Jan 31

Iyov tagged me with this meme:

Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. (No cheating!)
Find Page 123.
Find the first 5 sentences.
Post the next 3 sentences.
Tag 5 people.

As far as I can tell the two nearest books were the Jerusalem Bible (which I have discounted on the grounds that it’s a library, none of whose individual books have 123 pages) and Web Design in a Nutshell. I am a pious geek :-)

So my 3 sentences to quote for this post are:

What makes XHTML documents different from HTML documents is that you need to be absolutely sure that your documents follow the syntax rules of XML correctly (in other words, that it is well-formed). The sections below summarize the requirements of well-formed XHTML as well as some tips for backward compatibility with older browsers.

All Lowercase Element and Attribute Names
In XML, all elements and attribute names are case-sensitive, which means that <img>, <Img>, and <IMG> are parsed as different elements.

Well, that was exciting and full of theological or spiritual depth, eh? (If you want to judge whether I’ve made any good use of it, the two sites listed below my blogroll were largely hand-coded with XHTML and CSS.)

So, I tag: Mark Goodacre, Jim West, Lingamish, James McGrath and Peter Kirk.

written by doug

Jan 31

I had nearly decided not to comment on John Hobbins’ embrace of theopaschite ways, when I received an email encouraging me to respond. I offer a handful of comments, and invite John and others to reply.

It seems to me there are strong and weak versions of theopaschitism. The weak asserts that God truly suffered in the flesh by drawing on the exchange of predicates: whatever may be said about Christ in his human nature may also truly be asserted about God. (Hence the insistence that Mary is properly called Mother of God.) This weak form is fully compatible with the idea of God’s impassibility, although it can easily seem to the modern mind to be playing language games. John, however, appears to assert a strong version of the doctrine and identify theopaschitism with the passibility of God, fully and completely. It is this latter position I am commenting on here.

Any discussion of questions like this easily sounds as though we are making more certain and clear claims about God than we actually can, and can also come across to others as debating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Despite these dangers, I think there is something important here in defending the idea of what we might call the “Godness” of God: his otherness and above all his absolute freedom and lack of external and un-chosen constraints. Impassibility defends the very definition of God, and his power to act in creation and redemption.

The debate is not one, as it is often popularly put, of philosophical ideas versus biblical ideas, or Hebrew versus Greek, or Athens versus Jerusalem. All of these are entirely false antitheses. Perhaps the most “Greek” statement of the New Testament comes in perhaps the most “Jewish” book: that God is “the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” (James 1:17). The question is, rather, when we talk in more abstract concepts, which better maintains the picture of God’s character as found in the Scriptures, passibility or impassibility.

There is no doubt that there is a strong argument to be made from the narrative form and the language for the passibility of God. The Hebrew Bible in particular is full of anthropomorphisms attributing changes of mind and a whole range of feelings to God. Yet it also contains powerful statements of God’s absolute freedom and transcendence, most particularly in Job and verses like this from Second Isaiah: “I form light and create darkness, I make weal and create woe; I the LORD do all these things.” (Isaiah 45:7). Impassibility takes and builds on this latter kind of statement as the essential revelation, and deals with the mutable metaphors at the level of language and condescension.

To this point I have said nothing about Jesus, nor him crucified. However, this is usually the focus of most modern rejections of impassibility. In a long roll-call of modern theologians who reject the patristic formulations, Moltmann perhaps stands out as the most impassioned: a true theologia crucis demands that we speak of the suffering of the Crucified God. Against this I would suggest that one of the unifying features of the gospels is their portrayal of Jesus as the one in charge: whether he is responding or initiating, he acts freely and of his own volition. This is extended to his death as a destiny he walks towards, often to the bafflement of his disciples. In Luke’s narrative and exemplary model we find Jesus acting in continuation of his ministry of forgiveness and reconciliation throughout his passion. In Matthew’s comes the insistence that he has legions of angels who could avert the passion (Matt 26:53). in John’s theological portrayal we find the statement that “No one takes [my life] from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again.” (John 10:18) In all of these Jesus is not made to suffer, but he chooses to suffer. The problem with Moltmann’s theology in this regard is the privilege it gives to the Markan word of dereliction over and above these other testimonies, yet even Mark too shows Jesus freely embracing the way of the cross.

This, it seems to me, is of the essence of why we affirm impassibility. It is nothing to do with “feelings” of suffering, but about the powerlessness of suffering. No-one can do anything to God that God does not choose to let be done. God is, fundamentally THE agent, the one who acts. The mystery of the cross is that God’s free choice and action is to be done to, to be made the recipient of human action and hostility, to be made passive and to suffer. But if this is not a free choice, above all in his divine nature yet also in his human, but is instead a consequence forced upon him by others and their actions, then it loses, I think, its real power. That God is done ill to and suffers is cold comfort, but not gospel. That the impassible God chooses to be the recipient of human ill and suffer actively for the world’s redemption: that is the real good news. Impassibility, far from being a strange idea imposed on the gospel, is what underwrites the cross as gospel, a free act of love, not a necessary consequence of human sin.

written by doug

Jan 30

I would like to thank Jim West for directing my attention to this site. As you can see from the picture below, I have made good use of this gift.

jimchainsaw

written by doug

Jan 29

There’s such a thing as following your teachers too slavishly. And there are two fine examples on the blogs today. In alphabetical order, first Chris Tilling:

After all, Moses himself prophesied (in the last few chapter [sic] of Deuteronomy), that Israel would not inherit the promised blessing through the Law, but rather its curse, i.e. exile. Standing in the first century, Paul’s world was shaped by the clear fulfilment of these Mosaic prophecies. So how could a first century Jew, who knew all about the exile first of Israel, then of Judah, and later oppression under Roman rule, think anything else? Of course Paul speaks of ‘the curse of the law’. It was historical fact.

Now Wright has regularly asserted that pretty much all Jews of Paul’s day believed that the nation was in exile, and there are unquestionably some metaphorical uses of both Egypt and Exile language in Paul and elsewhere. However, I fail to find it anywhere near as pervasive or dominating as Wright does. So calling Wright’s interpretation of how first century Jews interpreted both the Scriptures and their current Roman situation historical fact is to go about a dozen steps too far, with every other step missing. Roman oversight might be a fact, but neither exile nor curse are anything more than a scholarly (and disputed) conjecture.

Well, Tom Wright seems to exude the same kind of reality distortion field that Steve Jobs manages to throw round every Apple fanboy, so perhaps Tilling’s got an excuse. But what can I say about Jim West? (I leave aside all the minimalist-maximalist hoohaa.) Here is Jim’s naked Bultmannianism (naked in the sense that the Emperor’s wearing no clothes):

The never ending quest for proof is simply the quest for evidence upon which faith can be based and hence a denial of the place and function of faith in a person’s relationship with God.

This dogmatic insistence that once there’s any evidence, there’s no place for faith is heuristically contradicted every time knowledge is advanced by an observation based hypothesis. It’s theological and epistemological nonsense shared only by Bultmannians and fundamentalists. “You ask me how I know he lives, he lives within my heart!” So much for 1 Corinthians 15! Well, I call it Bultmannianism, but perhaps I should call it Bultmania, a strange illness that affects the thought processes of devotees. Now I need a good name for a slavish following of Wright: Tom-foolery, perhaps.

(Finishes post and runs for cover!)

written by doug

Jan 29

I’ve been reading Richard Burridge’s Imitating Jesus (Eerdemans 2007 ISBN 978-0-8028-4458-3), a book subtitled “An Inclusive Approach to New Testament Ethics.” This is a book that has, at its heart, a very simple argument, worked out in detail in a number of quite densely argued chapters. The key proposal is that both the gospels, belonging to the genre of Graeco-Roman biography, and Paul, with a narrative substructure, testify to an interest in Jesus that is about deeds and not just sayings. Therefore a Christian ethics that pays attention to the New Testament (and the key gospel genre of biography) will be about imitating Jesus’ actions and not simply following his teaching.

Burridge works his way through the material beginning with the historical Jesus. He is aware of the problems involved in doing this, but because he is only offering a partial picture for limited purposes, avoids many of the pitfalls. He focuses on the double picture of a Jesus who welcomed “sinners” and at the same time summoned people to holy living in what Harvey called “Strenuous Commands”. This is a broad enough outline for even, say, Crossan and Wright to agree as a core historical picture. At the level of more detail it begins to lose consensus. For the definition of “sinners”, for example, Burridge steers a middle course between Jeremias’ “people of the land” and Sanders “notorious and unrepentant covenant breakers.” (I lean more in Sanders’ direction myself.) This doesn’t, I think, raise significant problems for the overall thesis, but it does affect some aspects. For Burridge (and for the majority outside the Jesus Seminar circles) eschatology is key to Jesus’ vision of discipleship and behaviour. He also notes that in calling people to follow him, Jesus also puts himself in a significant place in his ministry. Both these themes of eschatology and christology (as it becomes) then become a major part of how he focuses subsequent chapters of the book, together with a treatment in each section of the major ethical material under consideration (which, despite the church’s current obsession, is rarely sexual ethics).

In his section on Paul, he both places himself on the side of those who argue for Paul having more interest in Jesus than is often suggested, and alongside Hays, Wright and others who argue for implicit narratives providing a substructure to Pauline thought. Just as, focussing on Jesus, he held together the acceptance of the sinner with the demand for holiness, so he notes the same tension in Paul’s ministry. The members of Paul’s communities exhibit, shall we say, fairly varied forms of behaviour, regularly not those which Paul encourages them to change to (often using the language of imitation whether of Jesus, God or himself). Paul, he suggests, is follows Jesus in his balancing of inclusion and demand. In fact, I think the imitation of Christ is a far more important and pervasive theme for Paul than even Burridge does, and far too easily overlooked, but that this imitation includes both mutual welcome of those who are different, and the call to righteousness is something I fully agree with.

In the following four chapters Burridge moves through the gospels in an order congenial to the Farrer theory, though Burridge retains Q as his working hypothesis. Here his attention to his earlier work on the gospels as biography moves into a much sharper focus, as he explores each in turn. For each, despite their distinctive emphases, he believes they retain an interest in the balance between the inclusive following of Jesus in his community, and the demand for righteousness. In each the picture is modified both by their christological emphases, and their particular eschatological framework (not least where they stand in relation to delayed expectations). He argues (in my view quite rightly and effectively) that the genre of biography carries the cultural expectation that the life portrayed is worth imitating, and that mimesis is a key to an ethical reading.

The place of discipleship in Mark, and Luke’s particular attentiveness to the inclusion of the sinner and the marginal makes, I think, his examination of those gospels by far the most persuasive. He also makes a fair case for Matthew upholding a similar view, although perhaps with a higher stress on Jesus as teacher, and less emphasis on inclusion. He does, however, rightly insist that we need to read Matthew holistically, and not reduce Jesus’ ethics in Matthew to the Sermon on the Mount. In particular it needs balancing with its bookend, the eschatological discourse which occupies a similar place near the end of Jesus’ ministry, and is a similar length.

When he comes to John, however, I begin to find myself admiring the argument more than I am persuaded by it. Yes, Jesus does command his disciples to imitate him, but he is far more their transcendent leader than their immanent exemplar. Yes, Jesus does appear to reach out inclusively to the Samaritan woman, and possibly the Greeks of chapter 12, but I cannot help but be more struck by the regular sectarian notes. It is, after all, one another rather than the neighbour or the enemy, whom the Johannine Jesus commands us to love. Perhaps, as with John’s incarnational christology, there is an inconsistency here. His words tell us that Jesus is fully human (and therefore to be imitated). His narrative portrays Jesus as almost entirely divine (and way beyond our imitation). Nor can I let Burridge get away with sneaking the pericope adulterae in here as a balance (which he tries somewhat diffidently on the basis of long hallowed tradition).

However, notwithstanding my serious reservations about the argument extending to John, I think he does show that as biography the Synoptics at least are relatively consistent (despite their different emphases) in presenting Jesus for their readers’ imitation. They are likewise consistent in portraying Jesus as both open in his welcome, and demanding in his teaching, a teaching that itself calls to imitation in taking up the cross and following. This picture in turn coheres with the pattern of Pauline pastoral practice. (Obviously it also coheres with the historical Jesus, as Burridge constructs his picture from these three gospels, along with most everyone else. The fact that I broadly agree with him doesn’t stop the argument being circular.) Even if Burridge is wrong about John (and his brief mention of, e.g. 1 Peter) the Synoptics and Paul are a pretty hefty chunk of the New Testament, and more than enough to invite the church to consider biography, act and imitation as essential parts of its own ethical thinking, and to move away from focusing exclusively on teaching. The teaching, as Burridge shows, is only half of the picture.

In the final section of the book, Burridge presents a very interesting and helpful reflection on the ethical use of Scripture. He takes as his test case the arguments for and against apartheid in South Africa. It is within most people’s living memory (unlike slavery in the US) and just far enough in the past for everyone to pretty much agree that the pro-apartheid readings of scripture were wrong, including many (most?) of those who argued for them passionately and with full belief in being biblical. In this section he looks at several ways of using Scripture (obeying rules, looking for principles, following examples, and developing an overall symbolic worldview). He finds that while each have some place, all are limited and in the end inadequate. Equally, he clearly demonstrates the perils of claiming the word “biblical” for one’s own side of the argument. He puts forward the idea that, picking up what he has argued for, reading together in an inclusive community which is defined by seeking to follow Jesus, may not offer a perfect answer, but (often drawing on one or more of the other approaches) offers a better way forward. In many ways it was the separate communities of South Africa’s church which vitiated their readings, because they were not able to read together and inclusively.

As Burridge acknowledges at the end, debates over women’s ordination and homosexuality, the hot button topics of too much Christian discourse, are the elephant in the room. He seems to suggest that here too, more attention to imitating Jesus practice of inclusion would contextualise corporate readings of Jesus’ strenuous teaching in new ways. (He also notes how little of the New Testament’s ethical material deals with the questions the church is asking, but says a great deal about many of the questions the church often avoids.) Although he clearly admires his work, he has Richard Hays’ ethical work in his sights on this point as on others as inadequate in its attention to christology, or even just the person of Jesus.

I have some niggles.Burridge has unquestionably read very widely, but he does seem to need to tell us so. There is far too much referencing and quotation in the main body of the text, sometimes in a tiresomely “he said, but she said, and then X Y and Z said” form. In fact, in the passages where he writes in his own voice with limited quotation, he is both much more readable, and often more insightful and stimulating. (He also manages with monotonous regularity to tell us when someone has built on the argument he has previously made for the gospel as biography. It may be unkind of me to say so, but I doubt there is anyone who has built on Richard’s work who he does not refer to in this book as explicitly having done so.) There is also, and perhaps this is purely personal taste, an awful lot of the academic “we”. In an age when popes and monarchs have dropped the royal we, I wish scholars would begin to do so also.

These are minor quibbles that made the book harder reading than it need have been, and will, I think, limit its readership, when its theme and argument deserve a wider hearing. Yes, I have some major questions, such as my failure to be convinced by the argument about John’s gospel. And surely, in a book arguing for the imitation of Jesus, there might have been a far more extensive and penetrating discussion of virtue ethics, and how they might look if framed christologically. But the overall thesis is both clear and well argued for. I doubt it will be a panacea for the church’s contemporary ethical struggles, but it does offer an important contribution to the ethical use of the New Testament, and one that could have a tremendously positive effect. This is a book well worth reading and pondering on.

written by doug

Jan 28

I would like to thank Dave Walker at Cartoon Church for precisely capturing the working method I default to when too busy, too tired, too depressed or too pissed -off to summon up any energy.

incoming-paperwork

written by doug

Jan 27

A few days ago Nick Norelli posted about the impossibility of overrating Jesus.

I don’t think it possible to rate Jesus high enough.  There is no devotion we can give him, no prayer that we can pray to him, no song that we can sing to him, and no life that we can live in obedience to him, that he does not deserve.

In all sorts of ways I agree with him, but I want to suggest there are at least two ways in which people can in a sense overrate Jesus, one academic, one popular.

The academic way has generally fallen out of fashion, but hints of it still creep in here and there. This is the desire to identify the uniqueness of one or other bit of Jesus’ teaching. It is both what lead to an over-simple and mistaken use of the criterion of double dissimilarity in Jesus research, and seems at times to be guided by a form of anti-Judaism, separating Jesus from his people and his roots, and a form of anti-Catholicism, separating Jesus from his Church. I can’t help feeling that this outdated approach still informs the scholars associated with the Jesus seminar, and the Jesus Project (as proposed and scorned here and elsewhere last year). The desire to diesembody Jesus from his context and history seems to me to be one of essentially overrating and misconceiving his uniqueness.

The popular way is to so focus on Jesus whether as good teacher, wise guide, even God-in-flesh, that he is abstracted both from the Trinity and the Church. The popular “Jesus, yes; Church no” type of movement is one form (and however understandable, is simply wrong). More likely to mislead, however, are those forms of devotion to Jesus, both secular (wise guide / good moral teacher) and devotional, that so exclusively focus on Jesus that they give no space to Father or Holy Spirit. I sometimes fear this is reflected in some contemporary choruses. There is nothing wrong with a focus on Jesus in particular devotions, let me hasten to say. I would happily introduce Nick to, say, the Litany of the Holy Name. But Jesus also directs our attention to the Father. To do Jesus without the Trinity is to overrate and misconceive him.

written by doug

Jan 26

It seems to me that (no doubt influenced by Conzelmann) most discussion of Luke’s relationship with apocalyptic has been to do with eschatology, to what extent it is realized, and how it is or is not transmuted into salvation history. I’d be grateful if anyone could point me to discussions on Luke and apocalyptic that are more wide-ranging.

The question is prompted by reflecting on two verses that seem to be overlooked, but might be quite fruitful to ponder on. The first comes in Luke’s mission of the seventy(-two):

The seventy returned with joy, saying, “Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us!” He said to them, “I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning. (Luke 10:17-18 NRSV)

Now there are doubtless many ways to take this, but I wonder if the most natural is as a vision of how events on earth (the disciples’ mission) find their heavenly correspondence in the fall of Satan. This is, admittedly, a kind of reverse apocalyptic in that the determinative events take place on earth. But it fits both the understanding of the spread of the church in Acts, and ties in very well with the verses that follow about revelation. Luke’s insertion of story of the missionaries rather transforms the subject of this revelation from Matthew’s woes on the cities. Now the heart of the revelation is in fact the submission of the demons to the disciples, and the fall of Satan.

The second verse comes as part of a pair:

Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favours!” (Luke 2:14 NRSV)

As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” (Luke 19:37-38 NRSV)

This is the acclamation that Jesus insists that, were the disciples silent, the stones would cry out. Whereas both the first verse of this pairing (the nativity verse) and the mission of the seventy fall within specifically Lukan material, this last verse is part of Luke’s shaping of a narrative common to all the gospels. Again, I am forced to wonder whether this verse too might be best explained by the kind of reverse apocalyptic suggested above. Isn’t the most natural reading of “peace in heaven” to take it against the background of the cosmological spiritual conflict? In which case perhaps it has rather more to say about Luke’s soteriology than is generally granted.

What Luke seems to me to be doing is historicizing apocalyptic mythology. The whole point of the incarnation and then the church is that the determinative events that settle the world’s reconciliation to God are played out in history and not in the heavenly places. What happens on earth settles the fate of heaven.

I’m no expert on either apocalyptic or Luke. But it seems to me there might be rather more here than is normally granted, and I’d be grateful if anyone can point me to further discussions of this.

written by doug

Jan 25

There’s not a huge amount of time to post today. But one of the great joys of being a parish priest is the great variety that makes up a day. Today however, is more varied than most, and has so far included helping clean out toilets, meeting HRH the Earl of Wessex (Prince Edward – thoroughly nice and down-to-earth bloke) on his visit to support recovery from the summer floods, and visiting and ministering to the dying. Only the last was on my job description.

written by doug

Jan 24

I got passed a list of questions that just can’t be answered (though you’re welcome to have a go). Here are some of the choice ones.

  • Why do we press harder on a remote control when we know the batteries are flat?
  • Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?
  • Whose idea was it to put an “S” in the word “lisp”?
  • If the temperature is zero outside today and it’s going to be twice as cold tomorrow, how cold will it be?
  • Do illiterate people get the full effect of Alphabet Spaghetti?
  • Why do people point to their wrist when asking for the time, but don’t point to their bum when they ask where the bathroom is?
  • How is it that we put man on the moon before we figured out it would be a good idea to put wheels on luggage?
  • What is the speed of darkness?

written by doug