Authority, Compassion, & Kingdom

Yesterday’s post on the pragmatic nature of love in the Kingdom of God raised some good questions, and provoked a couple further thoughts for yours truly. (Incidentally, this is one reason I blog: not because I have something to say all the time, but because often if I just say something there will be a conversation that furthers my own thinking, pushes me to explore a new crevice, shows me the limits of my own understanding.)

The very good question was raised about individual salvation, and the possibility that someone might gain the whole world and yet forfeit his soul.

This got me thinking a bit about who comes to Jesus, and what such an approach might signify.

The main thrust of my reflections from yesterday was, essentially, that Jesus [almost] never does a bait-and-switch. If someone comes in asking for healing, he doesn’t tell them that what they really need is to have their soul set right with God. He seems to trust that they have actually come to him to have their real problem dealt with.

We evangelicals are often much less comfortable with such attention to worldly needs, fearing that providing for them might get in the way of supply what’s truly needful; or, using such provision as a bait-and-switch for the “real” thing, which is the message we bring with us.

But that got me thinking, Who are these people who come to Jesus? Why are they coming to him? Is there something in their coming that might indicate some level of faith? In fact, it got me thinking: why do people come to Jesus and who would we need to be in order for people to come to us?

Jesus’ inauguration of the Dominion of God indicated at least two things: (1) he had power/authority to control the world in which we’re living–changing it for the better, beating back its evils; and (2) he had the compassion to help those who would come to him with their need.

As I’ve been thinking about the failures of Christian love over the past couple of days, I’ve been honing in on 2 as the principal area in which we are failing to image Jesus for the world in which we live. And I find myself asking questions that would draw out answers to the question, “What kind of people would we need to be in order for even our apparent enemies to come and ask for help in time of need?”

If a Roman centurion would come to Jesus and ask for help in healing his servant, this tells me that he not only knew of Jesus’ great authority, but that Jesus’ use of that authority was not restricted to the insiders. I think we have failed here.

But here’s where some of the rub comes in–that centurion is still coming to Jesus with faith that Jesus is a man of sufficient authority to heal his ill servant. Not even in Israel has Jesus seen such faith. So even in the coming there’s a faith in the person of Jesus as Lord.

But that brings me back again to us. As those who bear Jesus’ name, who are called to extend his mission into our own time and place, do we so act that the world around looks at our deeds and says, “There is a place where great power is at work to transform the world for good”?

Do we so act that people see the power of the Spirit of the resurrected Christ flowing through us such that they would come to us to aid them in those places where they see that the world is not as it should be, in need of transformation?

And do we so act that the world, watching what we do, knows that it can come to us and find us, as those who act like our heavenly Father and firstborn brother, to be an ever present help in time of need?

My New Addictions

As I have indicated here over the past couple of months, I have some new addictions. One of these is The New Yorker‘s fiction podcast. I commend this to you for several reasons, not least is that hearing short stories, and hearing people talk about how to read them, has the potential to help make you a better reader, a better hearer of Story. We need more of that kind of competence.

Another is The Mountain Goats. As I mentioned before, these songs are to me like listening to Flannery O’Connor in song.

But a third addiction is a new one. My friend Mark Traphagen, a.k.a. The Foolish Sage, has begun pod-casting short stories (mostly about his life) in his League of Inveterate Poets Podcast. These are fun, humorous, and entertaining, and often with more than a hint of redemption thrown in.

If you have 9 minutes to spare as you walk about with your iPod (and if you have or would like to develop a category of “Redemptive Use of the F-Bomb” [i.e., consider yourself warned, there is strong language in this (but why do I feel compelled to tell you that about a podcast when I'd commend a movie with F-bombs without a second thought?)]), I commend to you his short story, “The Bus, the Bench, and the Chamber of Doom.”

Posted in: Culture by J. R. Daniel Kirk 1 Comment

Pragmatics of Love

In something of a follow-up to yesterday’s post on homosexuality and justice, I had a few thoughts on the pragmatic nature of my argument about endorsing civil liberties as an expression of love. To be sure, there was a bit of a theological component as well, an appeal to Jesus’ commands to love our neighbor, but when it came right down to it, I argued that people know, to a certain degree, when they are being met with love and when they are being met with… well… something else.

Yesterday I alluded to the Good Samaritan story as one depiction of the pragmatic nature of love. But I think the thread is even more extensively woven through the Gospels narratives.

When we see Jesus encountering the world around him, we find him willing to respond to and rectify the ills of the felt needs of the people around him.

We cannot love without pragmatism. What we see in Jesus is that, for all that he was advancing an agenda to proclaim and inaugurate the reign of God, he was ever submitting himself to the agendas set by the people who came to him.

What this tells us about the Kingdom of God is that it is more extensive than the agenda of proclamation and conversion that we as Christians will always, to some extent, carry with us. Once we recognize that the Kingdom of God is not just about the saving of souls, or the sanctification of the church, but the wholesale reordering and rectification of the cosmos, then we realize not only the possibility but the responsibility to work for holistic restoration of the space within which we find ourselves.

Or, to put it more simply: I am as much an agent of the Kingdom of God when I work for accessible healthcare and when I proclaim that Jesus died for our sins.

When the gospel is big enough to rectify not only the sinful and enslaved condition of individual human hearts but the brokeness of human bodies and the corruption of human systems then we can see that the gospel itself gives us space to act as agents of the good news even where those who would benefit are not interested in bowing their knees to the resurrected Lord.

It’s when we apprehend the breadth of the gospel that we are free to serve and to love–being willing to respond to the needs of the people around us rather than leading with an agenda of conversion.

It’s then that we can see that holding onto a gospel call to faith and repentance is no enemy of agitating for the civil liberties of those who do not affirm the Lordship of the one who is giving them liberty.

Posted in: Bible Thoughts, Culture by J. R. Daniel Kirk 6 Comments , , ,

More on Justice…

… this time, a little more light-hearted. It seems that not everyone is pleased with our decision to buy into a quarter of a steer this summer.

Posted in: Humor by J. R. Daniel Kirk 3 Comments

Homosexuality and Justice

A few days ago I posted a few thoughts about why I don’t find parallels between slavery debates and homosexuality debates to be persuasive. In short, when it comes to the issue of homosexual practice, I am not persuaded that the issue within the church is an issue of realizing the justice and liberty that are ours in Christ.

But as I have mulled this over, I have feared that I may have done wrong in merely stating that much and no more.

Here’s the more: the same Christian story that compels me to deny the church’s blessing on same-sex unions also compels me to fully support the civil rights of homosexuals.

In short, the state should have a mechanism for sanctioning homosexual couples as united in one household, and the laws of the state pertaining to spouses should extend equally to all such partners, and exclusion from public office, commerce, housing, and the like should be met with the same recriminations that the state metes out on racial and religious prejudice. And let’s not forget tax deductions, for crying out loud!

What sort of reading of the Christian story would lead me to the conclusion that this is a quintessentially Christian position? Quite simply, it’s the command to love neighbor (together with Jesus’ closing of the “who’s my neighbor?” loophole) as interpreted through the Golden Rule.

What does it mean to love my neighbor? What does it mean to do what I would want done to me?

If someone did not approve of my choice of a spouse, would I still want that person to protect my right to cover my wife on my employer’s health insurance plan? If my wife’s state-funded employer poked around and found out that I work at an institution that discriminates based on religious conviction, would I still want them to allow me to be covered under her insurance and receive spouse survivor benefits should she die–even though my work and life is antithetical to the state’s commitment to non-establishment of religion?

If I were sick in the hospital, would I want the hospital to be legally required to allow the partner I love to come visit me?

There is no way of reading the church’s posture toward the world as “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” and still argue based on our set of convictions that we are acting obediently when we fail to not only approve of but even advocate for full inclusion of homosexuals in civil society.

If all of this seems too far from home, perhaps we should remind ourselves of some of the other things that the NT teaches about sex and marriage, and ponder whether we want those, too, to be the bases of difference in civil society.

Should the state refuse to acknowledge a marriage in which one of the partners has been previously divorced?

Should an insurance company be able to cancel the insurance policy of a spouse who commits adultery?

When the shrewd lawyer attempted to back Jesus into a corner by pinning him down on the extent of this “love your neighbor as yourself” business, Jesus replied with a most unlikely story. A religious outsider, an idolatrous Samaritan, sees a beaten, wounded man on the side of the road and lends assistance where the religious professionals, in order to obey nothing less than the law of God itself, passed by.

Who was the neighbor who loved? It was the person who showed mercy.

Who was not a neighbor? It was the religious people who upheld the Law.

O.k., but Luke was a bleeding heart liberal, chapter 4 and all that. What about the good ol’ Sermon the Mount Jesus?

He is the one who commanded: “Let your light so shine before people that they will see your good deeds and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”

Did you catch that? We are to be acting in such a way that people outside the community see that we are workers for good in way that compels them to glorify the God who is, himself, the source of the light that we shine.

And once again, as an evangelical Christian the question is turned on me: have I shone the kind of light for my homosexual neighbor that would cause him or her to see my good work and glorify my Father in heaven?

Both as an individual and as a member of a community I know that I have failed, that we have failed, to show this kind of love.

Please forgive me.

Posted in: Bible Thoughts, Culture by J. R. Daniel Kirk 16 Comments ,

Hays on Reconciliation & Knowing

So Paul is writing this part of the letter to convince the Corinthians that the death of Christ has abolished the old standards for what counts as power and persuasiveness. That is to say, the standards for knowing rightly have been transformed by the cross. And in light of these new standards — in light of the New Creation that God has brought into being — the Corinthians should stop their rivalry and boasting and conflict. They should be reconciled to Paul and to one another…

Paul is not just saying, “Look at me, my sins have been forgiven, and so I’m now a new creature.” He is saying that the whole world is being made new by the cross and resurrection and that all our relationships have to be re-evaluated in light of that transformation. -Richard B. Hays, “The Word of Reconciliation

Ever Interpreting…

“A story is a way to say something that can’t be said any other way, and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is.” -Flannery O’Connor

homo sapiens? “Wise man”? Maybe…

human being? “a person who exists”? O.k., sure…

human interpreting? That’s more like it.

Human life is a constant barrage of interpretation. We are always interpreting the world, every piece of data that we perceive, and fitting it into (or rejecting it from) our prior understandings of how things are (or should be).

How we interpret is both determined by and determinative of our identity as people and as members of larger groups. As an American I have a set of interpretive standards (such as being able to say “American” and have the world know that I mean the United States and not the other 20ish countries that are in North and South America, not to mention the Caribbean).

But interpreting the world is not just a matter of “indicatives” (what is true, what is not, what works, what is out of synch) it is also the way in which we determine what is right and wrong, and therefore how we should act. The indicatives of our identity, as individuals and as groups, bears fruit in imperatives that serve to bolster our defining narratives.

In other words, people are inherently story tellers with storied identities.

And this is why I spend so much time as a teacher, professor, and writer begging the church to get its story straight. Because the story we tell ourselves about who we are as followers of Jesus, which is inseparable from what we say about Jesus himself, will determine the things we approve of as truly indicating that we are being faithful to our Christian calling.

And, this is why I think it so important that we continually recapture the narrative dynamic of our defining Christian story, and continually insist that it is the story itself that gives us our identity.

There is an alternative that I constantly rebel against. It is the alternative of using the story as an indicator that our identity is formed by something to which the story points. The alternative of using the deeply contextualized, ever recontextualized story of God as through it’s purpose is to point to the real thing–a set of theological principles or timeless truths or  or boundary marker within which we must live or legal code in accordance with which we must live our lives.

These have been the besetting temptations of the Christian tradition. Temptations to define and by defining to control.

But when we make Christianity into any of these things, we fundamentally change the metaphor of our identity. When we turn Christianity into a statement of faith we transform our identity at its core. No longer are we living out a dynamic, ever contexualized story; no longer are we following a Jesus who continues to go before us into the present; no longer are we part of a new creation that is dawning and whose light we are called to shine afresh in every corner of as-yet-unredeemed while redeemed-in-Christ old creation.

From such dynamic stories of Christian identity we end up retreating to a static frame, and our faithful ethic becomes guarding its borders. Faithful Christian practice becomes digging the trenches of our correct theology, or correct law, ever deeper with each passing generation, making the chasm between “in” and “out” ever clearer, ever broader. Faithful Christian practice becomes ensuring that those who are “out” are made fully aware of their outness–becomes guarding the boarders at all costs.

Preservation of orthodoxy becomes the identity marker of faithful Christianity, and the cruciform, redemptive, missional praxis of following Jesus becomes a nice add-on at best, or, at worst, a condemnable distraction.

Tell the story. And tell the story. And don’t forget to tell the story. This is the “transforming by the renewing of our minds” that allows us to know what the will of God is, and keeps us from conformity to the world.

It’s a transformation of mind that can see the world being turned on its head by the death died in self-giving love, and that can therefore believe that reenactment of that story will continue to change the world.

Posted in: Bible Thoughts by J. R. Daniel Kirk 9 Comments ,

Cuckoo Redeemer

We just rewatched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest last week. It is an amazing, troubling film, worthy of its five Oscars et al.

It is a story of redemption, of deliverance–a story in which Jack Nicholson’s character, R. P. McMurphy, plays a leading role.

But what struck me in the film is that for all of McMurphy’s agitating, and for all this his own death is a a means of deliverance, it is (surprisingly) Billy Bibbit who is the Christ figure in the film.

We’re keyed into this on a couple of occasions when R. P. shoots a “Jesus Christ” exclamation his way. And his own death seems to be the self-giving that truly turns the tide on the ward.

So while R. P.’s own death is, in its way, redemptive, it seems that it’s redemptive as a following in the way of death that truly turned the story, the death of the would-be minor character Billy Bibbit.

Posted in: Media by J. R. Daniel Kirk 4 Comments , ,

Paul and the Pastorals

On Facebook yesterday someone asked me if I wouldn’t mind recounting my journey away from affirmation of Paul’s authorship of the Pastoral Epistles (1 & 2 Timothy and Titus). So here goes.

First, the freedom to pursue the question was instilled in me through my pro-inerrancy education at Westminster Seminary (though one going to WTS now would not be given the same freedom). At the time I went, there was a flourishing tradition of carefully distinguishing between the commitment to inerrancy and particular hermeneutical and/or critical conclusions.

This tradition was embodied in the title of a 1988 faculty collection, Inerrancy and Hermeneutic (ed. Harvey Conn). In that collection, Moises Silva says that even the issue of who wrote a letter, which may seem in some ways to be the most obvious conclusion to draw from an “inerrant” Bible (I mean, if you can’t believe the “From” line of the letter, what can you believe?), is an issue that must be decided based on historical evidence. And, if a letter is found to be pseudepigraphical, then our understanding of what it means to affirm an inerrant Bible must be shaped so as to allow for that.

This is reflective of an important factor that drives a lot of my work: that no theology worth holding is going to so exert its control over our reading of the Bible that it will forbid us from saying what good exegesis of the passage demands that we say.

In this case, I don’t find persuasive that there is much theologically at stake for recognizing that Paul did not write these letters. They are scripture and therefore we have them as part of the canon, the rule of the church’s faith and life.

There are a couple of standard arguments against Pauline authorship of the Pastorals that I do not (or, did not) find persuasive:

  1. The difference between the free-form churches of Paul and the highly organized and therefore presumably later churches of the pastorals. The introduction to Philippians addresses the letter to those at Philippi, “including the overseers and deacons.” Paul’s churches seem to have had some organization.
  2. The place of women was not persuasive at first. This has come to bear more weight for me, but I think that the things Paul says in 1 Cor 11, the thing Paul may or may not have said about women in 1 Cor 14, etc. give some room for differentiation of roles in the church, or ways to articulate male-female relations that are not categorically different from the Pastorals. I see the differences as somewhat more significant now, but this was not a major factor for me.

On a few other issues, the differences between Paul’s letters and the Pastorals began to make their weight felt. The weight of these arguments became greater to me the longer I sat with Paul’s letters, not merely doing more in-depth research but getting more familiar with the texts themselves. I don’t think I would feel the weight of these so much if I hadn’t read through Paul’s letters dozens of times in Greek and memorized all thirteen in English. I’m not saying you have to do either of these to argue with me, but in my own story that’s how it worked.

  1. Most importantly for me, the arguments work differently. The way that Paul theologizes is from the Christ event to God, to the community, to himself, to scripture, etc. The death and resurrection/reign of Jesus (and imminent return) shape all of Paul’s theology. But this is not how 1 Timothy and Titus argue. They appeal to principles, trustworthy sayings, etc. I think 2 Timothy has better claims to Pauline authorship on precisely this ground: the resurrection of Jesus shapes a tremendous amount of the letter’s theologizing.
  2. Paul’s letters and the Pastorals talk about God and Jesus differently. Uses of words such as “savior” differ; the idea of whether salvation is primarily seen as past-tense-received or present-progressive-and-future-tense-in-store differs.
  3. The Greek is different. An early twentieth century study (I can’t remember by whom, E. P. Sanders had me read it when I was at Duke) researched the coincidence of the vocabulary from Paul’s letters and the Pastorals, finding that the vocab of the latter that is not found elsewhere in Paul’s letters tends to be found in other Greek manuscripts that date to the 2d century, whereas Paul’s vocabulary corresponds with other Greek writings from the first. This study puts some specifics on what reading the letters in Greek communicates: they not only feel different argumentatively, but they also reflect a different stock vocabulary.
  4. Theologically they are different, especially the ways that 1 Timothy and Titus reflect on the Law and Judaism.

Finally, I don’t think that 1 Timothy and Titus can fit into the chronology of Paul’s life. Typically, fitting the Pastorals into Paul’s life requires creating a new chapter that includes a release from Roman prison, another set of missionary work, a new arrest and then death in Rome. I find this an unnecessarily cumbersome hypothesis, one likely to be false.

Posted in: Academia, Bible Thoughts by J. R. Daniel Kirk 53 Comments

Oops Moments in Biblical Commentary

Here are a couple of my favorite “oops” moments in eavesdropping on people’s characterizations of the Bible:

“We don’t need to obey all that Leviticus stuff, we just need to listen to Jesus and love our neighbor as ourselves.”

And this one, in a New Testament Intro course, arguing against Pauline authorship of the Pastoral Epistles:

“In Paul’s letters, such as 1 Corinthians, we see that church leadership and worship is charismatic, more free, led by the Spirit; in the Pastorals everything is much more… what was it they used to say at Princeton?… ‘done decently and in order.’”

(If you’re scratching your head: In example 1, Jesus is citing Leviticus 19:18; in example 2, the final quote is from 1 Corinthians 14:40.)

Posted in: Bible Thoughts by J. R. Daniel Kirk 5 Comments