosis.”¹ A glance at some of the older, still influential surveys of Orthodox Christianity illustrates why Russell’s contribution is important. Let’s start with the vocabulary.

Popular introductions to Orthodoxy and surveys of Orthodox theology do not always include clearly marked chapters dedicated to theosis.² If they provide indices they may not include an entry for theosis or, if they do, it will likely point back to the entry for deification. In addition to theosis and deification, readers will also encounter more complex phrases that generally seem to cover the same territory, like union with God or participation in God.

Deification and theosis are basically synonyms. I’m not entirely sure what combination of factors has influenced an increasing preference for theosis among Orthodox theologians over the past decade or so,³ but I would guess that the flowering of Eastern patristic and Byzantine scholarship in the past century, initiated by Russian émigrés like Vladimir Lossky, Georges Florovsky, and John Meyendorff, has encouraged Orthodox theologians both to use the language of the Fathers and to distinguish their views from Western conceptions of deification.⁴ It is also possible that, in their encounters with Evangelicals, the Orthodox have found that theosis does not set off Evangelical warning bells quite so quickly as deification.⁵

Whether union with God and participation in God are also basically equivalent to theosis depends to some extent on whether one emphasizes theosis as the goal of human life (“union”) or as a process (“participation”). As of this post, the Wikipedia article on “Theosis” tends toward the former, describing theosis as only the final stage of a three-stage process leading to union with God. Russell remarks, however, that theosis is both … and.⁶

There is a certain unresolved but vital tension between these two aspects of theosis. Again, my guess is that Protestants’ fear of theosis is sometimes confirmed by their reading of Orthodox theologians who emphasize theosis as the goal of Christian life, which can be (partially correctly) interpreted as implying that theosis is something for which one must work. Theosis as a process may have more in common with what Protestants typically think of as sanctification. In either case a number of qualifications are necessary to prevent Orthodox thinking on theosis from sliding into pantheism or undifferentiated monotheism. Before we go there, however, stay tuned for a look at what the Bible says about Theosis.

There is no shortage of scholarly books and essays on the subject, including Russell’s indispensible study of The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition. Andrew Louth’s short essay on “The Place of Theosis in Orthodox Theology” is among the more accessible treatments (pp. 32–44 in Partakers of the Divine Nature: The History and Development of Deification in the Christian Traditions, edited by Michael J. Christensen and Jeffery A. Wittung). The full text of the late Panagiōtēs K. Chrēstou’s Partakers of God is available here.

Exceptions include Vladimir Lossky’s The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church, with a chapter on “The Way of Union,” and Daniel Clendenin’s Eastern Orthodox Christianity: A Western Perspective, with a chapter entitled “The Deification of Humanity: Theosis.” In what is still the most popular introduction to Orthodoxy, Timothy (Metropolitan Kallistos) Ware’s The Orthodox Church, Ware discusses deification in a subsection entitled ‘Partakers of the Divine Nature’ (the links will take you to an older edition; my printed 1997 edition has been revised to incorporate inclusive language, among other things—“humankind” instead of “man”, etc.). So, the issue is not whether Orthodox theologians discuss theosis, inevitably they do, but how they define and present it (see note 6 below).

This shift can be observed quite clearly in the successive editions of a short book by Archimandrite George, Abbot of St. Gregorios Monastery on Mt. Athos. In three editions from 1992 to 2001, the English version was entitled The deification as the purpose of man’s life. The title of the most recent 2006 edition is Theosis: the true purpose of human life (note also the use of inclusive language).

Although the language of the Fathers is not necessarily uniform, at least initially. Carl Mosser has recently recommended using theopoiesis instead of theosis to characterize the perspective of early Church Fathers like Irenaeus, Athanasius, and others. For quick reference, Peter J. Leithart has provided a summary of Mosser’s views.

As a transliterated Greek word, theosis has both a technical ring and the quality of being what Mosser (see note 4 above) might call “an exotic flower.” See Mosser’s exchange with Michael J. Gorman in the comments section of Gorman’s Cross Talk post on Protestants’ Fear of Theosis. Mosser’s comments concerning my own criticism of his position are also worth a look.

In his introduction to Fellow Workers with God Russell quotes four contemporary Orthodox theologians, each of whom offers a different perspective on deification or theosis (pp. 19–21). These four perspectives can be classified according to two distinct emphases. Russell harmonizes these emphases in his description of theosis as “both the goal of the divine economy and the process by which the economy is worked out in the believer” (p. 21).

Lent is Our Damascus Road, Part 3: Torn from His Mother’s Womb

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 02:47:00 +0000

Previous posts in this series:
Part 1: Blindness
Part 2: Two Perspectives

By his own admission, Paul’s modus operandi was to forget the past and press on to what lies ahead (Phil 3:13–14). On the rare occasions when he does look back one point is crystal clear. In the words of a justly famous essay by Krister Stendahl^†:

The Sin with capital S in Paul’s past was that he had persecuted the Church of God. This climax of his dedicated obedience to his Jewish faith [Gal 1:13, Phil 3:6] was the shameful deed which made him the least worthy of apostleship [1 Cor 15:9]. This motif, which is elaborated dramatically by the author of the Acts of the Apostles [Acts 9; 22; 26], is well grounded in Paul's own epistles. Similarly, when I Timothy states on Paul's account that “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am number one” [1 Tim 1:15], this is not an expression of contrition in the present tense, but refers to how Paul in his ignorance had been a blaspheming and violent persecutor, before God in his mercy and grace had revealed to him his true Messiah and made Paul an Apostle and a prototype of sinners’ salvation [1 Tim 1:12-16] (p. 89)

Stendahl pressed his case against seeing Paul as the prototypical introspective conscience of the West by suggesting that “Paul knew that he had made up for this terrible Sin of persecuting the Church.” In as many words he indicated that Paul possessed no less robust an awareness of his own blamelessness after his initial encounter with the risen Christ than before.

Did Saint Paul really believe that he had made up for his cardinal sin of persecuting the Church of God? Stendahl wanted his readers to think so, and toward that end he quoted Paul’s own words: “… his grace toward me was not in vain; on the contrary, I worked harder than any of them—though it was not I but the grace of God which is with me” (1 Cor 15:10). If this tells us anything about Paul, however, it only tells us that he thought he had to work harder than the rest of the Apostles, not that his work was complete or that he had somehow atoned for his violent past. In the same context he refers to himself as the ektrōma, the last of all to see the risen Christ and the only one who was, in the sterile, Elizabethan rendering of several popular translations, “untimely born” (1 Cor 15:8)

Modern studies of conversion have shown that converts typically tell their stories in language and concepts learned from their new communities. We may expect no less of Saint Paul, but it is difficult to believe that the early Jesus folk typically called themselves stillborns or abortions. This is Paul’s own choice of words, and it gives every indication that he experienced his vision of the risen Christ as a profound rupture with what he himself refers to as his former life in Judaism.

Saint Paul was not an especially introspective person nor did he often dwell on the past; that much is clear, but we ought to appreciate the fact that when he does recall his former life, some twenty or so years after his initial encounter with the risen Christ, what stands out is his excessive persecution of the Church and his zeal for the traditions of his fathers:

For you have heard of my former conduct in Judaism, that I was persecuting the Church of God beyond measure and trying to destroy it, that I was advancing in Judaism beyond many contemporaries among my people, being even more zealous for the traditions of my fathers. But when the God who separated me from my mother’s womb and called me through his grace was pleased to reveal his son in me, so that I might proclaim him among the nations, I did not immediately consult with flesh and blood … (Gal 1:13–16).

It is possible that Paul portrays himself in prophetic terms here as being set apart from birth for the special purpose of proclaiming the Son of God among the nations, a calling which he had only lately realized with the aid of revelation, but the proximity of his references to the “traditions of his fathers” and “his mother’s womb” suggests that the two are really one and the same thing, that Paul saw himself as being torn from his comfortable life in Judaism and cast out among the nations, an experience that came upon him suddenly and for which he was profoundly unprepared. The intersection of this language in with his self-characterization elsewhere as the ektrōma suggests that Paul viewed himself as lying dead in his sins at the very moment of his calling. A later midrash on Exodus portrays God’s redemption of Israel from slavery in Egypt in similarly visceral terms: “When I passed I saw you lying in your blood and I said to you, ‘Rise’”. The midrash goes on to describe how God nurtured Israel and adorned her in beautiful clothing, in much the same way Paul speaks of those who are baptized as having “put on Christ” (Gal 3:27).

Were we to ask Paul what were the sins in which he was stillborn, it is doubtful that he would say he had failed to meet the demands of the Law. In fact he almost certainly thought that his actions against the nascent Church were fully acceptable according to the Law. Whatever he experienced at the moment when he encountered the risen Christ, then, his subsequent reflections do not indicate much psychological turmoil over Judaism or the Law. The memory that he had persecuted the Church evidently stayed with him, however, and if we are reaching for a psychological explanation for his startling transformation then that memory is the place to go. Thus we can endorse Stendahl’s original insight that Paul was not especially introspective with the qualification that the risen Christ challenged him to be introspective. Paul’s blindness is a metaphor for his failure to see that, in his zeal, what he did not perceive as a transgression of the Law was nevertheless a sin against the body of Christ. “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”

If we persist in speaking of Paul’s conversion, in this light, we would do well to set aside the big religious questions and consider in the first instance what were the personal implications for Paul and, by application, for ourselves. If we persist in thinking of Paul’s conversion, in this light, we would do well to think of a moral conversion, a repudiation of coercive violence in the blinding presence of the risen Lord, the same Lord who had submitted himself to the violence of the cross. If we persist in thinking of Paul’s conversion, in this light, we would do well to think of an intellectual conversion, a stunning, catalytic realization that this Lord IS who they say he is. If we persist in speaking of Paul’s conversion, in this light, we would do well to think of a spiritual conversion, an immediate awareness that the power of life even now dwells in our decaying flesh. If we persist in thinking of Paul’s calling, in this light, we would do well to remember that he could not have been called without first being converted. This, at any rate, is how the Acts of the Apostles remembers Saint Paul.

Lent is our Damascus road, but in order to hear the voice of the Spirit speaking through Saul’s encounter with the risen Lord we need to attend to the details. The Damascus road is not about Judaism or Christianity; it is not about Law or Gospel; it is not about works or faith. It is about abject blindness in the face of glory; it is about hearing and heeding the words of the Lord. It is about being converted and being called.

Lent challenges us to look inward in an age when we are more inclined to extend ourselves outward in ever-expanding social networks. In an age of information without understanding, of breadth without depth, Lent is our time to contemplate what is the breadth and length and height and depth of the love of God, that we may be filled up to all the fullness of God (Eph 3:18–19). Lent is our time for moral, intellectual, and spiritual conversion; only then will we realize our calling.

When I passed I saw you lying in your blood and I said to you, ‘Rise’”

†

Krister Stendahl, “The Apostle Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West,” pp. 78–96 in Paul Among Jews and Gentiles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976). First published in English in Harvard Theological Review 56.3 (1963): pp. 199–215.

Lent is Our Damascus Road, Part 2: Two Perspectives

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 00:43:00 +0000

Previous posts in this series:
Part 1: Blindness

The conventional understanding of conversion owes much to the Acts of the Apostles, but Acts is not always reliable as an historical account of Saint Paul’s career. Our most accurate information comes instead from the seven or so letters that are generally acknowledged to have originated with Paul rather than his later disciples or a Pauline school. In these letters Paul never mentions the Damascus road nor does he refer to his experience as a conversion. Consequently it has become fashionable to say that Paul was called rather than converted. Mark Goodacre’s podcast on the subject of Paul's Conversion on the Damascus Road nicely summarizes the historical-critical reasons for this development, but we may still ask whether the distinction really supports the weight of the claims made in its favor.

Even if Acts does seem to describe what looks very much like a conversion, we should not lose sight of the fact that it also describes what looks very much like a prophetic calling or commission: “Depart, for I will send you far away to the Gentiles.” Paul was converted and he was called—in that order—according to Acts. The value of Acts therefore lies in its separation into two events what Paul likely experienced in a single, unitary moment.

The Western tradition tells us that Saint Paul’s encounter with the risen and glorified Lord was preceded by and prepared for by a severe crisis of conscience over his alleged inability to keep the Law. He subsequently found the solution to this problem and relief from his inner torment on the Damascus road, where Christ revealed the gospel of justification by faith. Modern scholarship tells us that such a portrait owes more to Augustine and Martin Luther than to Paul himself. Paul was not an especially introspective person, according to this New Perspective, nor was he especially distraught over his ability to keep the Law. He himself says that he was a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to zeal, that he persecuted the Church; as to righteousness before the law, that he was blameless (Phil 3:5–6).

The New Perspective tells us that Paul never had a problem with the Law until he met the risen Christ in person. On this view Paul did not convert in the traditional sense of the word because he never experienced a prior crisis of conscience; he never kicked against the goads; he certainly did not convert from Judaism to Christianity. Even Acts does not say that the disciples were called Christians until well after the scales had fallen from his eyes, and at first only in the city of Antioch. Thus it is seemingly more accurate to speak of Paul as a devout, Law-observant Jew who was called as such to convey a message of radical inclusiveness to the Gentiles, and who only later worked out the full implications of that message.

The traditional perspective and the New Perspective on Paul are mirror images. The traditional perspective is prospective and psychological; it traces Paul’s movement from problem—the crushing demands placed on the devout individual by a religion that allegedly requires strict obedience to a Law that is impossible to keep—to solution—the radical gospel of justification by faith. The New Perspective is retrospective and sociological; according to a near canonical formula it traces Paul’s movement from solution—a community in which there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, no male and female (Gal 3:28)—to problem—a set of ordinances that manifestly maintains such boundaries. Advocates of both perspectives make aggressive claims to systematically address many if not all of the questions raised by Paul’s relatively unsystematic corpus of letters, yet they do so (at the risk of oversimplifying) by presuming that the Damascus road was always already about religion rather than experience.

Lent is our Damascus road, but in order to hear the voice of the Spirit speaking through Saul’s encounter with the risen Lord we need to set aside the big questions and attend to the details. The Damascus road is not about Judaism or Christianity; it is not about Law or Gospel; it is not about works or faith. It is about abject blindness in the face of glory; it is about hearing and heeding the words of the Lord. It is about being converted and being called, so before we ask what it means to be called we ought to ponder carefully what it means to be converted.

We adore Thee, O Christ, and we bless Thee.
Because by Thy Holy Cross Thou hast redeemed the world.

Lent is Our Damascus Road, Part 1: Blindness

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 19:31:00 +0000

Other posts in this series:
Part 2: Two Perspectives
Part 3: Torn from His Mother’s Womb

The Acts of the Apostles tells the story of Saint Paul’s transformative encounter with the risen Christ no fewer than three times. It is a story so well known and so deeply embedded in our cultural consciousness that we scarcely think twice when someone refers to a Damascus road experience, yet it is a story that is worth repeating, if for no other reason than that Lent is our Damascus road.

Still breathing murderous threats against the disciples of the Lord, Paul (called Saul) obtains a letter from the High Priest in Jerusalem addressed to the synagogues in Damascus, presumably a warrant to arrest the disciples of Jesus there. But as Saul approaches the city around midday he is overwhelmed by a blinding light accompanied by a questioning voice: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” “Who are you, Lord?” asks Saul. “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” The men who are with Saul either hear the voice but see no one or see the light but hear nothing; Luke wavers on this point. The voice directs the now blind Saul to go on into Damascus, where, after three days, his sight is restored by the Holy Spirit through the ministrations of a man named Ananias.

Saul remains with the disciples at Damascus for several days, according to one account, during which time his proclamation of Jesus as the Son of God in the synagogues so incites the local Jewish population that they try to kill him, forcing him to escape the city by being lowered down over the wall in a basket. Shortly after returning to Jerusalem, according to a second account, he falls into a trance while praying in the Temple. In the midst of this trance the Lord directs him to leave Jerusalem: “Depart, for I will send you far away to the Gentiles.”

Received wisdom and collective memory tell us that a Damascus road experience is a radical about face, an epiphanic moment when all that one is and was dissolves in the stunning, catalytic rays of illumination—a conversion. Reality is more complicated. Some of us will never have such an experience this side of the grave. Others will not taste death before they see the Lord in his glory. The Church, in her wisdom, has given Lent to all of us.

Lent is our Damascus road, but in order to hear the voice of the Spirit speaking through Saul’s encounter with the risen Lord we need to set aside the big questions and attend to the details. The Damascus road is not about Judaism or Christianity; it is not about Law or Gospel; it is not about works or faith. It is about abject blindness in the face of glory; it is about hearing and heeding the words of the Lord. Those who take pride in their fasting are like the companions of Saul who see the light but hear nothing. Those who keep the fast for its own sake yet neither care to know why nor to reflect more deeply on the purpose of the fast are like the companions of Saul who hear the voice but see nothing.

Even Saul is not the special case we often think him to be. We are all, in our own way, blind to the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. The light shines in the darkness and we do not comprehend it. We cannot comprehend it. Pride, anger, greed, and lust are scales on our eyes; they darken our vision and dim our minds, and until they fall away we shall neither see the light of the Resurrection nor truly understand the words “Christ is risen!” Therefore let us hasten to Damascus. Let us pass by the dark alleys and dead ends of sin to await our healing on the street called Straight. Let us say with Saint Paul, “I have been crucified with Christ” and “the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself up for me.”

Before Thy Cross we bow down and worship, sovereign Lord, and Thy Holy Resurrection we glorify.

The God of the Gaps and Fear of Theosis

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 20:46:00 +0000

Michael Gorman’s comments over at Cross Talk concerning Protestants’ Fear of Theosis have sparked a lively discussion with Carl Mosser. It is good to see biblical scholars engaging with the subject of theosis, although, as Mosser observes, the discussion could benefit from greater precision at certain points. Since I have not (yet) read Gorman’s recent book, Inhabiting the Cruciform God: Kenosis, Justification, and Theosis in Paul's Narrative Soteriology, I shall claim ignorance of its contents and restrict my remarks to what I see as the wider theological and ecumenical issues involved in the ongoing Protestant (re)discovery of theosis.

Firstly, regarding the objection that theosis blurs the distinction between humanity and God, Gorman responds that the Eastern tradition has always denied this claim. Here I think the the issue has less to do with whether the Eastern tradition has historically denied such claims than with how the Eastern tradition has affirmed the distinction between human beings and God. Mosser’s first response seems to cut to the heart of that issue:

Most western writers who embrace theosis are really embracing the earlier, less mystical notion of theopoesis and mislabeling it. They are not usually endorsing the energies/essence distinction, apophaticism, mysticism, or the conviction that theosis can be achieved in this life through ascetic practices–all of which are hallmarks of the fully developed notion of theosis. Rather, they are endorsing only the earlier patristic themes related to participation in the immortality, incorruptibility, and glory of God, the adoption to divine sonship, union with Christ, renewal of the cosmos, etc.

Mosser rightly calls attention to the essence/energies distinction because modern Orthodox theologians tend to deploy that distinction strategically in order to preserve the gap between God and created beings. When humans experience union with God in theosis, they experience God’s energies, as it were, but union in essence with God is reserved for Christ. This distinction is rooted in a fourteenth-century debate between Gregory Palamas and Barlaam the Calabrian, and its effects have been felt more keenly in Eastern Orthodoxy (much like the effects of the debate between Augustine and Pelagius over the character of Original Sin have been felt more keenly in the Western traditions).

My quibble with Mosser concerns his somewhat cavalier use of the term “mysticism” and its cognates, which seems to involve a distinction of degree (less mystical vs. more mystical) attached to a temporal framework (earlier = less mystical; later = more mystical). It should go without saying that these are not necessary relationships. Particular vocabulary is not necessarily less mystical simply because it is earlier, but Mosser appears to define mysticism so narrowly that it can be applied without qualification only to the developed Byzantine tradition; anything short of that is presumably less mystical.^†

The second gap that interests me is the one between this life and the next, which I take to be the primary concern underlying Mosser’s implicit critique of “the conviction that theosis can be achieved in this life through ascetic practices.” My experience has been that Orthodox Christians tend to approach this particular gap with somewhat less respect than the gap between human beings and God. A beloved priest of mine even said that death is merely a bump on the road of life. He has since passed over that bump.

Confusion or misunderstanding is possible, however, because Orthodox theologians often treat theosis as an end or a goal in itself. This tendency ought to be, and often is, counterbalanced by the assertion that one never actually reaches the end of the road that leads up to God. Gregory of Nyssa used the term epektasis to describe this phenomenon of the soul’s ever-increasing growth in conformity to God, and it seems to me that this is where questions of degree are relevant to any discussion of theosis. The distance between this life and the next is minute in comparison to the distance between created human beings and the uncreated God.

†

A distinction (or non-distinction) between mysticism and mystical theology may be relevant here. Orthodox apologists sometimes claim that the entirety of Orthodox theology is “mystical” in the sense that it emerges organically from the common experience of the Church through the ages. From this perspective one could say that union with Christ is no more or less mystical when experienced by Paul than Palamas, while simultaneously indicating that Palamas’ own circumstances forced him to formulate the same experience in more precise terms.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving: Anselm on the Atonement

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 20:38:00 +0000

In my last post I suggested that Anselm’s argument in Cur Deus Homo does not depend on the notion that Christ suffered the full weight of the punishments that would otherwise be visited upon sinners, but rather on the notion that Christ voluntarily submitted to the same penalty that all human beings suffer involuntarily as a result of sin, namely death. On this reading ‘satisfaction’ does not refer to appeasing the infinite wrath of an angry God but to the payment of a debt with a gift of infinite value: the very life of God in Jesus.

Despite Anselm’s reputation as the ‘father of scholasticism’ there is an apophatic quality inherent in his notion of a gift so valuable that it cannot be evaluated in any other way than by the language of negation, a gift that can only be described as not finite. This negation resists attempts to reduce his theory to sheer economics.^† One could even say that Anselm originated the idea of a gift that keeps on giving, though the phrase itself was evidently trademarked much later (according to Google Answers).

With certain modifications, however, Anselm’s treatise could underwrite the economy of salvation as it was managed by various agents of the Catholic Church on the eve of the Reformation. According to Anselm, Christ’s willing sacrifice covered all past sins and restored faithful Christians to a state in which they could atone for sins committed after this pardon (2.26). Presumably such atonement would involve accessing the infinite treasury of merit stored up for the faithful in Christ, but the precise mechanism for gaining such access could range from penance to almsgiving to arguably more ignoble practices. As Gary Anderson writes, works of mercy toward the poor appear to be meritorious even for Luther, at least in his early years. “What offends him is the act of granting indulgences for the restoration of St. Peter’s in Rome” (Sin: A History, p.163).

Ultimately I think it is impossible to extricate Anselm completely from the troubling economics of retributive justice, but the idea of retributive justice as it is deployed by Anselm himself should not be confused with the idea of redirected punishment that informs certain subsequent theories of the Atonement. In fact I suspect that such theories emerged in part because the practical development of Anselm’s notion of the gift issued forth in a theology of merit deemed unacceptable by Protestant divines, and in part because Anselm’s own explanation for the brutal manner of Christ’s death lapses into the very aesthetic categories that he eschews at the beginning of his treatise.

†

Anselm does imply at two points that sin against an infinite God is itself infinite. That he is speaking hyperbolically is suggested by the qualification that satisfaction for human sin requires a payment greater than all the universe besides God (2.6). The debt for sin thus far exceeds what human beings are capable of paying but falls short of infinity. It is this infinite distance between what is owed and what Christ actually pays in recompense that appears to drive Anselm’s theology of the gift.

Sin, Debt, and the Economy of Salvation: A Rejoinder to Douglas Campbell?

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 18:08:00 +0000

Previous Posts in this Series:
Reflection 1
Reflection 2: Campbell v. Pat Robertson
Reflection 3: Theory v. Exegesis Reflection 4: The Economy of Salvation

Throughout this series I have focused primarily on what I perceive to be a strength of Campbell’s account of Justification theory in The Deliverance of God, namely its capacity to expose the theological underpinnings of certain observable (though anecdotal) phenomena within contemporary Evangelical churches. In my last post, in particular, I focused on Campbell’s objection to the implications of a particular reading of Anselm’s theory of atonement that seems to warrant the proposition that all human activity is essentially economic. There I suggested that the economy of salvation envisioned by Justification theory tends, in practice, to encourage the maintenance of class distinctions in the earthly economy. I should reiterate at this point that, in my opinion, this is a logically predictable and theologically explicable outcome of Justification theory, as Campbell construes it, even though I do not think it is logically necessary for the theory to work.

In fact the particular reading of Anselm to which Campbell objects turns out to be a common misconstrual of Anselm. Thus Campbell writes, “we will set aside as irrelevant to our present concerns the question whether the following is a fair reading of Anselm’s treatise; it is the cogency of this reading as an argumentative rejoinder in relation to these particular issues that matters for our present purposes” (p. 50, my emphasis). Campbell adds in a related note that “it is Anselm’s ‘misunderstood’ reading that is most useful here” (p.944 n.25). This brings me to one of my major reservations concerning Campbell’s argument. Although The Deliverance of God appears to be written primarily for an academic audience, the theory toward which Campbell directs the bulk of his critique seems to represent a popular construct.

If a ‘fair’ reading of Anselm diffuses Campbell’s criticism on the issue of debt and payment then it is certainly not irrelevant, regardless of its use or neglect as an argumentative rejoinder by Justification theorists (at least some of whom must be acquainted with such a reading). Gary Anderson illustrates this point rather well in his recent book, entitled Sin: A History (also published in 2009, hence, I suspect, unavailable to Campbell). Although Anderson can hardly be called a Justification theorist, in a typically wide-ranging but compact study he argues that the metaphor of sin as a debt to be repaid is more deeply biblical than has usually been appreciated, with roots in late-Exilic biblical texts and the literature of Second Temple Judaism.

In his concluding chapter, appropriately enough on Cur Deus Homo, Anderson contends that Anselm’s argument is also more deeply biblical than is usually appreciated, involving a notion of satisfaction that goes beyond merely paying off debt to include offering additional credit to others:

Fundamental to understanding Anselm is the crucial distinction he made between satisfaction and punishment that is lost on modern readers [many of whom “have simply folded the notion of satisfaction into that of punishment” (p.234 n.23)]. Punishment, Anselm assumed, is suffering the just consequences for one’s sins, something that happens to the sinner whether or not he or she wills it. Satisfaction, on the other hand, is a voluntary recompense for wrongdoing. Christ offers satisfaction in Anselm’s view; he does not suffer punishment. . . .

Christ suffers, to be sure, but not because paying a penalty is a central theme; he endures the penalty that is rightfully ours to reveal how deeply he loves us (pp.197–198).

Anselm’s argument does not depend on the notion that Christ bore the penalty for everyone’s sin in a cumulative sense, if I read Anderson correctly, but rather on the notion that Christ is the only person who could voluntarily endure the same penalty (death) that every human being suffers involuntarily as a result of sin. In so doing he reveals himself as the one person with sufficient credit to redeem everyone from the further consequences of sin, namely future judgment and condemnation.

On this reading of Anselm, Christ does not suffer redirected punishment in the sense of absorbing the full force of the penalties that would otherwise be directed at human beings. Instead his singular act of voluntary solidarity results in the substitution of his merit as payment for the debt of honour owed by human beings to God. His death does not merely balance the scale of debt and merit but actually tips it in favour of merit.

Indeed, Anselm’s notion of the atonement in Cur Deus Homo . . . rests on the notion that Christ’s sacrifice created an infinite store of merit for which he had no need. In his love for humanity Christ ceded these immeasurable riches to the church. With the merits of Christ, any sinner could find the resources to cover his debts (Anderson: p.162).

Campbell’s cynicism concerning Anselm’s deployment of the metaphor of debt and repayment loses some of its force if Anderson’s arguments concerning its biblical and traditional roots are granted. There are, of course, legitimate reasons to suspect that this metaphor is not foundational to Paul’s concept of sin, but Anderson’s brief remarks on the Pauline corpus are still worth noting. He reads the Pauline idea of God cancelling the debt of transgressions and erasing the bond of indebtedness (Colossians 2:13–15) in light of Paul’s discussion of the origin of sin in Romans 5:12–14. In short, he finds the metaphor of debt and repayment operative at the very outset of what Campbell maintains is Paul’s alternative to Justification theory: Romans 5–8. Thus Anderson writes:

If we stay within the bounds of the Pauline corpus and read Colossians in light of Romans, we can answer that question [how did humankind fall into such debt?]: Adam and Eve were the ones who signed a bond that enslaved humankind (Anderson: p.118).

On The Deliverance of God, Reflection 4: The Economy of Salvation

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 17:40:00 +0000

Previous Posts in this Series:
Reflection 1
Reflection 2: Campbell v. Pat Robertson
Reflection 3: Theory v. Exegesis

I recently had the opportunity to revisit my Evangelical roots by attending a Christmas Eve service at a Nazarene church. Two illustrations from the pastor’s sermon stood out. The first involved a short film that tells the story of Louisa Stead, who found herself and her four-year old daughter impoverished when her husband was pulled under the sea trying to save a drowning boy. According to the film Louisa penned the well-known hymn “’Tis so Sweet to Trust in Jesus” one night after receiving an anonymous gift of food.

The second illustration involved an anecdote about a wealthy man who, whenever he found a coin lying on the ground, would pick it up and stare at it for a considerable amount of time before finally putting it in his pocket. This understandably perplexed those who knew that he had no need for pocket change. When asked about the practice, he answered by saying that he stared at the coin until he felt the peace of God wash over him, then he put the coin in his pocket and went on his way.

I must confess that I am unsure how to reconcile these two illustrations, except perhaps by recourse to the Pauline example to be content in whatever circumstances one finds oneself (Philippians 4:11, to which the pastor did not refer). Taken together they seem to suggest that the poor should just trust in Jesus and the rich should go on accumulating wealth as long as they have the proper attitude about it, that is, as long as they too trust in Jesus. I am no Marxist, but I am reminded of the lyrics to an old U2 song: “The rich stay healthy / the sick stay poor” (from “God Part II”).

Jesus said “you always have the poor with you,” of course (Matthew 26:11; Mark 14:7; John 12:8), but he also counseled one well-to-do man to “go, sell what you have and give to the poor” (Mark 10:21; Matthew 19:21; Luke 18:22). When this proved to be too difficult for the man to accept, Jesus looked around and said, “how difficult it will be for those who have riches to enter the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:23; Matthew 19:23; Luke 18:24). I would like to have seen some interaction with such remarks in a sermon designed for a season focused on giving. Instead we heard an abstractly pietistic message about faith in Jesus.

On the other hand I am not surprised. If Campbell’s theoretical account of Justification is correct, then faith in Jesus is the only valid currency in the economy of salvation. In mere earthly economies the rich can keep on getting richer and the poor can remain impoverished as long as they both trust in Jesus. . . But why Jesus?

Campbell enlists Anselm of Canterbury to answer this question on the premise that “Defenders of Justification would almost certainly turn to a particular reading of Anselm” in order to explain why God did not choose some other form of payment to atone for the sins of the world (pp.49–50). Discussing Anselm’s famous treatise entitled Cur Deus Homo (Why God Became Man), Campbell remarks:

Anselm’s theory seems to demand a transfer of all wrongdoing to an economic plane, so that all sin can be “paid for” in a quite literal sense. And while this view’s appropriateness can be acknowledged in relation to economic matters . . . it simply seems false to allow all instances of wrongdoing to be seen in fundamentally economic terms. In order for this view to hold good, the underlying premise would have to be granted that all human action is essentially economic—that society is at bottom a collocation of property-acquiring individuals concerned with material accumulation and its impediment (p.52).

That last sentence not only fairly accurately describes an important aspect of capitalist economies, it also fairly accurately describes what I call Field of Dreams churches. The ecclesiology of such churches can be summarized by an oft-misquoted line from Kevin Costner’s hit film: “If you build it, they will come.” The church building in which I heard the above illustrations had recently been built on a new property, though I hesitate to place it in the same class as Lakewood Church in Houston, Texas. In fact nearly every Evangelical church I have visited in the past ten years has either been preparing for “the next phase” of expansion, constructing a new edifice, or enjoying shiny new facilities. This may say more about my own social circles than the condition of Evangelical churches in general, but in my experience saving more souls often seems to involve buying larger property and building a bigger church.

Can one love God and Mammon too? Could it be that a marriage of Justification theory and capitalist ideology is among the reasons for the continued success of Evangelical Protestantism, especially in the United States? Does such success prove the truth of the gospel, or is the gospel of growth actually a cancer in the body of Christ?

On The Deliverance of God, Reflection 3: Theory v. Exegesis

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 21:15:00 +0000

Previous Posts in this Series:
Reflection 1
Reflection 2: Campbell v. Pat Robertson

I concluded my last reflection by suggesting that Campbell’s theoretical account of Justification occasionally accurately describes certain socio-political and ecclesial realities, although I am aware of at least two flaws in my argumentation. First, my ‘evidence’ is anecdotal and, second, neither Pat Robertson nor any other single individual are necessarily representative of all who adhere to the doctrine of Justification by faith. What Campell attempts to show, however, is that the theory of Justification proceeds in such a way that certain ethically reprehensible conclusions are logically predictable and theologically explicable, even though they are not, in my opinion, logically necessary for the theory to work. Pat Robertson’s suggestion that Haiti has experienced crippling poverty, social and political disintegration, and a devastating earthquake because her founders allegedly made a pact with the Devil is a case in point. The theory of Justification, as Campbell construes it, has no robust answer to such calumnies precisely because it provides an implicit theological rationale in its emphasis on retributive justice.

But has Campbell construed the theory correctly? Douglas Moo raised this question at the recent Society of Biblical Literature session on Campbell’s book (the audio files of which are available here, courtesy of Andy Rowell). Moo suggested, among other things, that Campbell’s theory is a pastiche drawn from a variety of sources spanning several centuries. As such it incorporates elements that do not properly belong, including Campbell’s emphasis on retributive justice. While I think this is a valid criticism, I question the extent to which Justification theory retains its original ‘purity’ among the majority of adherents who, I assume, are not biblical scholars. Campbell’s theory may have the explanatory capability I have discussed at an anecdotal level precisely because the version of the theory with which many Christians are acquainted is just such a pastiche.

On The Deliverance of God, Reflection 2: Campbell v. Pat Robertson

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 20:23:00 +0000

Previous Posts in this Series:
On The Deliverance of God, Reflection 1

Campbell gets to “The Heart of the Matter” after a preface describing the origin and structure of his project and a brief introduction discussing three interpretive conundrums, for which I defer to Sean the Baptist’s summary. Campbell does not “proceed directly to exegesis,” however, which as he puts it “would be to advance blindly into thoroughly prepared positions—a suicidal interpretive project” (p.8). Having locked horns with a few ardent ‘Justification theorists’ in the past I can appreciate Campbell’s caution. Instead he argues that the complex culprit that has plagued Pauline scholarship for over a century is “an amalgam of a particular reading of various Pauline texts . . . and a theory of salvation” (p.12). For the remainder of the chapter he concentrates on developing a rigorous account of that theory. That account sets up the following chapters, which concern:

Intrinsic Difficulties (Ch. 2): tensions inherent in the theory itself, irrespective of exegesis.
Systematic Difficulties (Ch. 3): tensions created by the apparent presence within Paul’s letters of an alternative soteriology.
Empirical Difficulties (Ch. 4): tensions between the theory’s description of ‘reality’ and the results of historical and social-scientific research, especially concerning Judaism and conversion.

Of particular interest at the systematic frame is Campbell’s salutary critique of “Coercion and Violent Punishment” (pp. 87–95). In this section Campbell notes that the concept of retributive justice operates at two critical points in Justification theory. At the pre-Christian phase the theory exerts pressure on individuals to move to the Christian phase by asserting that God will eventually hold everyone accountable for their actions, whether on the basis of natural law (for non-Jews) or special revelation (for Jews). At the Christian phase it offers what amounts to acquittal for individuals who acknowledge that their punishment has been redirected to Christ (point 1). Those who, for whatever reason, do not express such faith will experience punishment directly on the day of judgment (point 2), and, importantly, they may experience a foretaste of such punishment even prior to the day of judgment.

A comparison of televangelist Pat Robertson’s recent remarks on the horrific tragedy unfolding in Haiti and Campbell’s comments on the implications of Justification theory for the fate of those who have willfully refused the gospel provides a telling indicator of the extent to which Campbell’s theoretical account occasionally reflects certain socio-political and ecclesial realities, sometimes with startling accuracy. First, Robertson’s remarks:

Now Campbell:

Those who have refused the gospel’s offer of redirected punishment have betrayed a high degree of irrationality and/or willful disobedience. Any misfortune they might experience prior to the day of judgment is therefore appropriately construed as a proleptic experience of the punishment that awaits them, although it may also double as a pedagogical prompt. And perhaps these two dynamics may be fused when non-Christians experience awful punishments at the hands of given government (although the forces of nature, including disasters, can also function at this point). Essentially, non-Christians are a category that is fundamentally appointed for violent punishment (p. 88, my emphases).

On The Deliverance of God, Reflection 1

noreply@blogger.com (Jeffrey Keiser) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 00:42:00 +0000

This post begins a series of modest reflections on Douglas Campbell’s latest book, entitled The Deliverance of God: An Apocalyptic Rereading of Justification in Paul. Campbell’s thesis is relatively simple, but its implications are potentially far-reaching. He argues that many of the contradictions and inconsistencies that have preoccupied Pauline scholars at least since the late nineteenth century may not be inherent features of Paul’s thought so much as fissures formed by the imposition of an essentially foreign interpretive framework, or what Campbell calls Justification theory. NT scholars sometimes refer to this somewhat inaptly as the Lutheran Perspective, in order to differentiate it from the increasingly inaptly-named New Perspective on Paul, but most laypersons will have encountered it in the form of the classic Protestant doctrine of Justification by faith.

Regardless of the terminology one uses, Douglas Harink’s remark on the book jacket is accurate. The Deliverance of God “launches a massive attack on the bastions of Justification,” a doctrine that many Protestants view as the non-negotiable core of Paul’s gospel and which Campbell himself calls “the most formidable account of the data that we yet possess” (p.13, Campbell’s emphasis). Yet the inscription that precedes the title page is telling when considered in light of the contents of his book: οὐαὶ μοί ἐστιν ἐὰν μὴ εὐανγγελίσωμαι (“woe to me if I do no preach the gospel,” 1 Corinthians 9:16). Clearly Campbell does not think that Justification theory is the core of the gospel.

Caveat lector. I should state from the outset that, for several reasons, I am already favourably predisposed toward Campbell’s position. Boasting what amounts to an undergraduate minor in Dispensationalism with a dash of Bonhoeffer and a smattering of classical Reformed theology, I know just enough to be dangerous but not enough to convincingly resurrect the persona of an offended Evangelical. Secondly, as a Pauline scholar and practicing Orthodox Christian my sympathies generally align more closely with what Campbell calls the alternative paradigm, a participatory view of salvation emphasizing God’s initiative to rescue humans from the oppressive forces of sin and death rather than a juridical view emphasizing the satisfaction of divine retributive justice accomplished through the atoning death of Christ. I am, however, interested in hearing more responses to Campbell’s challenge from my capital “E” coreligionists.

Campbell’s tome is not for the faint of heart. It weighs in at a hefty 1218 pages (including 240 pages of endnotes and 40 pages of bibliography and indices), and his dense prose occasionally obscures rather than clarifies. I do not expect to fully digest the contents for some time, but judging by what I have read so far, and by initial reactions in the blogosphere and beyond, it appears to be a landmark study.