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The Polarization of “Biblical Christianity”

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This post first appeared on Scot McKnight’s Jesus Creed blog. Re-posted here on February 13, 2017, though dated back to the original date of its first appearance.

If you didn’t hear about the World Vision kerfuffle last week, you were either still in winter hibernation or nowhere near the US (yes, the kerfuffle was about World Vision in the US, not globally). In the space of 48 hours, World Vision US first opened their hiring gates to people in committed same-sex marriages, then slammed the gates back shut.

During those tumultuous few days there were two dominant Christian voices demanding attention.

Some Christians sought to rally the troops, appealing to the Bible: “Hold the line on biblical morality! Stand firm on the biblical view of heterosexual marriage and homosexuality! Those who aren’t with us are against us!”

Other Christians also sought to rally the troops, also appealing to the Bible: “Be like Jesus! Focus on the children in poverty, the little ones and least of these! Let God’s sun shine on the righteous and the unrighteous! Those who aren’t against us are with us!”

There was very little middle ground given, only polarization. Those who might have seen themselves as somewhere in the middle, or who didn’t even realize they were on a spectrum, were called to take sides.

The World Vision ruckus was only the latest in a line of once-a-month mêlées among Christians appealing to the Bible over some hot-button issue. And as Christians repeat this reactionary, polarizing approach to every issue that comes up, month after month, year after year, sides are indeed being taken. Some are not even taking sides—tragically, they’re abandoning the attempt to be either “Christian” or “biblical.”

There are, in fact, many different kinds of “biblical Christianities.” No, the term “biblical” doesn’t guarantee any kind of uniformity in Christian belief or practice—just read a little Christian Smith (for you give-me-the-research types) or Rachel Held Evans (for you give-me-the-stories types). This is not surprising given how diverse the biblical writings are, from ancient Israelite stories and poetry to ancient Christian biographies and letters, in three different languages and dozens of specific settings, across several centuries of writing and editing and compiling. It’s even less surprising given how diverse the Bible’s interpreters are.

But this ongoing series of very public clashes among Christians demonstrates that, among those who want to be both genuinely “Christian” and authentically “biblical,”people are gathering around two distinguishable poles. This is not only the case within Evangelicalism and its offshoots, though certainly many of these “biblical Christians” are or have been connected to the Evangelical movement in Western Protestantism. The desire to be both “Christian” and “biblical,” to be both recognizably part of the historic stream of Christianity with distinctly Christian beliefs and practices, and looking to the Bible as the primary source for Christian theological and ethical discernment—really just a striving for “Christian orthodoxy”—runs beyond Evangelicalism and cuts across the whole range of Christian traditions.

What are these two poles that are both attracting and dividing Christians who seek to live according to the Bible? In simplistic terms, they are reflected in the idea of “biblical Christianity” itself: the two poles are the Bible and Jesus.

christ-iconNow this claim needs to be carefully nuanced. As I’ve just affirmed, all “biblical Christians” look to the Bible for guidance in belief and practice, just as they all center their faith on Jesus. It isn’t helpful to claim otherwise, and it can even be hurtful to do so. Nor can we pit the Bible against Jesus: the Bible contains our best witness to Jesus, and Jesus himself stood in a religious tradition that looked to the Scriptures as divinely authoritative for life and faith.

So what do I mean when I say that “biblical Christians” are gathering around the poles of “Bible” and “Jesus”? As problematic as it may be, I’m afraid the best way to answer this succinctly is by giving some broad generalizations. I’ll try to be as careful as possible in how I sketch this.

When needing guidance for how to live or what to think as a Christian, some will look first to the Bible as canon—for convenience let’s call them “Bible Biblical Christians” (BBCs). This comes out of the conviction that, as 2 Timothy 3:16 puts it, “All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness.” BBCs see the whole Bible, in all its parts, as being uniformly authoritative for Christians: the New Testament is not more so than the Old, Jesus’ teaching is not more so than Paul’s. While many BBCs undoubtedly have a naïve, literalistic approach to Scripture, this need not be the case. Others have a sophisticated approach to Scripture that recognizes genre, context, and even some degree of theological progression through Scripture.

By contrast, when needing guidance for how to live or what to think as a Christian, others—let’s call them “Jesus Biblical Christians” (JBCs)—will look first to Jesus as presented in the New Testament, even especially the Gospels. This comes out of the conviction that Jesus, as the one to whom the Scriptures witness, is the clearest and fullest revelation of God (e.g. John 1:14, 18; Col 1:15-20; Heb 1:1-3). While they see the whole Bible as inspired Scripture, JBCs effectively see a hierarchy of authority within Scripture: Jesus’ life and teachings and death and resurrection are pre-eminent, as presented in the New Testament and anticipated in the Old. While some JBCs effectively have a Marcionite approach to the Old Testament or a highly critical view of Paul, this need not be the case. Many have an integrated approach to Scripture that recognizes a unity-in-diversity in the biblical writings pointing to and centered on Christ.

These differences are not about “biblical inerrancy” or “biblical truth” as some might claim; rather, they are differences in what one might call the “practical authority” of the Bible. Again, both groups see the Bible as divinely authoritative—both perspectives are, in fact, grounded in Scripture—but they differ in how that Scriptural authority works itself out in practice. And, as one might expect, these differences in the Bible’s practical authority tend toward different emphases in belief and practice.

“Bible Biblical Christians” tend to focus more on “individual salvation and personal morality.” For BBCs, “Jesus at the center” means an emphasis on Jesus’ death as atoning sacrifice for our sins and Jesus’ resurrection as God’s triumph over death.  Through Jesus’ death and resurrection, we can have the assurance of both divine forgiveness and eternal life. For BBCs, “Bible for divine guidance” means an emphasis on the Bible as the source for a particular system of theology and as the guidebook for the particular moral decisions we face in life. This does not mean BBCs have no concern for matters of social justice—many do, in fact—but the tendency is to see this as a consequence of individual salvation and an extension of personal morality. The net result of all this is that BBCs are the more “conservative” on theological and social issues.

“Jesus Biblical Christians” tend to focus more on “personal discipleship for social renewal.” For JBCs, “Bible for divine guidance” means an emphasis on the Bible as witness to Jesus and his inauguration of the “kingdom of God” with its broad implications for justice and peace in the world. For JBCs, then, “Jesus at the center” means an emphasis on Jesus’ life and teaching culminating in his death and resurrection, and on our role as disciples of Jesus seeking to obey his teachings and follow his example. This does not mean JBCs have no concern for individual salvation and personal morality—many do, in fact—but the tendency is to set these within a wider context of personal discipleship and social renewal. The net result of all this is that JBCs are the more “progressive” on theological and social issues.

I’m pretty sure not everyone will agree with my characterizations of “Bible Biblical Christians” and “Jesus Biblical Christians,” and undoubtedly my descriptions could use some work. I can certainly think of more that could be said about how BBCs and JBCs read Scripture, do theology, or live out their faith. But this is what I’m seeing, and incidents such as the World Vision commotion back it up: along the wide spectrum of Christians who seek to live according to the Bible, there is extreme pressure to move toward one or the other of these poles.

This explains, I think, a number of things that have been happening over the past several years. The “young, restless, and Reformed” movement on the one hand, and “naked Anabaptism” on the other. The resurgence of Fundamentalism or “conservative Evangelicalism” on one side, and the “I’m done with Evangelicalism, just give me Jesus” folks on another. CBMW and CBE. TGC and RHE. And more.

Forget terms like “Evangelical”: the designation is now irrelevant.

Forget some new battle for “inerrancy”: it’s not about biblical inerrancy, but large questions of biblical interpretation.

Forget conventional distinctions among Christian traditions or Protestant denominations: those are still there, distinctions in church structure and liturgy and baptism and more, but they are no longer the watershed issues they used to be.

You can even forget stereotypical age demographics: this pattern is evident from young to old.

We’re moving toward two distinguishable “biblical Christianities,” two major versions of “Christianity grounded in Scripture,” two different perspectives on the practical authority of Scripture. We’re seeing Christian orthodoxy gathering around two poles: “Bible” and “Jesus.”

Is there a way to stop this polarization? Should we even try? I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s inevitable. Perhaps it’s even a good thing. Perhaps all this seismic shifting and sifting will bring greater clarity for people on what it means to be a Christian—or at least what version of Christianity they are rejecting.

Still, one can’t help but hear the prayer of Jesus echoing across the divide: “May they become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me” (John 17:20-23).

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.

You may wish to read my follow-up post to this: “Confessions of an Unrepentant ‘JBC.'”

© Michael W. Pahl

What is the “Narrow Way” of Jesus?

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I’ve recently heard a couple of references to the “narrow way” or “narrow gate” of Jesus “that leads to life,” which “only a few find” (Matt 7:13-14; one example here). It’s the kind of statement that we would all like to have on our side: I want the “narrow way” to be the path I’m on, while the “broad road that leads to destruction” is the path of all those other people I disagree with. It’s also the kind of statement, then, that we tend to fill with whatever content we think it should have: the “narrow way” is the path of strict personal morality, or proper public morality, or correct conservative doctrine, or whatever minority viewpoint we think is right.

But what exactly is the “narrow way” that Jesus refers to?

Bloch Sermon MountThe image of the two ways, broad and narrow, comes as the Sermon on the Mount is wrapping up. As you read on in the Sermon’s conclusion, it becomes clear that the focus is on Jesus’ teaching, specifically his ethical teaching in the Sermon itself. You can see this most clearly in the concluding parable of the Sermon, where Jesus speaks of “everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice” being like the wise man who builds his house on a rock (7:24). Matthew’s Gospel also ends with the same focus: making disciples means “teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you” (28:20). Yes, everything.

So, the “narrow way” is “hearing and obeying” Jesus’ teaching, even the hard teachings of Jesus, and most particularly his teaching in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt 5-7).

And what is this teaching?

We are to be characterized by the beatitudes, including being “poor in spirit” and “pure in heart” and “meek” and “hungering and thirsting for justice (dikaiosunē)” and being “merciful” and “peacemakers.”

We are to be “salt” and “light” by doing “good deeds” in the world. We are to cultivate an inner life free of anger and lust, characterized instead by faithfulness and trust and truthful speech. We are to love our enemies, doing good both to the just and unjust, and so being “perfect” as children of our “perfect” heavenly Father. We are to do these “good deeds” not to draw attention to ourselves but in true selflessness.

We are to long for God’s kingdom to come on earth, seeking first God’s kingdom of justice above all other kingdoms. We are to forgive others as God forgives us. We are to be characterized by a radical trust in God that shows itself in simplicity, relying on God to give us just what we need just when we need it. We are not to be judgmental of others, and instead to look first to our own sin before we attempt to help others with theirs.

In sum, and in fulfillment of the Law and the Prophets: We are to do to others as we would have them do to us. In fact, it is immediately after this statement—the golden rule—that Jesus speaks of the “narrow gate.”

So do we truly want to follow Jesus’ narrow way?

Then let’s seek first God’s kingdom, not the agenda of any particular nation, or a social or political agenda of our own making. This means…

Let’s long for and strive for God’s justice on earth, a justice in which God provides for the basic needs of both the just and unjust.

Let’s love our enemies; not seeking their harm, even their death, but instead working for peace.

Let’s not be judgmental of others, but let’s turn our scrutiny on ourselves and our own sinful attitudes and words and actions—only then can we help others with their own sin.

Let’s be as generous in forgiving others as God is in forgiving us.

Let’s live simply: freeing ourselves of the entanglements of money and power, and trusting in God to meet our needs.

Let’s be salt and light not by drawing attention to ourselves and our pious words but by quietly doing good deeds in the world.

To give another summary idea that might well have been in Jesus’ (or Matthew’s) mind in all this: “Do justice and love mercy and walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8).

This way is indeed narrow, and few find it. It’s a hard road, and I stumble often on it. But it’s the way of God’s kingdom, the way to justice and peace and flourishing life for all. It’s the way of Jesus: he has walked this path, and he will walk it with us still.

So here’s the question, the most fundamental question we need to answer: Will we follow Jesus? Will I? Will you?

© Michael W. Pahl

Sermon from a Morden Church

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“Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don’t know each other; they don’t know each other because they cannot communicate; they cannot communicate because they are separated.” – Martin Luther King Jr.

Martin Luther King JrOut of great struggle rise great women and men, to do great things. Martin Luther King Jr. was one of these. His voice gave dignity to African-Americans in a world that gave them none. His example of nonviolent resistance gave others the courage to stand for truth in love. His ideas fueled a movement toward freedom and equality that continues to this day.

MLK’s legacy is an American treasure. But it is a treasure big enough for all people to share.

I was reminded of the above quote from MLK’s book, Stride Toward Freedom, a couple of weeks ago when I preached on Epiphany Sunday. My sermon was on diversity, on the ways we “other” others. Sound odd? Here’s an excerpt…

“Others,” and How They Are Made

It happens all the time, and we’re all prone to it. We all like to be around people who are like us, people who generally think the same way we do, who dress much the same way we do, who speak the same language, like the same food, have similar interests. But then someone new arrives on the scene, someone who doesn’t quite fit the mould, someone who looks a little different, who speaks a little different, who likes different things.

It’s so easy for us to fear the different. Often this is motivated by ignorance—we just don’t know what to make of them, we don’t know what their presence might mean for us. And so we’re afraid: there’s something threatening about their differences, as if we think they might undermine our own comfortable life just by their presence, as if the fact that they think and do things differently might call into question the legitimacy of the way we think and do things.

At this point things are still salvageable. Difference is not the problem. But when, out of ignorance and fear, we push differences to the outside, we make the different into the outsider, then we have a problem. They are no longer “us”; they’re not even “you’s” anymore, people we address directly. They are simply “them,” “those people,” consigned to third person pronouns.

But things can even get worse. When someone we’ve labeled an outsider actually does something to us, or our family, or our community, when one of “those people” does something that threatens something we hold dear, the outsider can become the enemy. Then it’s not simply “us” and “them”: it’s “us versus them.” Suddenly “those people” get blamed for everything that’s going wrong. Suddenly the greatest threat to our world is Muslims, or evolutionists, or gays, or whatever we’ve made into our polar opposite—and if nothing is done, we believe, the world as we know it will be lost. Again, more ignorance and fear.

The different becomes the outsider, the outsider becomes the enemy—but we’re not done yet. In extreme cases, we then demonize these enemies, we de-humanize them. Think of Adolf Hitler and Osama bin Laden: by the time they died they were no longer seen as flesh-and-blood human beings, regular people who still had to get dressed every morning, who still laughed and loved with friends and family. Our greatest enemies become symbols of something greater, something more terrible; they become icons of evil. And then we can imagine horrible things done to them that we would never wish on any flesh-and-blood human being.

The different becomes the outsider, the outsider becomes the enemy, and the enemy is demonized, stripped of their humanity.

Reversing this “Othering”

But this is not the way of Jesus. This is not the gospel. Jesus is about breaking down walls, erasing lines in the sand, widening circles, extending tables.

Rembrandt Christ on the CrossIn a brilliant passage that deserves careful, repeated reading, Ephesians 2 describes how Jesus has come to “destroy the dividing wall of hostility” between Jews and Gentiles: he “preached peace to those who were far away and peace to those who were near,” in order to create “one new humanity” and thus “bring peace” (Eph 2:14-18).

Here’s the hard part, the more excellent way, the narrow road. Following in Jesus’ footsteps, motivated by love, we are called to reverse this process of “othering”: to humanize our enemies, to bring the outsider in, to celebrate our differences.

“There is no fear in love,” we’re told in 1 John 4, “but perfect love casts out fear.” So we begin to follow Jesus in this by replacing fear of others with love. We don’t fear those who are different simply because they are different; we love them.

This sounds so idealistic, and it is—the gospel is idealistic, the kingdom of God is the ultimate in idealistic, imagining a world better than the one we’ve got now. But this love can still take seriously the dangers around us. Sometimes we have legitimate reason to fear other people. Sometimes other people’s actions do threaten something or someone we hold dear. We should be cautious in a dangerous world. We still lock our doors at night; we don’t leave our keys in the ignition; we don’t let our kids walk alone across town. We promote just laws, and compassionate policing, and restorative justice.

Yet if this appropriate caution becomes a fear that drives us, defining the way we interact with those we meet day by day, defining the way we engage those who are different than us, making the different the outsider and the outsider the enemy—then we need love to drive out that fear. That kind of fear-based approach to those who are different just doesn’t work. It has got us as a human race into a mighty mess—polarized politics, radicalized religion, angry fundamentalism, culture wars, real wars—and we need love to drive that fear away.

This love is not a sentimental “smile and nod” kind of love. It is heartfelt, active, Jesus-love. It shows interest in the other person, in their loves and longings, their joys and sorrows. It learns about that person, where they’re from, what they eat, what they like to do, how they live. It reaches out to that person in their need—loneliness, despair, hunger, illness, grief—and accepts help from that person when we’re in need. This Jesus-love is a love that gives itself for the other, even when it hurts, even when the other is different, an outsider, an enemy.

And when we love like this, the process of “othering” someone else turns back on itself. That enemy we have demonized, is humanized. We see them for who they are: people just like us, just as frightened as we are behind their pomp and power, feeling just as threatened in their world, with things they value and people they love, longing for the basics of a meaningful human life—good and nourishing food, clean air and water, warm shelter and clothing, personal freedom, a safe home, loving relationships, dignity and respect.

And when we love like this, the outsider is brought in. It’s no longer “us versus them” or even just “us” and “them”—the third-person “those people” becomes a second-person “you” as we engage them directly, and then even a first-person “one of us.” We break down the walls that divide us, we erase the high-stakes lines in the sand, we widen the circle, we extend the table and invite them in for Faspa. Whatever “those people” we’ve created, we open our arms and say, “Welcome here.”

And when we love like this, the different are celebrated. Love doesn’t erase our differences. We recognize that just as we’re all the same—humans together on the same planet hurtling through the galaxy around the same sun—so we recognize that we’re all different. Different abilities, different ideas, different interests, different dreams, different clothes, different shades of skin, different shapes and sizes, different names, different people. And we celebrate this: we welcome the Magi from the East just as we’ve welcomed the shepherds from the hill country, and just as God welcomes slave and free, Gentile and Jew, male and female, from every tribe and nation and people and language.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” – Martin Luther King Jr.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

A Very Different Christmas Story

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When we think of biblical Christmas stories, we naturally think of Matthew’s and Luke’s Gospels. In fact, based on lifetimes of Christmas pageants and nativity scenes, in reality we probably imagine a harmonized Christmas story, bringing together various elements of each of these Gospels (Magi and shepherds together?).

P P Rubens Women of the ApocalypseBut these are not the only stories of Jesus’ birth in the Bible. There’s also a rather disturbing version of the story in that enigmatic book at the close of the canon: Revelation. Revelation 12 provides a third Christmas story, couched in the imagery of ancient apocalyptic literature and still more ancient myths of cosmic conflict: a woman “clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head,” gives birth to “a son, a male child, who will rule all the nations with an iron scepter,” while “an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads” waits to devour the child as soon as it is born.

As you might imagine, the meaning of all this symbolism is well-debated, but, as I note in my book, The Beginning and the End, the basic contours seem fairly clear:

The “woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head” (12:1), who gives birth to the “male child,” is most likely, in some sense, Israel. The number twelve here reflects the twelve tribes of Israel descending from the twelve sons of Jacob, and the image of the sun, moon, and twelve stars recalls Joseph’s dream of himself and his brothers as these patriarchs of Israel (Genesis 37:9).

The “enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads” (12:3), who tries to devour the “male child” after his birth, is openly identified as “that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray” (12:9)—a clear reference to the serpent, the embodiment of evil in the world, in the curse story of Genesis 3.

And the “male child” himself is clearly Jesus: he is the one who “will rule all the nations with an iron scepter” (12:5). This is a brief quotation of Psalm 2:9, a royal song for the ancient Israelite kings descended from David, a psalm that was taken in at least some Jewish circles as referring ultimately to the future Messiah from David’s dynasty, and was consistently understood by the earliest Christians as referring to Jesus as Messiah (see, for example, Acts 4:25–26; 13:33; Hebrews 1:5). (The Beginning and the End, 55)

So what we have, then, is an apocalyptic depiction of the coming of the Messiah into the world—the birth of Jesus, a Christmas story. But this Christmas story is not all angels singing and peace on earth. Like Matthew’s story of the Slaughter of the Innocents by Herod, this Revelation Christmas story highlights some deeper, darker realities of our world in light of Christ’s coming:

The world is a strange mixture of order and chaos, life and death, beauty and abomination, truth and falsehood, goodness and evil. As soon as we see some good effort bearing life-giving fruit in the world, it seems we immediately see another good work destroyed by self-exaggerated pride or self-serving greed—sometimes even by Christians. And we experience this same tension in our own selves, don’t we? We struggle to do good, to avoid sin and evil, in a daily battle of the will. As described in an earlier chapter, these sorts of tensions go right back to the “knowledge of good and evil” we so inappropriately possess, as well as the curse of sin in the world, the widespread, deep death we experience as sinning humans.

The vision of a cosmic conflict in Revelation 12 highlights for us a strange paradox: the coming of Christ helps us in this struggle, bringing redemption from the enslavement of sin, salvation from this wide-ranging death, and power to resist the world’s evil (12:10–11); yet the coming of Christ has also provoked even greater evil in the world—“woe to the earth and the sea, because the devil has gone down to you!” (12:12). Thus, we should not be surprised to struggle so intensely with sin in our own lives, or to find evil so difficult to root out in the world. Jesus has come to uproot greed and pride, to overthrow injustice and oppression, to defeat sin and death—and this emboldens evil all the more. (The Beginning and the End, 62-63)

Hard to say “Merry Christmas” after that, isn’t it? But all is not grey and grim. Here’s the way I close that chapter:

In reflecting on all these implications of this vision of cosmic conflict, perhaps we can now see an answer to a question that was suggested near the beginning of this chapter: why does John use elements of non-biblical mythic stories to help describe his vision here? The answer we might propose is this: all the great myths of the world—all human stories that attempt to make sense of what is wrong in the world and how things can be made right—find their home in the story of Jesus.

This is certainly not to say that the story of Jesus is itself a “myth” in the sense of being “unhistorical”—remember the way that apocalypses work, using language and imagery symbolically, pointing indirectly through these strange pictures to real events and persons and entities in the world. Rather, this emphasizes that the very real Jesus who came into the world to make right what has gone wrong with humanity and all creation catches up all the hopes and fears of humanity into himself, fulfilling all humanity’s deepest longings and most desperate needs. (The Beginning and the End, 63)

Amen, and amen!

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

An Anabaptist Does Advent

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Advent wreathI don’t recall talking about Advent in the church in which I grew up, an Anabaptist church with a conservative evangelical bent. Certainly we didn’t mention Lent. And those other church days, with names like “Epiphany” and “Trinity Sunday” and “Feast of Christ the King”? Those weren’t even in my universe.

We celebrated the five “evangelical feasts,” as I later came to know them: Christmas, Good Friday, Easter, Ascension, and Pentecost. And Ascension was optional. Well, so was Pentecost, though believers often got baptized then. What really mattered was the Christmas Eve Sunday school service with Christmas carols and candy bags, some sort of sombre Good Friday remembrance, and lots of joyful singing and sweet bread on Easter Sunday.

Anabaptists have been suspicious of the church calendar throughout most of our history. It’s in the same line as church creeds and seven sacraments, going back to the early Anabaptist conviction that “if it’s not in the Bible we shouldn’t do it.” Advent and Lent, let alone the likes of the Feast of St. Mark the Evangelist, are not mentioned in Scripture, at least not directly. So they’re suspect.

Over the past twenty years or so, in fits and starts, I have gradually come round to observing the church year. At least in a general way—Advent through Christmas and Epiphany, Lent through Easter, the Ascension through Pentecost, and that wonderfully titled chunk of “Ordinary Time” culminating in Christ the King Sunday. And I’m not alone. Over that same twenty years or so, Mennonite churches have been moving more and more to the rhythms of the church year. (It’s about the only rhythm some of us move to. Mennonite joke.)

Why is this? I’d suggest there are some good, thoroughly Anabaptist reasons for observing Advent and Lent and all these seasons of the Christian church. Let me give two.

First, Anabaptists believe Jesus is central to all we do; observing the church calendar focuses us on the story of Jesus.

Every December in Advent we start by entering into ancient Israel’s deep longing for God to act, yearning for God’s kingdom to come. At Christmas, at the world’s darkest hour, we hear the angels and shepherds and Mary and Simeon and more: God has acted, the Messiah has come, Jesus is born! At Epiphany we watch as Jesus is revealed to the world at his birth and baptism (eastern and western churches differ on this, but in the west these bump together in the first couple weeks of January). Over the next several weeks, through winter’s chill, the days get longer and the light shines brighter as we see Jesus’ life and hear his teachings.

Then Lent arrives in February or March, just as winter’s death attempts its final assault, and we meditate on Jesus’ road to the cross, through Palm Sunday’s celebration of the humble Messiah, to Maundy Thursday’s participation in the Last Supper, to Good Friday’s holy grief and Holy Saturday’s dark vigil. But life conquers death, spring casts off winter’s cloak, and Easter Sunday dawns with joyful celebration: Jesus is risen!

Forty days later, Ascension Day: Jesus returns to the Father. Ten days later, Pentecost: the Spirit of Jesus comes among us as spring hits its stride, and the Church steps out in following Jesus to the ends of the earth. And then we’re in ordinary time, nearly lulled to sleep through summer’s warmth and autumn’s bounty, prodding ourselves awake to watch and wait for the return of Jesus and the fullness of God’s kingdom at Christ the King Sunday, at the end of November.

And then it begins again.

I love this. Every year, year after year, our very sense of time is shaped around the birth and baptism, life and teachings, suffering and death, resurrection and return of Christ. In every season of the year, Sunday after resurrection Sunday, the story of Jesus is superimposed upon us, and we’re invited, with a healthy dose of holy imagination, to enter into the story of Jesus—and for it to enter us.

Anabaptists also believe Jesus calls us to live in community with his followers; observing the church calendar underscores a sense of community with all Jesus’ followers.

Sure, the Anabaptist emphasis in this has been on the local congregation, and rightly so. The capital-C, universal Church is meaningless apart from the local, small-c church. Each and every flesh-and-blood gathering of Jesus-followers is the touchstone of God’s sanctifying presence in the world, the ears and mouth and hands and feet of Christ’s body in the world, an outpost of God’s kingdom of peace and justice and joy in the world. The bottom line: we need each other, and we need each other in the daily grind of real life, hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder.

But Anabaptists have recognized the need for wider connection with God’s people. We Mennonites have created regional and national bodies to coordinate ministry efforts and encourage one another—even international bodies such as the Mennonite World Conference. In recent years we have even participated in broader ecumenical conversations, such as those with Roman Catholics and Lutherans.

It turns out that just as the universal Church is meaningless apart from the local church, so is the local church meaningless apart from the universal Church, historic and global. And we’ve discovered that the strong sense of community we cherish as Anabaptists in our local congregations can be nurtured and celebrated in ever-widening circles. As any good Mennonite can tell you, you can always fit more around the table; there’s always enough food to share.

And one of the ways we can expand the table and experience community with the wider Church is by following the rhythms of the church calendar. As we walk through Advent, yearning for God to come among us, we do so alongside most of the Church around the world.

So I invite you to join us this Advent, either physically with us at Morden Mennonite or spiritually with us in your own congregation. Join us, and all God’s people, in entering the all-compelling, life-giving story of Jesus.

After all, if an Anabaptist can observe Advent, you can too.

Note: Since this was first posted I’ve become aware how northern hemisphere-centric some of this perspective is. Christians in the southern hemisphere: take from this what is helpful, and feel free to ignore the rest! Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

Faith, Hope, and Love

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Faith, hope, and love.

“These three abide,” Paul says (1 Cor 13:13). They remain: they’re always there, they’re always needed. They are the trinity of Christian virtues, the triumvirate of Christian practices, the trivium of Christian ethics.

Faith, hope, and love.

The words are commonplace in our world, tossed to and fro in waves of well-meaning  good feelings. “Don’t stop believin’.” “Ya gotta have faith.” “Don’t give up hope.” “Hope for the best.” “Love makes the world go round.” “All you need is love.”

Yes—but what are they? What do we mean when we talk about faith, and hope, and love?

As Christians we don’t approach these in the abstract. We don’t theorize about faith. We don’t philosophize about hope. We don’t theologize about love.

We look to Jesus, and we follow him.

So we see faith in Jesus’ utter dependence on Abba God for all things, both his daily bread and God’s kingdom come. We see faith in his enduring, even agonizing trust in God through all things, even his sufferings, even on the cross.

We see hope in Jesus’ confidence in God’s powerful love, that even in the midst of life’s harshest realities, even in the face of death, God would bring about good for him: vindication, new life.

We see love in Jesus’ compassion for the shepherdless crowds, his welcome of the sinners and tax traitors, his neighboring of enemy others. We see love in his selfless self-giving in feeding, healing, teaching, forgiving—and suffering and dying for you, for me, for all.

And we follow him. In Jesus’ faith, in his hope, in his love, energized by his Spirit, we follow him.

So we see faith in the faith of Jesus’ followers, as we depend on God for all things, as we trust in him through all things. We see hope in the hope of his followers, as we anticipate God’s powerful, life-giving love bursting out of our darkest deaths. We see love in the love of his followers, as we show compassion and welcome sinners and neighbor enemies, as we give ourselves in feeding, healing, boundless forgiving.

Faith, hope, and love—Jesus-faith, Jesus-hope, and Jesus-love.

“And the greatest of these,” Paul concludes, “is love” (1 Cor 13:13).

Selah.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

On Being “Mennonite”

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Okay, so being “Mennonite” is not as straightforward as it might seem.

For some, the word “Mennonite” brings to mind plain dress and beards, head coverings and communal living. For others, it means having a “Mennonite” name like Friesen or Wiebe or Dyck. For some it involves speaking low German and eating Borscht with Zwieback as you play the “Mennonite game” of finding all the relatives you have in common.

But Menno Simons himself, the very “Menno” in “Mennonite,” didn’t fit most of these cultural descriptions of “Mennonite.” And neither do most of the Mennonites in the world today, as the video above nicely demonstrates.

So what does it mean to be “Mennonite”?

Like all questions of identity, it’s a complicated one, and different people will answer differently. I am a Mennonite by choice, not by birth, and I’ve reflected on this quite a bit for myself in coming to that decision. If I had to boil “being Mennonite” down to three things, here’s what they would be.

First and foremost, being Mennonite means being committed to Jesus. I know, I know: all Christians are committed to Jesus in some sense, either as God worthy of worship, or as Saviour bringing deliverance from sin, or as Healer of our infirmities and diseases, or otherwise. Mennonites agree with these understandings of Jesus. But Mennonites are distinguished by their commitment to Jesus in a particular sense: we strive to take seriously Jesus as Lord, especially in following Jesus’ teachings and way of life as presented in the Gospels.

This particular commitment to Jesus has several implications. One is that we try to read Scripture with Jesus at the centre. Jesus provides the clearest window on God and God’s will, so we read Scripture to know and follow Jesus, which in turn (we hope) makes us better readers of Scripture. Another is that we refuse to give ultimate allegiance to anything or anyone else, whether nations or political systems or economic structures. We are not anarchists, and we do seek to live within the laws of whatever land we find ourselves in, but Jesus is Lord, not Caesar, not any of these “powers of this age.”

A second commitment flows out of this ultimate commitment to Jesus: being Mennonite means being committed to community. Jesus gathered disciples around himself to be with him and learn from him and follow him, so we as disciples of Jesus continue to gather around him for these same reasons. We see the church as God’s family, as brothers and sisters in Christ, caring for each other. We see the church as Christ’s body, united in our diversity to serve each other and continue Jesus’ kingdom work in the world.

Again, I hear you: all Christians are committed to community in some sense. But Mennonites have taken this commitment as seriously as any other Christian tradition and more seriously than most. Sometimes this serious commitment to community has not been healthy, as some Mennonites have insulated and isolated their communities from the world to such an extent they have been unable to obey Jesus’ call to be salt and light in the world. But some of the most caring, most challenging, most encouraging, most welcoming, and most egalitarian communities I have been involved in or have seen have been Mennonite.

A third commitment stands out for Mennonites, again flowing out of our ultimate commitment to Jesus: being Mennonite means being committed to peace. The Mennonite churches are among the historic “peace churches,” those Christian traditions that have particularly emphasized nonviolence and peacemaking.

This means taking Jesus’ teaching seriously, that we are to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, that we are not to resist evil with evil, but with acts of mercy. This means following in Jesus’ path of love and nonviolence: overcoming evil in the world not by violence or aggression, but with self-giving, even suffering, love. This means dedicating ourselves to Jesus’ kingdom vision, seeking first God’s kingdom and God’s justice, yearning and praying and so striving for this kingdom to come on earth: a vision of swords turned into plows, of justice and mercy met together; a vision of good news for the poor, the prisoners, the blind, the oppressed; a vision of the least being feasted, the last being first, and the lost being found.

Someone might well think what I’ve described is more generally what it means to be “Anabaptist,” not particularly “Mennonite.” Undoubtedly that’s true: these are really Anabaptist commitments. And I’ve known Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Anglicans, Baptists, United Church and other folk who hold these commitments in much the same way I do.

To this I would say, “Praise God!”—though in four-part harmony, slowly, a cappella. (Yes, another Mennonite stereotype, which, like Borscht and Zwieback, I happen to like. So sue me—I’ll give you my cloak.)

But I would also say that, while one can be Anabaptist and Anglican, or a kind of Anabaptist-Catholic, or otherwise bring Anabaptist commitments into conversation with other Christian traditions, it is in being Mennonite that I am most comfortable, and most challenged, in my commitment to peace, my commitment to community, and ultimately my commitment to Jesus.

We Mennonites don’t do this perfectly by any means. Sometimes we mess it up badly. But mostly we do it pretty well.

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

The Simplicity of Christian Unity

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A few weeks ago I blogged some thoughts on Christian unity. I suggested that we need to have a centred approach to this unity. We need to think of Christian unity not like a fence that defines the outer limits of Christianity and protects “us” from “them,” but more like a bonfire on a cold night, drawing us toward it from all different directions, seeking out its warmth and light. I then suggested that, following the pervasive witness of the New Testament, this centre is Jesus himself, and Jesus’ way of love.

I’m well aware how problematic this might appear to be. It sounds awfully simplistic, terribly reductionistic. It seems so theologically naïve, even dangerous.

I hear my systematic theologian friends saying, “Wait a minute: where’s the triune God in all this?” I hear my historical theologian friends saying, “But you’ve forgotten the creeds!” My biblical theologian friends chime in: “Where’s the redemptive narrative of Scripture?” My New Testament scholar friends say, “But which Jesus? Mark’s, John’s, E. P. Sanders’, N. T. Wright’s?” My evangelical friends shake their heads: “The Bible must be at the centre, or we cannot know about Jesus!” My Mennonite friends smile and nod, but some think, “I’d like a little more emphasis on peace.”

PrintA few years ago I wrote a short book called From Resurrection to New Creation. I’ve always thought of it as a sort of mini-New Testament theology; it was billed in the subtitle as A First Journey in Christian Theology. In the book I describe concentric circles of Christian thought and practice, moving outward from first- to second- to third-order convictions (97-101).

At the very centre are those “core elements of the gospel, the ground and center of essential Christian faith and life: Jesus and his salvific [salvation-bringing] death and resurrection.” I go on to say:

This is the irreducible minimum of authentic Christian faith and life. That is, genuine Christianity is all about knowing and following the crucified and resurrected Jesus, living out his salvific death and resurrection in faith, love, and hope.

Notice the way I’ve framed this: authentic Christian faith is not about “right doctrine about Jesus,” a sound Christology; it’s about actually knowing and following Jesus, the crucified and resurrected Jesus who lived and taught and healed among us, who himself loved and trusted and hoped.

Beyond this inner circle is an outer one. This circle reflects Christian beliefs and practices that “directly grow out of the reality of the resurrection of the crucified Jesus, even as they in turn impact one’s understanding and experience of the crucified and resurrected Jesus.” These include an understanding of the “tri-unity” of God, the Trinity; looking to the Scriptures as witness to Jesus; participating in the community of Jesus-followers, the Church; and anticipating the future presence of Jesus and fulfillment of the gospel. I then say this:

Together, these two circles are the absolute essentials of historically orthodox Christian theology and practice. That is, historically orthodox Christianity is focused on the salvific work of the triune God through the crucified and resurrected Jesus, as witnessed by the Scriptures, proclaimed and lived out by the church, and fulfilled in the future eschaton.

This is where the primary historic creeds come in, such as the Apostles’ Creed and the Nicene Creed, each with a Trinitarian structure centred on the gospel story of Jesus’ suffering, death, resurrection, and exaltation.

But notice again how I’ve framed this: there is a distinction to be made between “authentic Christian faith” and “historically orthodox Christianity.” One might be a genuine follower of Jesus and his way of love, yet question the inspiration of Scripture or be hazy on the doctrine of the Trinity. And one might have all their theological ducks in a row so as to be doctrinally orthodox, but if they are not following Jesus in love their doctrine is like a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

Beyond these two circles are beliefs and practices that might be significant for particular communities, they may even be seen to have solid biblical and theological and historical support, but they are simply not central to authentic or orthodox Christianity. Here one finds the particular streams of Christian tradition, with differences over everything from baptism to Lord’s Supper, from justification to sanctification, from church polity to government policy, and so much more.

My call to a simple Christian unity focused on the Person of Jesus and the Way of Love, then, is not simplistic. It’s complex. When you look at Christianity in its most compact, most basic form, it’s all about Jesus, as if the crucified and resurrected Jesus is standing before each of us saying, “Who do you say that I am?” and “Come, follow me.” But as you follow Jesus you begin to realize there’s more to God, to God’s people, to Scripture, to life, to the future, to faith, to love—to everything!—then you first thought.

Yet even in that complexity, at its centre it’s still always about Jesus, and Jesus’ way of love.

If the centre becomes more than that, it becomes other than that.

And if it becomes other than that, then truly we have lost our Way.

For more on some of these thoughts, see my posts “On Bonfires, Love, and Jesus” and “When Everyone’s Biblical and We All Disagree.” For a different angle on these things, check out my piece called “Cling to Jesus.” Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

When Everyone’s Biblical and We All Disagree

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Romans 14-15 often gets quoted when Christians talk about how to handle conflict in the church. That’s the passage that deals with what has been called “adiaphora” or “disputable matters”—seen sometimes as an add-on to the Apostle Paul’s magisterial, theologically rich epistle to the Romans. In reality this passage is Paul’s pastoral response to a fragile Christian community in danger of fracturing along a Jew-Gentile fault line—and it’s the whole point of the letter.

We miss out on the significance of this passage when we think of it as about mere opinions, things that don’t really matter, as if the Roman Christians were arguing over what colour the new carpet in the sanctuary should be. Try telling a devout Jew that the kosher food laws or Sabbath observance are “mere opinions”! No, the issues causing fissures in the church of Rome—sacred days and “clean” foods (14:1-2, 5-6, 14)—were matters of deep personal, ethnic, and religious identity, grounded in Scripture and affecting both everyday life and collective worship.

Bible Bashing

In fact, I would suggest that the dispute in Rome followed a pattern we’ve seen played out again and again throughout the Church’s history—and still today:

  • We think X is an important issue, something vital, something essential.
  • We think our view on X is biblical; we can back it up from the Bible.
  • We therefore think we’ve got God on our side.
  • And then we disagree, we dispute, we argue, we fight, and often we split. Or, perhaps slightly better, or maybe worse: we simply avoid those we disagree with, we shun them, we ban them from our lives.

Note first what Paul doesn’t say. He doesn’t choose one side and say, “Look, this group is right and the other is wrong. Everybody just needs to agree with the group that’s right, or leave!” Nor does he even call both groups to compromise on their convictions, to try to find a middle position that everyone can assent to but satisfies no one. Nor does he simply give a bland answer of tolerance: “C’mon, everybody, why can’t we all just get along?”

Rather, Paul speaks a word of admonition to both sides. (Not just the “strong”—read it carefully!).

To the Jewish “conservatives,” the “traditionalists” among them (“the weak in the faith”): “Do not condemn your ‘liberal’ sisters and brothers, for God has accepted them and you are not their judge.” (Yep, I’ve done that.)

To the Gentile “progressives,” those “liberals” in the bunch (the “strong”): “Do not despise your ‘conservative’ sisters and brothers, for we all share one Lord and act out of devotion to him.” (Yep, I’ve done that, too.)

To all of them, but especially those of the majority: “Respect the convictions of others; do not compel the other to act against their convictions.” (That’s what the whole “stumbling block” thing is, not just “offending” someone’s sensibilities through our actions—see 14:23. Think about it: Paul wasn’t really all that concerned about “offending” people!).

And to all of them, both “conservatives” and “progressives”: “Welcome one another, accept the other, receive them into your circle, just as God in Christ has welcomed you.” (Strong words, these!)

And underlying these words? The true centre of Christian faith: the Person of Jesus, and Jesus’ Way of Love. Throughout the passage, at key points in his passionate plea for unity-in-diversity, Paul looks to Jesus as the basis for his exhortations (14:9, 15; 15:3, 7): the crucified and resurrected Jesus as Lord and Saviour, welcoming sinners.

Drawing on Paul’s words here, and just some good conflict resolution ideas, here’s my attempt to summarize how we as Christians can navigate through these disputes over significant issues, when everyone’s sure they’ve got the Bible on their side:

  • Come to your own convictions carefully, thoughtfully, prayerfully, biblically, centred on Jesus.
  • Hold your convictions humbly, loosely. Be willing to be wrong, or to give way for the good of others.
  • Respect others in their own convictions, showing Jesus’ love. Do not pressure them to act against their conscience. Do not condemn them; you are not their Judge. Do not despise them; you share the same Lord and Saviour.
  • Before speaking, listen. Hear the convictions of others, and listen to the life story that has shaped those convictions.
  • Then speak openly and honestly about your convictions. If you feel it is necessary, even speak passionately and persuasively. Always speak with gentleness and respect, with the love of Jesus.
  • As much as possible, speak face-to-face. Share a meal together, share your stories, share your prayers, share your common faith, your common humanity.
  • When a group decision is needed, strive for consensus. This means unanimity if possible, but if that’s not possible then at least come to a place where everyone is heard and the minority are willing—not coerced, but willing—to concede and support the decision of the group.
  • And at bottom, in the very centre, allow Jesus to pull you in again, to draw you to himself, to follow him in this life of love. Don’t be distracted by all the things everyone else says is so important. There are very few things worthy of our strongest conviction; anything more is vanity, or even idolatry.

I know it’s easy to be fearful of this, this pursuit of unity-in-diversity. It’s risky, this simple focus on Jesus, this walking in the way of love. It’s uncomfortable, allowing things we’ve relied upon for our whole lives to be questioned.

But the centre will hold. All else might seem shaken, but of this I am sure: the centre of our faith will hold firm. Scripture assures us that while our ways of doing things are always changing, “Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Heb 13:8), and that while all our oh-so-certain knowledge will one day disappear, “love will always remain” (1 Cor 13:13).

And when you come to really understand that pure and simple centre—Jesus, and Jesus’ way of love—and you come to fully appreciate it, you can have the confidence and the freedom to fruitfully engage the different views of others, even to change your mind on these issues, even to celebrate our diversity as the Body of Christ.

For more on some of these thoughts, see my post “On Bonfires, Love, and Jesus.” Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.

On Bonfires, Love, and Jesus

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This Sunday we’re continuing our worship series on “Welcoming One Another.” A crucial part of this “welcoming”—this “accepting” each other, this “receiving” one another—is coming to terms with our differences, even celebrating them. In fact, that’s the key idea in Romans 15:7: we come from different backgrounds and experiences, we think and act differently, and so each must “welcome one another, just as Christ has welcomed you.”

Here are a few of the thoughts in my head as I reflect this week on “celebrating our diversity”:

In order for us to accept our diversity as a church, even to celebrate this diversity, we must have a good sense of what it is that unites us. Our diversity is not without any unity, though this unity is not uniformity. We are diverse in our unity, and we are united in our diversity.

Too often Christians have a merely doctrinal approach to unity. We think of unity in terms of those beliefs that we hold in common. Sometimes that list can get quite long, well beyond any biblical or historic summary of the essentials of the Christian faith. But the longer the list the harder it is for everyone to agree, and so these lists of unity essentials become divisive.

But ignoring doctrine and taking a practical approach is not any better. Trying to determine what practices or rituals unite us as Christians can lead to the same problem. There is something else—I would say Someone—behind these beliefs and practices, in whom we are united.

Too often, also, Christians have a “fence” approach to unity. We think of our distinctive beliefs and/or practices as a fence that separates us from those who are not us, and this fence defines who we are together, it defines our unity.

Bonfire at San RiverBut it’s much better to have a “bonfire” approach to unity. The Someone who unites us stands at the centre like a bonfire on a cold night, and we are drawn to the warmth and light of the fire from all different directions. We huddle together around this fire, we tell our stories, we sing our songs, and we share our bread and wine. Our unity has a centre, but no boundaries.

And what is this bonfire around which we gather? It is Jesus, and it is love.

Read the New Testament; behind all the New Testament’s diversity stands Jesus, on every page. Jesus of Nazareth, who lived and taught and healed and suffered and died and rose again, Jesus the Christ, Israel’s Messiah-King and the world’s true Lord—this Jesus is the one to whom the Scriptures witness, he is the heart of the gospel, he is the one who shows us who the Triune God is, the one in whom we find deep, abiding life and discern humanity’s true purpose.

And alongside Jesus throughout the New Testament—in fact, only fully discerned through Jesus—is the call to love: to give ourselves for the good of the other, even if they are the different, the stranger, the enemy, even if we think they don’t deserve it, even if it costs us our very life. This Jesus-love is the sum of the Law and the Prophets; it is the mark of Jesus’ true disciples; it is the virtue that binds together all other virtues; it is the more excellent way and greatest good that always remains; it is the sign that we have truly come to know God, who is love.

When we see unity not as bordered but as centred, when we see this unity as centred on Jesus and Jesus-love, when we refuse to allow ourselves to be distracted by boundaries and walls and disputes over “who’s in and who’s out” or questions of “do they believe the right things or do things the right way,” when we see “welcoming one another” in love as at the very heart of who the eternally Triune God is, who God is as shown in Jesus, and who we are as Christians—then we can find the freedom to truly accept our diversity, and even to celebrate it.

Some of the thoughts rolling around in my head…

Cross-posted from http://www.mordenmennonitechurch.wordpress.com. © Michael W. Pahl.