2019-05-05T20:23:48-04:00

Ross Douthat says that our Notre Dame Cathedral–an edifice constructed by thousands of creative people over the course of many years that expresses their deepest beliefs and values–is the Marvel Comics Universe as capped off by the movie Avengers:  Endgame.  In making that comparison, he quotes some lines from T. S. Eliot’s “Choruses from ‘The Rock'”:

And the wind shall say: ” Here were decent godless people:
Their only monument the asphalt road
And a thousand lost golf balls”.

That inspired me to take up that poem again, which Eliot–the definitive modernist poet who converted to Christianity–wrote for a play (actually, more of a pageant) entitled “The Rock” back in 1934.  I was astonished to see just how well he predicted what would come to flower 85 years later.  So here are some other lines describing our “modern” and “post-modern” spiritual condition (my bolds):

The endless cycle of idea and action,
Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to God .
Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

That last line can be the motto for our “information age”!  The poem goes through what people had started to say in the 1930s and that has become commonplace in today’s secularist culture (particularly in England where Eliot was living), that we don’t need the church, that Sundays are for golfing and weekend getaways.  We neglect, though, the reality of the desert.

The desert is not remote in southern tropics,
The desert is not only around the corner,
The desert is squeezed in the tube-train next to you,
The desert is in the heart of your brother.

The theme of the poem is the building of the Church.  (In fact, the play “The Rock” was produced as a benefit to raise money to build churches.)  “The Church must be forever building, for it is forever decaying within and attacked from without.”  But it must be built upon “the Rock,” “Christ Jesus Himself the chief cornerstone.” (Yes, that’s in the poem.)

And when you build the Church, you also build the culture.  And without the Church, the culture with all of its institutions flounders.

Where there is no temple there shall be no homes,
Though you have shelters and institutions,
Precarious lodgings while the rent is paid,
Subsiding basements where the rat breeds
Or sanitary dwellings with numbered doors
Or a house a little better than your neighbour’s;
When the Stranger says: ” What is the meaning of this city?
Do you huddle close together because you love each other?”
What will you answer? ” We all dwell together
To make money from each other”? or ” This is a community”?

There are other attempts to build a perfect society without the Church, but these are futile, with people “dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.”

But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.
Men have left GOD not for other gods, they say, but for no god; and this has never happened before
That men both deny gods and worship gods, professing first Reason,
And then Money, and Power, and what they call Life, or Race, or Dialectic.
The Church disowned, the tower overthrown, the bells upturned, what have we to do
But stand with empty hands and palms turned upwards
In an age which advances progressively backwards?

Another motif in the poem is the builder, the need for workmen, the problem of the unemployed and the need to call them to the task of building the Church and the World.  Thus we have also in this poem the theme of vocation.

Read it all:  “Choruses from ‘The Rock.‘”

 

 

Photo:  T. S. Eliot, sinaloaarchivohistorico [No restrictions] via Wikimedia Commons

2019-05-02T17:14:12-04:00

We Protestants don’t go by patron saints, but if there were to be a patron saint of literature, it should be St. John Chrysostom, that last name being an epithet for “golden-mouthed.”  Now I know why.

In the reading group I attend with area pastors and teachers, we just finished Chrysostom’s On the Priesthood.

This is a classic of pastoral theology–useful for Protestant ministers as well as Catholic or Orthodox priests–that explores not only the theory but the practice of what the spiritual leaders of a congregation go through, showing that congregational dynamics (unrealistic and contradictory expectations, hurt feelings, and in-fighting) have not changed all that much in 1600 years.

But what struck me the most is the way it was written.  It sets forth the value of the pastoral office by means of a dramatic dialogue arguing against becoming a pastor!  Thus the arguments are all backwards and turned around, with abounding ironies and self-reflective contradictions.

The work was evidently written before John (349-407 A.D.) became “Chrysostom”  or a saint or a leading theologian of Eastern Orthodoxy or the Bishop of Constantinople or even a priest.  What this young Christian really wanted to do was be a monk–indeed, not being “sociable,” as he says, he wanted to be a hermit.  But he promised his widowed mother, who could not bear to be parted from him, that he would not take that step until her death, so he took minor orders in the church at Antioch and became a “lector” who read the Scriptures during worship and who became something of an assistant to the Bishop.

He had a really close friend named Basil who likewise wanted to become a monk.  They both heard from the grapevine that they had each been “elected” to be ordained as priests.  At that time, in the early church, there were no seminaries or voluntary paths to the ministry.  Churches just identified someone whom they wanted to serve as priest and elected him, whereupon he would be ordained.

But neither John nor Basil wanted to be priests.   Nevertheless, the two agreed that they would both make the same decision on whether to be ordained or to refuse the honor.  But while John felt unqualified and not up to the tasks, he believed that his friend would, in fact, make a good priest.  So John got Basil to agree to through with it, but when the electors showed up, John went into hiding!  Leaving Basil high and dry in the priesthood that he didn’t want!

The treatise On the Priesthood is a dialogue between John and Basil, who is furious with his friend for pulling this stunt.  In defending himself, John explains why he turned down the priesthood but also why he wanted Basil to be one.

John has a high view of the pastoral office.  It is better than being a king, he says.  Kings preside over merely worldly matters, but pastors preside over spiritual matters.  It is better than being an Old Testament prophet.  Elijah called down fire from Heaven to consume the sacrifice and slay the idolaters, but preachers call down the Fire of the Holy Spirit on their hearers, bringing them into everlasting life.  It’s just that John doesn’t feel worthy of holding an office so exalted.

John goes on to expound the heavy responsibilities of priests and all of the difficulties they have to deal with, from the logistical and personal difficulties of caring for the widows (we get a glimpse of the early church’s welfare system) to the misunderstandings and resentments that parishioners often fall into. (Our pastor shows favoritism!  He is too harsh!  He is too lenient!  His sermons need to be more entertaining!)

He is haunted by this Scripture:  “Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you” (Hebrews 13:17).  As a monk, he would only be responsible for his own spiritual state, which he thinks he could handle, but as a priest he would be responsible also for the spiritual state of others, and the prospect of that terrifies him.  Because he would have “to give an account” before God.  How could he endure that?

Basil keeps interrupting him with a plaintive “What about me?”  If being a priest is so hard and potentially a danger to my soul, why did you stick me with it?

This is theology that you need to read like a novel, a literary form that would not be invented for 13 centuries, though Chrysostom might have invented it had he not succumbed to ordination a few years later.  At one point in the dialogue, John says that anyone who desires to be a priest should not become one, since that would reveal bad motives.  He then says that this is another reason he turned down becoming a priest, because he really would like to be one!  So he doesn’t want to be a priest because he wants to be a priest.  Which calls to mind an even bigger contradiction:  If not wanting to be a priest is a qualification for becoming one, what do we make of his entire explanation why he doesn’t want to enter the priesthood?  Doesn’t such unwillingness, in terms of his own argument, mean that he should become a priest?  The multiple levels of ironic meanings outdo those of a postmodern novel.

Not that this is all just a rhetorical game.  Chrysostom warns preachers against overdoing the rhetorical devices in sermons, insisting that Scriptural content is everything.  There is nothing merely decorative or ornamental in Chrysostom’s writings.  His literary genius shows up in the aptness of his expression, the vivid detail and effectiveness of his examples, and his mastery of language.

Protestants can’t go all the way with Chrysostom’s views–Holy Communion as sacrifice; no sense of the priesthood of all believers; his pervasive fear of falling short and being condemned to Hell–but there is much insight here.  For example, I was struck by his point that priests and thus pastors must be “many-sided.”  That is, they must be complicated.  They will be dealing with many different kinds of people in many different professions and walks of life with many different kinds of problems.  Their pastor needs to understand the people he is ministering to, which requires a wide range of interests and a multi-faceted sensibility.  Notice how much good advice is packed into this one sentence:

For since he must mix with men who have wives, and who bring up children, who possess servants, and are surrounded with wealth, and fill public positions, and are persons of influence, he too should be a many-sided man — I say many-sided, not unreal, nor yet fawning and hypocritical, but full of much freedom and assurance, and knowing how to adapt himself profitably, where the circumstances of the case require it, and to be both kind and severe, for it is not possible to treat all those under one’s charge on one plan, since neither is it well for physicians to apply one course of treatment to all their sick, nor for a pilot to know but one way of contending with the winds.

He should be “full of much freedom.”  He should be flexible, not applying the same medicine to every sickness.  And, at the end, he finally answers Basil’s panic in terms of the actual solution:  faith in Christ, the assurance of the Gospel, and vocation.

For I believe, said I, that through Christ who has called you, and set you over his own sheep, you will obtain such assurance from this ministry as to receive me also, if I am in danger at the last day, into your everlasting tabernacle.

He is asking Basil to be his pastor.

Two more things in conclusion. . . .On the Priesthood is available for free online, but I wanted to read it on my Kindle.  Amazon makes available lots of classics that people aren’t reading much of anymore for ridiculously low prices, some of which cost nothing.  One can download a Kindle edition of On the Priesthood for 99 cents.  But then I saw that I could download The Complete Works of St. John Chrysostom for only $1.99.  More works of Chrysostom, including hundreds of sermons, have survived than any other Church Father next to Augustine.  So for two dollars I received 36 volumes consisting of 7,197 pages.  That has to be one of the best bargains ever.

Finally, I give you one of his sermons.  Chrysostom became famous for his preaching, which set aside much of the allegoricalizing approach to Scripture that was popular in his day in favor of a more literal exposition of God’s Word that was filled with perceptive insights and expressed with his “golden mouth.”  (The Catholic Church did make him the patron saint of preachers.)  This is an Easter sermon fitting for our season, since it will still be Easter until Pentecost.  This sermon is read every year in Orthodox Churches.  (Chrystostom is the author of the Orthodox liturgy for the Divine Service.)

From the Facebook page of the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod:

PASCHAL HOMILY OF ST. JOHN CHRYSOSTOM

Are there any who are devout lovers of God?
Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!
Are there any who are grateful servants?
Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!

Are there any weary with fasting?
Let them now receive their wages!
If any have toiled from the first hour,
let them receive their due reward;
If any have come after the third hour,
let him with gratitude join in the Feast!
And he that arrived after the sixth hour,
let him not doubt; for he too shall sustain no loss.
And if any delayed until the ninth hour,
let him not hesitate; but let him come too.
And he who arrived only at the eleventh hour,
let him not be afraid by reason of his delay.

For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first.
He gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour,
as well as to him that toiled from the first.
To this one He gives, and upon another He bestows.
He accepts the works as He greets the endeavor.
The deed He honors and the intention He commends.

Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord!
First and last alike receive your reward;
rich and poor, rejoice together!
Sober and slothful, celebrate the day!

You that have kept the fast, and you that have not,
rejoice today for the Table is richly laden!
Feast royally on it, the calf is a fatted one.
Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the cup of faith.
Enjoy all the riches of His goodness!

Let no one grieve at his poverty,
for the universal kingdom has been revealed.
Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again;
for forgiveness has risen from the grave.
Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free.
He has destroyed it by enduring it.
He destroyed Hell when He descended into it.
He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh.
Isaiah foretold this when he said,
“You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below.”

Hell was in an uproar because it was done away with.
It was in an uproar because it was mocked.
It was in an uproar, for it was destroyed.
It is in an uproar, for it is annihilated.
It is in an uproar, for it is now made captive.

Hell took a body, and discovered God.
It took earth, and encountered Heaven.
It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.
O death, where is thy sting?
O Hell, where is thy victory?

Christ is Risen, and you, O death, are annihilated!
Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down!
Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is Risen, and life is liberated!
Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead;
for Christ having risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Him be Glory and Power forever and ever. Amen!

 

 

Illustration:  Mosaic of St. John Chrystostom (11th century), Hosios Loukas [St. Luke’s] Monastery, Boeotia, Greece  [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons

2019-04-23T14:30:27-04:00

In the division of labor, different people do different kinds of work for each other, with each specialized task contributing to the common good.  The division of labor, with the means of exchange between each division, is a basic concept of economics.  For Plato, the division of labor is fundamental to society itself (The Republic, Book II).  Theologically, the concept calls to mind vocation, the way God ordained human life so that we must all serve each other.

Kevin D. Williamson points out that the division of labor is necessary for life itself–on the cellular level–and goes on to apply the concept to our current cultural struggles.  From “The Division of Labor Is the Meaning of Life,” in National Review:

I would like you to entertain, for a moment, an idea that might sound a little eccentric, or maybe as plain and obvious as a thing can be. It is this:

The division of labor is the meaning of life.

I do not mean this metaphorically or analogically, but literally.

Life begins with the cell, and the cell is defined by a minimum of specialization: membrane, cytoplasm, and (usually) nucleus.

What makes a cell a living cell is a matter of some slight imprecision: Most living cells reproduce, but some (such as neurons) do not; most cells have nuclei and DNA, but mature red blood cells do not; etc. But the generally shared characteristics of living cells all depend upon the division of labor within the cell: order, sensitivity to stimuli, growth and reproduction, maintenance of homeostasis, and metabolism.

The cell is defined by the division of labor among the organelles and other cellular constituents. That gets us to the single-celled organism. Next comes division of labor among cells rather than within them. When cells begin to divide labor among themselves, they form tissues and organs, which in turn divide labor to produce organ systems and, ultimately, complex organisms.

[Keep reading. . .]

Williamson then points out that human beings cannot function in isolation, that we need other people.  And that the consequent social structures we inhabit–the family, the community, the nation–involve different kinds of divisions of labor.

In 21st-century human society, the mode of social life is so closely identified with the particularities of the division of labor that the two are practically identical. Even many of the so-called social issues are ultimately questions of the division of labor, for instance within marriage and family life, where changing attitudes toward sex (gender is a grammatical term) in relation to marriage, child-rearing, homosexuality, and other questions challenge ancient divisions of labor between men and women.

Which is to say, changes in the division of labor are by necessity changes in the mode of social life; radical, far-reaching, and sudden changes in the division of labor are, in the favorite term of Silicon Valley, “disruptive.”

He then takes us on a tour of history–the Roman Empire and its fall, the rise of feudalism, the Renaissance and the advent of capitalism–showing how this plays out, lauding the effects of global trade, commerce, and free markets while recognizing how culturally traumatic these can be.

His essay is extremely interesting, but I think that while he shows that the division of labor is essential to physical and social life, he stops short of his thesis, not showing how the division of labor is essential for the meaning of life.  Questions of meaning bring us into the sphere of religion.  What is missing in his analysis is the doctrine of vocation.

Williamson focuses on the Renaissance, with its flourishing of commercial trade, but he says almost nothing about the Reformation, beyond noting that the Protestant countries constituted the “new capitalist heartland.”  But Luther’s doctrine of vocation played an important role in the economic and social developments he chronicles.  (See my book Working for Our Neighbor: A Lutheran Primer on Vocation, Economics, and Ordinary Life.)

I would argue that pursuit of the division of labor, as in the pursuit of economic success, cannot give meaning to our lives–even though we instinctively look for it there–apart from a sense of vocation.  That is, the realization that God works in and through the different vocations He calls us to in order to care for and to bless His creation.  And the realization that we join in God’s work when we employ our vocation in love and service to our neighbors.

We have been taught that the purpose of our economic activity is to love and serve ourselves.  Our self-interest is everything.  I suspect that this view of free market capitalism looms behind the sense that it is somehow less moral than socialism (despite the manifest good that capitalism has done for the world).  This also contributes to the guilt, the alienation, and the “is this all there is” feeling that can often be found among the economically successful.

But meaning can be found in serving others and in serving and being served by God Himself.  And this happens precisely in the divisions of vocation.

 

 

Illustration:  Seymour Fogel, “The Wealth of the Nation”  By Voice of America – http://www.insidevoa.com/content/historic-murals-at-voice-of-america/1364570.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31996420

2019-04-22T21:49:29-04:00

First the Bible was read from long, continuous hand-written scrolls, one for each book.  Then pages were invented, and the new book-form of the codex made it possible for the still hand-copied and illuminated texts to be bound together in large volumes while making it easy to find specific passages.  Then the printing press was invented and the codex form could be mass-produced and made available to all.  Now we can read Bibles on electronic screens, whether on e-readers, computers, or smart phones.

Does it make a difference?  Do we read the Bible in a different way on an electronic screen as opposed to a printed book?  The codex arguably made Bible scholarship and theological proof-texting easier.  The printing press put the Bible in the hands of virtually everyone, making possible a widespread personal piety based around reading God’s Word in which the laity of all backgrounds could participate.  Will today’s digital Bibles likewise change the way we interact with God’s Word?

Pr. A. Trevor Sutton–my co-author on Authentic Christianity:  How Lutheran Theology Speaks to the Post-Modern World–is studying issues like that in his academic work, which specializes in the effects of our new information technology.  Thus, our book gets into issues having to do with the new technology, its cultural impact, and what that can mean for Christians.

Trevor has just published a piece at the Gospel Coalition entitled The Brave New World of Bible Reading.  Here is the opening.  Read what he has to say–it isn’t long–and then I want to offer some thoughts:

“My Bible died.”

I was teaching a class and asked for someone to read a Bible verse. As soon as the student had opened his Bible app and located the verse, his digital tablet—and Bible—died. This declaration made me realize we are living in a brave new world of Bible reading.

The digital age is doing some curious things to the Bible. Not only can modern Bibles “die” because of low batteries, but they can also speak, search, share, notify, and hyperlink. It takes two taps to tweet text from Titus. It is normal to announce to an empty room, “Alexa, add blueberries to my grocery list and read Esther chapter four.”

Social media, smartphones, and new media are changing everything, including how we interact with the Bible. The digital age has created a cornucopia of new opportunities for us to read, mark, learn, and digest the Word of God.

To navigate this brave new world, God’s people need both biblical literacy and digital literacy.

[Keep reading. . .]

The pioneering media scholar Marshall McLuhan, who died before today’s Information Technology got going but whose predictions are remarkably prescient, said that the transition from print to electronic media (he was thinking mainly of television) would result in a kind of reversion to the pre-printing press era.  That culture was more visual and less word-oriented, favoring immediate and often emotional reactions, as opposed to the long, rationally-connected train of thought that printed books made possible.

The new media seems to favor shorter texts.  When I read the Bible on my phone, I tend to focus on little snippets–such as those daily readings YouVersion puts out, limiting my attention to what is on the little screen.

My e-reader is good for longer readings, whether of the Bible or other books.  But I have trouble reading scholarly, technical, or in-depth texts like the Bible on screens when I need to study them.  I can’t easily page back and forth, re-reading, paging through material from indexes, and–importantly for me when I am thinking about what I am reading–underlining passages.

Actually, following McLuhan’s dictum, my e-reader is like a reversion to the scroll.  No pages makes it hard to find things.  My e-reader is an improvement over the scroll because it is searchable, so it is possible to look up texts according to key words.  The online Bible resource Bible Gateway works like the ultimate concordance.  But I find it hard to read extensively on Bible Gateway, though it is certainly possible.

I think the great gift of the Digital Bibles is that they can spread the Word of God everywhere, around the world and in every language, including in nations where Christianity is persecuted and Bibles are forbidden.  As the article I link to says, even impoverished people in the “developing world” tend now to have smart phones.  The Word of God is no longer necessarily bound up in a physical object that must be smuggled and that persecutors can burn.  It can just be downloaded.

Perhaps the Digital Bible, existing in the form of electronic information in the Cloud, may promote a “spiritual” view of Scripture, though perhaps at the risk of the hyper-spirituality of Gnosticism rather than recognizing the sacramental dimension of the Bible with its physical paper and ink.  But I see no reason why Digital Bible reading need result in a lower view of God’s Word and its authority, but people will probably become more oriented to Bible-verse proof-texting rather than sustained study of Scripture.

I don’t know.  What do you think?  What has your experience been with the Digital Bibles?

Isn’t it true that the Holy Spirit can work by means of the Word of God, whether it is inscribed on a scroll, a codex, a printer’s sheet, or an electronic screen?

By the way, Trevor has another piece at the Gospel Coalition entitled What Luther Would Say to Silicon Valley, which brings vocation into the issue of information technology.  We blogged about an earlier version of that piece, but I’m glad Trevor’s work is getting broader exposure.

 

 

Photo from Maxpixel, CC0, Public Domain

2019-04-16T14:43:35-04:00

On this Maundy Thursday, when Christ instituted the Sacrament of His Body and Blood, it’s good to reflect on the significance of that gift.  Different theologies, of course, think of Holy Communion differently, but there would surely be a consensus that the sacraments work against the assumption that all we need is “spirituality,” which involves repudiating and escaping the material world.

Christianity, unlike Eastern religions, has a high view of the material realm, with its doctrines of creation, incarnation, atonement, and resurrection, as well as its use of the sacraments and the Lord’s Supper.  (I would also add Christianity’s understanding of vocation and the Christian life, which also affirms the spiritual significance of our earthly life.)

Luther, in particular, had a high view of the material dimensions of the Christian faith.  I have always thought that Lutheran sacramental theology is “higher” than that of Roman Catholicism.  Transubstantiation teaches that the bread and wine in Holy Communion become mere appearances, a docetic illusion in which the presence of Christ’s Body annihilates the created material.  In contrast, the Lutheran notion of a “sacramental union” teaches that Christ’s Body and Blood are joined to the bread and wine in such a way that the supernatural and the natural come together.

Trevor Sutton and I discuss Luther’s sacramentalism and its connection to justification and creation–as well as what it discloses about the Christian life and how it counters the Gnosticism that plagues contemporary religion–in our book Authentic Christianity:  How Lutheran Theology Speaks to a Postmodern World.

An excerpt from that book for Maundy Thursday:

In his writing on justification, the contemporary theologian Oswald Bayer said that when we are justified by faith, we are reconciled to God, and we are also reconciled to His creation.  This is because, he says, God uses the physical world of His creation to bring to us our justification:  water, bread, wine.  We might add other physical elements:  ink stamped on paper and bound into a book; sound waves vibrating in the air; the body of the pastor presiding in a building made of stone and steel.  Says Bayer,

“The “new creation” is a return to the world, not a retreat from it.  The new creation is a conversion to the world, as a conversion to the Creator, hearing God’s voice speaking to us and addressing us through his creatures.  Augustine was wrong to say that his voice draws us away from God’s creatures into the inner self and then to transcendence.  Counteracting Augustine’s inwardness in its withdrawal from the world, Luther emphasizes the penetrating this-worldliness of God.  God wills to be the Creator by speaking to us only through his creatures.[1]

St. Augustine, for all of his greatness, remained something of a Platonist, something he would share with Zwingli and Calvin.  This suggests that the rejection of the religious significance of the world in favor of the inner self and transcendence is nothing new after all.  It is also the basis of Medieval asceticism.  As we shall see, Luther’s sacramentalism is connected to his critique of monasticism and to his doctrine of vocation.

But we can see the effect of the Gospel as expressed in the Sacraments in Luther’s own attitude towards God’s creation.  As a monk, Luther was an extreme ascetic, rejecting the world and all its ways, but when he discovered the Gospel of God’s free grace in Christ, he embraced every facet of God’s creation.  Bayer discusses Luther’s “turn from radical denial of the world to an impressive affirmation of everything that is of the world and nature.”[2]

“After Luther was thoroughly convinced, because of his new understanding of Word and Sacrament, that the spiritual is constituted in the form of what was earthly—not only negatively but also positively—the spiritual importance of all things earthly was opened to him in a positive sense as well.”[3]

“The spiritual is constituted in the form of what was earthly.”  That is a succinct statement of Lutheran teaching on Christ, the Sacraments, and—as we shall see—the Christian life.

 

[1]Oswald Bayer, Living by Faith (Grand Rapids, MI:  William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2003), Chapter 3.

[2]Oswald Bayer, Martin Luther’s Theology:  A Contemporary Interpretation (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2008), p. 141.

[3]Ibid. The italics are Bayer’s.

 

 

Painting:  Altarpiece, central panel, St. Mary’s Church in Wittenberg, by Lucas Cranach the Elder [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons

2019-04-09T12:53:09-04:00

Can Christians build a perfect society on earth?  If not, does that mean that we do nothing to battle the evils in society and improve the world around us?  Shouldn’t we at least try?  How about in our personal lives?  We must strive to obey God, yet our sinful nature often spoils our best efforts.  How can we function in this fallen world without succumbing to its pressures, rejecting our this-worldly  responsibilities, or repudiating God’s creation?

Marc LiVecche, the executive editor of Providence: A Journal of Christianity & American Foreign Policy, has published an important essay in Public Justice Review, 9 (2019).  He develops the Augustinian principle of “Christian Realism.” This concept  can be a helpful guide as Christians try to navigate politics, activism, and life in the world in general.  This essay is worth reading in its entirety.  Here is a sample from the introductory paragraphs.

From Marc LiVecche, Tending the Garden of the Real:

. . . .In the opening chapters of Book 19 [of The City of God], Augustine presents an overview of the Roman scholar Marcus Varro’s 288 theories of the good life. He then rejects all of them as inadequate. Peter Brown, the great Augustine biographer, called this moment “the end of classical thought.” Augustine, contrary to much of the received wisdom of Greco-Roman philosophy that had come before him, is rejecting the idea that the political community can serve as the location in which human beings can be perfected in virtue. Augustine, scholar Gilbert Meilaender suggests, is thereby draining the notion of a “high moral purpose from our understanding of politics.” No political community, Meilaender continues, “can satisfy the restless heart that Augustine evokes in his Confessions.” The political community, for Augustine, is not—it cannot be—ultimate. It cannot, pace Maximus, be redemptive.

If the classical age was ending in Augustine’s desacralizing of the political realm, it might be that the age of Christian realism was just beginning to take root. A stream of political theology that strives to avoid both idealistic sentimentality as well as cynicism, Christian realism brings values to bear on national interests and personal and communal duties to act responsibly and prudentially in pursuit of justice, order and peace in the world. As such, Christian realism is grounded in some basic Augustinian assumptions.

One of these is Augustine’s assertion that political communities are always caught between two “cities.” The first is the city of God, in which peace truly reigns. The second, the city of man, is that rather more quotidian realm in which men are themselves dominated by the lust to dominate others. These cities map rather well on the divided nature of individual human beings. Within every heart vie competing loves. On the one side is caritas—charity—an orientation toward the love of God that manifests in other-centered acts of self-donation. On the other is cupiditas—cupidity—a disordered orientation toward self-love that manifests in self-centered acts of other-donation.

Because of these competing loves, no political realm will ever fully furnish the conditions necessary for peace characterized by justice and order—basic human goods without which no other human good, such as health or life, can long endure. This side of the end of history, any earthly peace we might fashion is going to be unjust, to some degree or another.

That said, Augustine—and the Christian realist—knows that there is much that political communities can do. They can do no harm, they can help where they are able and they can put limits on the human predilection for dominating the helpless. This is not nothing. Maximus was partly right; Rome, probably better than any alternative then on the market, could approximate a kind of peace which, however lacking in perfect justice, was a far sight better than anarchy. Still, the Christian realist—following Christ and not Hobbes—knows that sometimes order and security are not enough, and that a sovereign’s right to rule hinges significantly on their responsibility for the common good.

For all these reasons, Christians retain strong, though limited, respect for secular authority, gratitude for the goods governing powers provide and appreciation for the morally complex dimensions of responsible statecraft. Every Sunday in America, churches across the land pray for the president, the leaders of the nation and those in positions of authority. Importantly, however, for many Christians, such support is not necessarily enough. A primary preoccupation of the Christian realist is figuring out the full extent of Christian responsibility in light of the conditions of the world and the important role of our governing authorities. How Christian realism answers that question helps distance it from other Christian traditions or points of view.

[Keep reading. . . .]

Now Augustine’s Two Cities are not exactly the same as Luther’s Two Kingdoms.  Augustine’s model is dualistic, with the “two loves” each city is built upon–love of God vs. love of self–being opposed to each other.  For Luther, the two kingdoms are united, despite all of their differences, by their common King.  Thus, Augustine’s model manifested itself, in part, in monasticism, with the benefit of withdrawing from the City of Man to devote oneself completely to the love of God.  Luther, though, puts a stronger positive value on the “secular” realm and on “earthly” vocations.  These are ordained by God by virtue of His creation, and He continually works through them as He providentially governs and cares for His creation.

I would say, though, that Augustine is naming something real that Christians must struggle with, both in their spiritual lives and in their earthly vocations:  the conflict between self-love and the love of God.  This manifests itself in vocation in the conflict between love of self and love of neighbor.  It is resolved in the daily self-sacrifices for our neighbor that our multiple vocations require as we bear the Cross in our callings and serve as “little Christs” to each other.  But here too we must practice “Christian realism” as we run into our limits, even as we do our best, trusting the outcomes to God.

How would you apply the principles of Christian realism to issues that we are facing today?

Illustration, The Virtues and Sins, by Raoul de Presles (h.1316-1382) [Public Domain]

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