Let’s Have an Uneasy Conversation About Immigration

I must confess that I am uneasy. I am uneasy about the stories of immigration in the news lately. I am uneasy with progressive responses to those situations. I am uneasy with Christian responses to those stories. I am uneasy about the trustworthiness of news sources, the spin of commentators, and the histrionics of disputants. But beneath and throughout all of this uneasiness, I’ve felt especially uncomfortable with how Scripture is used when it comes to questions of the “immigrant,” the “stranger,” and the “refugee.” Some serious thinking was required, and the result is something of an uneasy conversation.

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This uneasy conversation is rooted in the fact that immigration (both legal and illegal), refugees, and Christian responsibility come together in an awkward discourse, one that stretches the boundaries of any simplistic ethics. At the heart of the conflict are two, oil-and-water realities—the life of the Kingdom of God, and the existence of nation-states. Unclear thinking in both areas, to my mind, has created a great deal of misinformation and confusion. Perhaps one way to summarize the diverse dialogues and talking points is to pose a simple question: what is the Christian responsibility towards the immigrant/refugee?

The most common answers I encounter come from certain interpretations of Scripture. Consider two such interpretations now. In this first image Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are likened to refugees, fleeing Herod to Egypt. The message, implicit, is that the state of the refugee is crucially linked to the story of Christianity itself.

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An Icon of the Holy Family, by Kelly Latimore.

Another image lists a series of scripture texts, but pointedly translates the word “stranger” as “immigrant.”

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I won’t take the time to analyze these images in depth, but where I want to focus is on their use of Scripture. Specifically, in both cases Christian Scripture (or an event) is used pointedly to address the current immigration/refugee issue in the US. Each is, in fact, a form of proof texting—here is a situation, here is a Scripture to address said situation, case closed.

Allow me to register a few concerns. First, modern labels such as “immigrant” and “refugee” are heavily freighted with meaning. While the Bible does indeed have things to say about the stranger in the land, they may not be the same kinds of things that modern commentators are making it say. Is the modern refugee really the same as Joseph, Mary, and Jesus fleeing to Egypt? Can these texts really be applied to our modern situation without interpretation or context? For instance, in order to claim that Israel’s stranger laws should directly inform America’s immigration policy we would need to establish that the nation-state of Israel is sufficiently similar to the nation-state of America. This is a deeply tenuous connection, and one that many commentators would not be so happy to make.

In light of this, a second concern. In addition to the quoted stranger laws, the Bible has lots of other things to say about how we treat one another, specifically from the same passages of text! For example, instructions in Leviticus 18, 19, and 20 shift almost breathlessly from laws about clothing of two fabrics, to rules about sex with slave girls, to the breeding of cattle, to forbidding homosexual relations, and to honouring one’s parents. Many of the same people who reject the Bible’s teachings on some of these issues (e.g., homosexuality), are presenting contextually linked scriptures as proof-texts for immigration reform. Furthermore, when they give reasons for why they are not bound by a scripture like Leviticus 18:22, they cite the fact that we do not observing other, contextually linked passages, such as the garment laws. The law of the stranger, then, is binding, but none of the others. I find this, at best, disingenuous.

Levicitus Clobber Text

While these flaws make me uneasy, they are not themselves an argument. They are bad rhetoric, and possibly poor interpretations of Scripture, but we still must examine the Scriptural claims about what, if any, is the proper Christian response to the immigrant/refugee. We’ll need to think about this from two angles—the nation-state, and the immigrant.

The Bible and the State
First, does the Bible speak to the circumstances of the modern nation-state? In a word, not really. The Old Testament offers instruction on the management of theocratic, then monarchic Israel. Many Christians believe that these instructions ought to shape the governance of their nations, but this is by no means a simple open-and-shut Scriptural case. For example, the text points to the role of boundary stones (Proverbs 22:28), of property management (Leviticus 25), of ethnic purity (Deuteronomy 7:3), and of economics (Leviticus 25, 23:22, Deut. 23). These are instructions for Israel specifically. It is worth noting, however, that when other nations stand in violation of certain aspects of God’s law they are judged, and even destroyed, based on those violations (e.g., Deuteronomy 18:9).

And yet, apart from these passages of judgment (for moral reasons) we get no instruction on secular civil governance in the Bible. Paul tells us in Romans 13 to “obey the civil authorities” (and he says this about Nero, mind you). John in Luke 3 tells the tax collector to collect just the right amount, and the soldiers to avoid harassing people and be content with their wages. If we wish to look to the Scriptures for advice on how to govern, manage, and maintain national borders, we are going to get precious little help. Furthermore, the concept of the modern nation-state—as a non-religious, non-ethnic social aggregate of disparate persons—is unheard of in ancient Israel, and certainly insufficiently like the Roman state for easy comparison with America, if only because no ancient person had a vote like modern persons do.

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Emperor Maximiam offering incense to Jupiter.

In view of Romans 13, however, it is worth remembering that Christian obedience to the state clearly had limits. When the New Testament was written, the early Church had an uneasy but largely unchallenged relationship to the Roman government. But in the years following the writing of Paul’s letters this situation changed—the question of obeying Caesar or Christ became pointed, and the resounding witness of the early Church was to honour Christ, even if it meant death. Thus, when a given Christian stood before the altar to Caesar and was pressed to offer incense to him as a deity, that Christian refused to obey the civil authority. Death, by the very sword entrusted to those who govern, was often the consequence.

It follows, then, that because there are no Christian states, properly speaking, but only states with proportions of Christians serving inside them, no civil ethic ever aligns perfectly with a Scriptural model, whether Old or New Testament. The default ethic would appear to be some form of Romans 13:1-7 (to honor civil authorities), combined with some form of 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 (to lead a quiet life). However, in those situations where the state stands opposed to Christian teaching, then we side with Christ, even if it means our imprisonment or death.

The Bible and the Stranger
Second, does the Bible speak to the situation of the stranger, the immigrant, or the refugee? In a word, yes—quite a lot, actually. While the image macro of Scripture texts above bent matters a little for its own benefit, each of the texts do speak about treatment of the stranger in the land. Exodus 22:21-24 is one of the clearest and most poignant:

21You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. 22 You shall not afflict any widow or orphan. 23 If you afflict him at all, and if he does cry out to Me, I will surely hear his cry; 24 and My anger will be kindled, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children fatherless.”

Slaves in Egypt

Israel, as a people who were formerly strangers—immigrants, if you will—in Egypt, are called to remember at all times their former status and to treat others accordingly. Note: the text makes no provision for the ethnic heritage of the stranger, nor for his or her religious background, nor for his or her quality of life, language ability, or socioeconomic status. It does not matter if the stranger is a qualified worker or a slave, he or she is to be treated justly. Leviticus 24:17-22 makes this explicit:

17 ‘If a man takes the life of any human being, he shall surely be put to death. 18 The one who takes the life of an animal shall make it good, life for life. 19 If a man injures his neighbor, just as he has done, so it shall be done to him: 20 fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; just as he has injured a man, so it shall be inflicted on him. 21 Thus the one who kills an animal shall make it good, but the one who kills a man shall be put to death. 22 There shall be one standard for you; it shall be for the stranger as well as the native, for I am the Lord your God.’

(Note: similar passages can be found at Leviticus 19:33-34, Deuteronomy 24:14-15, Deuteronomy 27:19, and Jeremiah 22:3-5.)

In light of these passages, does the situation of the modern immigrant and refugee correlate to the biblical picture? It certainly seems so. Central to the story of the Bible, Jacob and his sons flee economic hardship in order to reside in Egypt, where they are immigrants. In the book of Ruth an Israelite woman (Naomi), on account of famine (a natural disaster) emigrates to Moab. After her sons die, she returns with Ruth (now an immigrant) to Israel, where they live, essentially, as economic refugees. Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus do indeed flee a situation of political hostility (the government, Herod, wants to kill them) and reside as political refugees in Egypt. Central to the story of Christianity is that of displaced people seeking safety and hope in foreign lands, and crucial in God’s ethics towards displaced persons is our responsibility to be hospitable to the stranger in our land.

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Van Gogh’s Good Samaritan

At this point someone might object that for those stories, their movements were ordained by God as part of His story and plan. That is true enough, but it was on account of those stories—and especially the original story of Israel in Egypt—that we receive the clear commandments from Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy to care for the stranger in our land, irrespective of that stranger’s ethico-religious identity. Whatever the origin of the story, now we have inherited an ethic which governs our treatment of the displaced.

An Uneasy Ethical Balance
This, then, is the heart of our uneasy conversation about Christianity and immigration: on the one hand, we have a clear, Scriptural ethic to care for the stranger, and on the other hand, we have no clear Scriptural ethic about how to be a Christian in a secular nation-state. In light of this, I think the following, provisional conclusions are in order:

1) A Christian perspective does indeed carry ethical obligations toward the immigrant/refugee. If we take the Bible seriously, we must care for the stranger and seek justice for him or her.

2) To the degree that America is, in fact, a Christian nation, then it bears a Christian responsibility toward immigrants/refugees. By implication, Christians should be as pro-immigrant as they are pro-life.

3) To the degree that America is a Christian nation, to that same degree it bears economic, religious, and moral responsibilities as well. This will cover homosexuality and poverty, land reform and honouring the Sabbath.

As I close, let’s acknowledge two crucial factors. First, while conclusion #1 is unambiguous, neither #2 or #3 is in any sense ethically simple. Neither of the premises for #2 or #3 are clear (that America is a Christian nation), therefore the implications are necessarily murky.

But second, I’ve left aside one, looming question: what about illegal immigration? To answer that question, we will have to further consider the role of boundaries and self-identity in secular nation-states. For that discussion, we will need to return next week.

Orientalism—A Fourth Set of Thoughts (Othering and Bulverism)

Orientalism_Cover 4I’ve benefited immensely from my read of Edward Said’s seminal book, Orientalism, and lately I’ve been blogging through a few reflections on the implications and impact of that work. Today I want to think about Othering, Bulverism, and the danger of labelling.

‘Othering’ is a formal concept where I employ an identifying metric in my encounters with an ‘other’ in such a way that I both highlight the differences and reinforce my sense of self. In the encounter between my self and an other, the other is used as a foil for my own identity, and in the process I often fail to see him or her as a real person, with real narrative, and with real information to bring to a relational engagement. Today I want to reflect on how defining a process such as ‘othering’ is both helpful and unhelpful at the same time.

First, it is helpful because it does indeed describe many of the historic, and ongoing, interactions between the West and other cultures. One doesn’t have to search far to find evidence of Western reductionism, selfishness, and fetishization of non-Western ‘others.’ Orientalism has allowed the West to compartmentalize, and then no longer see, a group—by rendering them invisible, they can be ignored, reduced in narrative, and made simple. In short, Orientalism has been a disposition that makes discrimination possible. In this, as a label it is helpful as a diagnostic tool to mark, identify, and seek to redress these abuses.

At the same time, I think it can also be unhelpful. One of the hallmarks of modern discourse is labelling—if I can effectively and evocatively label a situation, or a wrong, then I can summarily defeat it. Think of the power of big labels such as “racism,” “abuse,” and “intolerance.” Think also of the power of lesser labels, such as “Becky,” “Wypipo,” “millennial,” or “snowflake.” If I can successfully label you, then I can summarily dismiss you. Partly, this appears to be nothing more than a turning of the tables—where once, the West in power labelled and dismissed non-Western others, now non-Western others are able to label and dismiss the West.

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I was reminded, here, of something C.S. Lewis wrote in God in the Dock (also published as Undeceptions), specifically about just and unjust arguments. His description is worth quoting in full:

Lewis_UndeceptionsIn the course of the last fifteen years I have found this vice so common that I have had to invent a name for it. I call it ‘Bulverism.’ Some day I am going to write the biography of its imaginary inventor, Ezekiel Bulver, whose destiny was determined at the age of five when he heard his mother say to his father — who had been maintaining that two sides of a triangle were together greater than a third — ‘Oh you say that because you are a man.’ ‘At that moment,’ E. Bulver assures us, ‘there flashed across my opening mind the great truth that refutation is no necessary part of argument. Assume that your opponent is wrong, and explain his error, and the world will be at your feet. Attempt to prove that he is wrong or (worse still) try to find out whether he is wrong or right, and the national dynamism of our age will thrust you to the wall.’ That is how Bulver became one of the makers of the Twentieth Century.

In other words, the application of a preconditioned label—racist, liberal, Trump-supporter, snowflake, millennial, Baby Boomer, etc.—is sufficient argument enough. No more needs to be said, and no listening needs to happen. The argument, by virtue of the label, is rendered complete.

Crucial in Said’s account of Orientalism is his appeal to a kind of listening as a tonic for the abuses of the past—toward this goal, he utilizes the label of ‘othering’ as a diagnostic tool, but he does this in order to make an appeal for better communication and understanding between the East and West. In his own words, he argues that “there is a difference between knowledge of other peoples and other times that is the result of understanding, compassion, careful study and analysis for their own sakes, and on the other hand knowledge—if that is what it is—that is part of an overall campaign of self-affirmation, belligerency and outright war.” (Orientalism, xiv, emphasis added) When labels are simply a power-play, then they can no longer facilitate this process.

In view of this, I am reminded of Jesus’s words from Matthew 5:22,

But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the court; and whoever says to his brother, ‘You good-for-nothing,’ shall be guilty before the supreme court; and whoever says, ‘You fool,’ shall be guilty enough to go into the fiery hell

Note that in this passage Jesus is giving instructions for how we are to behave when our brother has something against us (he says this explicitly in verse 23). We, in other words, are the offender in this passage. But our response is illuminating—first, we become angry with our brother for bringing a charge against us, then we call him a name (“good-for-nothing”), and finally we ascribe to him a label, “fool.” Labelling, in this passage, is the process of hardening our hearts to the claim of our brothers or sisters. It diminishes and reduces the complexity of the person. It is the antithesis of listening, and in Jesus’ instruction it is equated, in the end, to murder.

Sermon on the Mount_

It probably didn’t look like this.

Does that mean that no one is ever a fool? Of course not. There are scads of them. Just as there are scads of genuine snowflakes and racists in the world. But when we misuse those labels in petty power plays and in a context devoid of genuine listening, we put ourselves on what, according to Jesus, is a highly dangerous trajectory.

Don’t Preach Like Andy Stanley

Atlanta preacher Andy Stanley has crossed my news feed several times of late. Most recently, he was publicly criticized for a sermon where he troublingly interpreted Acts 15 by saying that Christians should “unhitch” their faith from the Old Testament. Numerous articles emerged (one of the best in First Things) to discuss Andy’s dangerous theological direction.

And yet, not long ago ,Andy was also in the Christian news circuit, listed among a set of the most influential Evangelical preachers. Stanley, the son of megachurch and radio preacher Charles Stanley, has piloted NorthPoint Community Church for years, an Atlanta megachurch with some 39,000 people in attendance weekly at its six campuses. He is an author, a traveling public speaker, and used to publish podcasts on leadership to which I would listen, in another life.

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In response to the recent furore over Andy’s April 29th comments about the Old Testament, I watched the YouTube video of the sermon. While indeed it was the case that I found the content of his sermon troubling, even more than that I found the sermon itself—his delivery, style, and manner, to be alarming. Since Stanley is so highly regarded as a preacher, and since I spend a lot of time thinking about preaching, I thought I’d suggest some reasons why we ought not to preach like Andy Stanley. I’ve got three such suggestions today.

#1) Are you Controlling?
Throughout his sermon Stanley repeated two phrases so many times that I lost count. He would assert “Now this is important,” and he would command the audience to “Look up here.” Now, if Stanley had digressed from his main point, and then used phrases like these to gather the congregation back to the main point again, I can see why they might be useful. But that wasn’t the case. Instead, these were deployed in what I can only guess was an attempt to try to keep the congregation’s focus razor sharp on what Stanley was doing at a given moment. They exhibited, to me, what appeared to be a desire for control over the congregation—control over their attention, their minds, their focus for the duration of the service. I think this kind of (attempted) control is really dangerous for preachers.

It is dangerous, among other things, because it creates a climate of distrust and of performance. When a preacher continuously labours to keep your attention, it is because, at heart, he doesn’t believe you’re really listening, because he doesn’t trust you. This opens the door for phrases like Stanley’s, for gimmicks, and for any number of “creative” means for keeping congregations interested (movie clips, song lyrics, images, etc.). It also creates a culture of performance—after all, the really faithful Christians are the ones who hang on every word, who take extensive notes, and who can repeat the points of the sermon easily at lunch after the service. Those who can’t are, by implication, lesser Christians.

I was once at a Youth event with a guest preacher who was a short, muscular, African-American man. As is often the case at weekend Youth events, the youths stay up late fellowshipping, playing, and eating cup noodles (you can pick your own snack, but I was with Asians and cup noodles after midnight are a must-have). After one (or maybe two) such nights, one of my members fell asleep in the back row of the hall where we were meeting. This was unsurprising—not only had he been up late, but he was a generally tired guy. Well, the speaker noted this from the front, and then suddenly left the front, marched to the back, and sat on my member’s lap! He then whispered in his ear (I found this out later), “Do you think you can stay awake now?” From that point on, everybody stayed awake, but when I asked them about it later they told me it was because they were terrified that the muscular speaker might do something to them! He had won his point, but lost his audience in the process.

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When I was a beginning preacher I had an idea of the perfect sermon that looked a lot like what I think is going on in Stanley’s sermon. I thought that the ideal message would keep a congregation spellbound for the duration of the sermon—locked in attention, immobile, perfectly hanging on every word. Toward that end, I used to refuse to give out notes for sermons because I felt that if I were doing my job properly, they wouldn’t need any notes. Then, one Sunday morning, a young woman came up to me after the service and told me that she was seeking God, and enjoyed coming to church, but that sometimes she just couldn’t follow along with the sermons. In that moment I heard God speak to me with impressive clarity. He said, “Jeremy, will you keep this young woman from learning about Me because you have some stupid idea of what a sermon should be like?” I was immediately chastised, and from that time on I always printed and handed out notes for sermons. I also changed my philosophy of preaching. Instead of aiming for the pied-piper spellbound model of sermon, I realized that the very best sermons are when people stop listening to you completely because God is doing something in them. You’ve said something, and they begin to think about their lives, about what it means, about how the Word impacts them. I realized that losing people in this way was way more important than keeping them focused on me. And that meant, last of all, that the best sermons are the ones that provide easy ways for people to get back on board. “On ramps,” we used to call them in Seminary—phrases like, “Back to John 14,” or “Returning to our main point, that Jesus heals today…”—these phrases bring a congregation back to the text, and show how a preacher can guide without being controlling.

#2) Are you Angry?
Another thing stood out to me prominently during the 40-odd minutes of Stanley’s sermon—there wasn’t a lot of joy. There was intensity, focus, and drive—there were moments of elevated energy and a few jokes, but on the whole there was something monochromatic. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that the emotion which dominated Stanley’s sermon was actually anger. Now, anger is a perfectly suitable emotion for a sermon when it is directed at a just cause, or framed by a situation that calls for anger, but throughout this sermon it felt more like anger was the passive, baseline emotion which drove everything along. Not only did I find this really interesting, I realized that it might explain a common preaching phenomenon.

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Are you able to discern the actual line between intensity and anger?

I found this interesting for a number of reasons, not least of them because I’ve been someone who has had to discern and diagnose my own anger, which had become the passive emotional baseline in my own life. When my own anger was undiagnosed, it leaked out through my energy, my creativity, and my relationships. Anger that is unprocessed doesn’t go away—it stays and festers, shaping, distorting, and limiting all other emotions. It took time for me to recognize this pattern and begin to reframe it accordingly.

As I thought about this angry sermon, I had a sudden realization. Preachers often talk about “really feeling it,” or “really preaching.” They may use other words, but it describes the emotional state of being totally engaged in the sermon, of really feeling like you are preaching. Often, preachers will diagnose this experience as a work of the Spirit, moving the preacher to this excited emotional level—furthermore, they often take it as a sign of God’s favour with what they are preaching. But what, I wondered, if many preachers have simply misdiagnosed their anger? What if this heightened emotional state isn’t the rush God’s Spirit, but rather the rush of my own anger? The symptoms would be the same—a sense of energy, of elevation, potentially an adrenaline rush, followed by a subsequent emotional crash. Side effects would be frustration at distractions—a baby crying, a person getting up to use the restroom, or mishaps with sound equipment. Preachers who feel they are “really preaching” are often, to my knowledge, also really keyed up.

The more I’ve thought about this, the more I think it is true. I’ve listened to some of my friends preach, and their sense of ‘feeling it’ is outwardly indistinguishable from anger. Not long ago I listened to Russell Moore’s Erasmus Lecture (for First Things). In it he was affable, brilliant, and prophetic. I decided then to listen to his MLK50 sermon, in which he was, well, angry. If the difference between the first talk and the second was that the second was a sermon, then this seems to confirm my thesis even further.

Russell Moore

There are lots of reasons for pastors to feel angry—their own personal pain, undiagnosed wounds, a sense of the burden of ministry, frustration at members, and so forth. And the truth of the matter is not that pastors ought never to feel angry, but that we’ve got to examine, diagnose, and process it so that it doesn’t leak out into our ministries. Unless anger is specifically called for, I would suggest that the dominant baseline emotions for a preacher ought to be either peace, joy, or a combination of the two.

#3) Are you Preaching Bad Theology?
I think this final question requires the least amount of reflection. As I said earlier, I’ve listened to Stanley’s sermon in full, and I feel that it is deeply theologically troubling. Even a charitable read, which focuses on Stanley’s intentions, leaves much to be desired with regard to Acts 15, the Gentile inclusion in the Church, and the (ongoing!) role of the Old Testament in the moral lives of God’s Church.

The thing is, good theology isn’t Stanley’s primary goal. His primary goal—which he has executed with great effectiveness—is to build a church “where unchurched people love to attend.” As far as it goes, this is a solid goal, and it’s clear that Stanley has succeeded enormously. It is also clear from the content of his sermon that this goal is operating in the background of his theology—his desire to “unhitch” the Old Testament is rooted in the perception that the Old Testament might keep people from coming to faith. In this, he sees the story of Acts 15 and the Gentile inclusion as a kind of snapshot of his own ministry (where the Jerusalem council is also creating a church where un-churched people will love to attend).

Andy Stanley_Old Testament

A screenshot from the April 29 Sermon.

But note—this seems to suggest that Stanley’s theology is being shaped by his vision, rather than his vision being shaped by theology. And this means we’ve got to have some discernment of values. We’ve got to be careful that our local vision for the church doesn’t war against a) the scriptures, b) the creeds, c) the church global. Theology is that funny chimera born within the midst of those three features, and while it is by no means monolithic, it does have a discernible centre. If my desire to create a church were unchurched people love to attend begins to cause me to edit and reshape some of that theological centre, then I’m stepping into enormously dangerous territory. That’s why there is a discernment of values. The Church is allowed enormous, almost astonishing, freedom of local expression, and yet she must maintain her ties to those centres of focus. When “local expressions” begin to trump the orthodox middle, it is then that we’ve got serious problems.

Andy Stanley has a powerful ministry with enormous impact. But don’t be like him. Be like you, and serve where God has planted you, and try to do it without controlling, without a spirit of anger, and in solid theological company.

Orientalism–Some First Thoughts

Orientalism_CoverAs a side-track to my main research (on collective identity) I’ve found myself reading, and enjoying, Edward Said’s Orientalism. The book is both challenging and illuminating, and I thought that I might take advantage of a few blog posts to highlight things I am being driven to think about. Today I want to reflect on the power that questions have to shape a discourse.

One of Said’s central claims in Orientalism is that the concept of the “Oriental” is created by the West, then deployed in discourse with the Orient as a means, often enough, of political, moral, social, and economic change. To put this differently, in the historic dialogue between “east” and “west,” the west has traditionally held the power (for example, European domination), defined all the terms (for example, “oriental”), policed the discussion (e.g., by means of language and dialectic control), and even granted the right to speak—or proscribed it, as the case may be. In short, there has been an unequal relationship between East and West, and this inequality has been woven warp and weft into the Western conceptualization of what it means to be “oriental.” Untangling this weave is Said’s intended goal.

The very nature of discourse between Orient and Occident is, fundamentally, shaped by Occidental conceptions of discourse, and these forces are in turn shaped significantly by the West’s exposure to the Enlightenment with all the attendant clarities and ambiguities freighted by that watershed. Concepts like ‘rationality,’ the self, what constitutes a good, and the human relationship to the natural world, are not neutral givens in such a discourse. All the same, they are deeply held convictions which stand tacitly behind the Western identity—they don’t merely shape questions, they shape the shaping of our questions. Western identity not only generates a certain set of questions which it brings to something ‘outside’ the west, it shapes the how by which such questions are formed in the first place. A key difference between the west and the non-west is in this how by which questions themselves are formed.

What I am getting at is that these features in the western mind that shape the very shaping of questions in turn shape the shaping of answers. When the west, rich in power and self-possessed of its privileged position, queries an outsider culture, the query itself becomes a shaping power in that culture. First, because of the imbalance of power, the weaker culture is forced to provide an answer—and it must be an answer that satisfies the west’s terms. Second, if the weaker culture is incapable of providing such an answer, then the west (traditionally) provides its own answer. Either way, the answer is then retroactively projected on the weaker culture. Together, the answers given—or provided—come to shape the weaker culture’s sense of itself. This, broadly, is what has happened with the concept of “Orientalism”—it is a construct of the West, by the West, and for the West, which has in turn come to shape the self-perception of the East, often with unjust, flattening, distorting, and even violent effects.

Orientalism_Giulio Rosati The Dance

What I am wrestling with, then, is the concept that the type and manner of a given question can come to form and even alter the subject with which it is engaged. This, to me, raises a question about the etiquette of questions. And yet, perhaps such shaping is inevitable. At the quantum level, we are told, the fact that you have looked at and isolated a quantum element itself changes the quantum element. This means that at the most rudimentary level of relationships, our attention always has changing, shaping power over a given subject. If this is the case, and if I can justifiably extend this to bigger discourses, then there are no situations where I might ask a question which will not in some sense shape the answer. In the interplay between knowledge and power, the quest for knowledge will always, in some form, shape and be shaped by the dynamic of power—whether I am a scientist observing butterflies, a policeman querying a prisoner, or a social scientist examining a cultural phenomenon.

If no question can avoid shaping, then the only shaping that remains is the shaping of our etiquette when it comes to questions. How do we query in such a way that invites, opens, expands our mutual understanding, but doesn’t do violence, flatten, distort, or dehumanize? I’ve not reflected on this much, but I have a few intuitions. First among them is one that says listening will be a key component. Am I attending to the cues offered me by the subject I am questioning? Am I striving to really hear the answer offered—or not offered? Am I attentive to text and subtext alike? And am I shaping my own questions relative to the subject?

Another intuition says that I’ll have to think about the kinds of answers I will accept. Have I considered what qualities will constitute a satisfactory answer? Do I hold all the power in terms of granting whether or not an answer qualifies for a satisfactory rating? Am I in possession of sufficient wisdom to know the difference? Thinking about questions and answers in this way makes me think further about situations of public calamity and cries for ‘answers.’ Those who demand answers hold the power of satisfaction for a given answer, and the one who gives an answer, aware of this, is often afraid lest blame be assigned to them in the process. The questioner is not asking for information, but to assign your answer to a category. In such an ethics there are, without doubt, many more categories to examine and nuances to explicate.

Serpent_Le Peche Originel 2

Fascinatingly, the first recorded questions in the Bible exhibit this shaping power of questions. Following the narrative of creation Eve converses with the serpent in the Garden of Eden. The serpent asks a question: “Indeed, has God said, ‘You shall not eat from any tree of the garden’?” The question shapes Eve’s perception—in this case, diabolically—from benevolence to distrust, from contentment to discontentment, from understanding to confusion. The data of Eve’s life to that point is now muddled by a foreign and dangerously imperious invasion, and in her newfound doubt she is susceptible to its argument.

Now note, especially, that when God appears on the scene He also asks a question. The Lord calls to Adam and says, “Where are you?” I like to remind people that God does not ask because He needs the information. He most certainly knows where Adam is, and yet in asking such a question is it possible that God is presenting a different kind of opportunity? That God does not ask for information, but asks so that Adam can reframe himself? Does God’s question shape the situation as well, offering Adam the opportunity to resituate himself relative to this new situation of disobedience? If so, then the right answer might have been, “I am standing outside of Your commandment.” We’ll never know, but the situation certainly bears thinking about.

Schadenfreude and the Psalms

Every Christian who reads the Psalms devotionally is confronted with a dilemma. The Psalms are a book of prayers, of the recorded prayers of the people of God as they recount the various and diverse experiences of their humanity in relationship with God. Thus, recording this intimate conversation between God and His people, the Psalms are heartfelt, and rich, and occasionally quite raw. The raw quality is most evident in what are called the imprecatory Psalms, those prayers that cry out for vengeance. Perhaps you are familiar with some of the language, such as in Psalm 58:6 where David cries out, “Break the teeth in their mouths, O God!” Or consider his ironic request from Psalm 109:17, “He loved to pronounce a curse—may it come back on him.” Or maybe you’ve read the stunning, astonishing prayer of Psalm 137:9, “How blessed will be the one who seizes and dashes your little ones against the rock.” If the Psalms are a book of prayer for God’s people—a book that shapes and forms our emotions for God—then how are we supposed to pray such prayers?

psalm-137-9_throwing-babies

When I was young and didn’t really have enemies, this was merely an academic question. But as I’ve gotten older and gathered opponents, this question has become more pressing. Just the other day an enemy of mine was brought low. This is not a person you know, and, as a matter of fact, it is not someone that I know, either. As is often the case in our world today, this is a person I’ve observed online, and this person had been belligerent, unkind, unwilling to listen to reason, and in the process had actively and publicly deceived the people of God by means of what that person believed to be ministry. When I learned that this person had been brought low, I could not contain a kind of pleasure; it was an emotion the Germans describe as schadenfreude. You’ve probably felt it too at some point, because it describes the pleasure we take at another person’s misfortune.

I take it as axiomatic that a significant part of growth into Christian holiness and maturity is growth into Godly emotions, what Jonathan Edwards termed our affections. I am increasing in holiness not so much when my conduct appears holy (although this is important), but when my inner man loves the things God loves, and hates the things God hates. In this, the Scriptures are to be seen as a book which shape our affections, molding our inner persons to love rightly those things that are most worthy of love. It seems clear to me that the Psalms, perhaps more than any other book, expose us to these primal, ordered, loves and hates after which we must pattern our own affections. With this in mind we might consider Psalm 139—that marvelous poem about God’s loving and creative hand. In God’s hands we are “fearfully and wonderfully made,” and in the record of God’s plan are written “the days that were ordained for me.” Rising in praise, David cries out, “How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!” Indeed, how precious—and many people, I suspect, would prefer it if the Psalm ended there, but the following verses mark a startling turn, because right after this David cries, “O that you would slay the wicked, O God,” and then, “I hate them with the utmost hatred.” Such a reversal of mood might cause a modern reader to wonder if perhaps David were not bipolar. However, when we consider that the Psalms are training our affections, then possibly we can see that the journey from understanding the intensity of God’s loving provision for us, to understanding the intensity of hatred for those things which draw us from that provision of God, is not so distant after all. The more I come to love the things of God, the more I ought, quite naturally, to come to hate the things that He hates as well. This is an essential component of what it means to train our hearts for holiness.

jonathan-edwards

Edwards is unquestionably America’s greatest theologian.

Let’s return now to schadenfreude—the pleasure at someone else’s misfortune. If this is indeed an emotion I experience, then it is one of the emotions which requires shaping by the Scriptures. Do I find warrant for the experience of schadenfreude in the Scriptures? The answer is, in some ways, yes. When Moses composes his song after the destruction of Pharaoh and his army in Exodus 15, the lyrics open with the words, “I will sing to the Lord for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has hurled into the sea,” and a few lines later Moses cries out, “The Lord is a warrior, the Lord is His name.” This is a song of clear exultation at the demise of Pharaoh and his army. The Israelites are singing a song of pleasure at the demise of their enemies. It is an anthem of schadenfreude. This is not the only example. Malachi 4:2-3, exulting in the coming day of the Lord’s judgment, says, “But for you who fear My name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings; and you will go forth and skip about like calves from the stall.” A nice enough image, is it not? But the following verse turns it somewhat grim, “‘You will tread down the wicked, for they will be ashes under the soles of your feet on the day which I am preparing,’ says the Lord of hosts.” The calf is leaping for joy because it is leaping upon the ashes of its enemies!

Does this mean, then, that schadenfreude is one of the emotions I can cultivate on my journey towards Christian holiness? Consider for a moment the curious warning offered in Proverbs 24:17-18, “Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and do not let your heart be glad when he stumbles; 18 Or the Lord will see it and be displeased, and turn His anger away from him.” This appears to be a straightforward warning but gets odder the more you consider it. We are commanded not to rejoice when our enemies fall, and not to let our hearts be glad when he stumbles, and this appears at first like a clear warning against schadenfreude. And yet, look closely at the second clause: the reason the Proverb urges us to restrain from rejoicing is because if we rejoice, God might lay off His punishment of the wicked person. In other words, if my rejoicing will shorten your suffering, then I better keep a straight face so that your suffering will continue longer!

Does this imply that pleasure at another’s misfortune an unqualified good in the Christian life? Not quite. One of the things that is not immediately clear in the Psalms is the way that the experience of exultation—that unique joy at the vindication and revelation of God’s perfect justice—is placed squarely on God’s justice more than on the persons of the wicked. The Psalmist who praises God’s justice has in view God’s justice, not the wicked. The pleasure he experiences is the pleasure of vindication, the pleasure of things being made right. And while there is a piece of that pleasure which, yes, is found in the fittingness of a wicked person receiving his or her comeuppance, I don’t think that this is the primary pleasure we ought to exult in. This is an important distinction. The more I seek the pleasure of witnessing the wicked be brought low, the less I am looking at God’s perfection—in fact, my sight becomes distorted by my undue focus on the wicked themselves (and you should look to Psalm 73 for when this happens). It is David’s focus on God’s goodness that makes him despise the wicked in Psalm 139, not David’s hatred of the wicked that makes him love God more. And it is here, I suspect, that schadenfreude requires Scriptural shaping, shifting its focus from the pleasure at the individual’s misfortune, to pure pleasure at God’s vindication and His revealed, eternal justice.

dawn

“He will make your righteous reward shine like the dawn,
your vindication like the noonday sun.” Psalm 37:6

I don’t know that any of this gets us closer to understanding quite how we are supposed to navigate the complex feelings we have when our enemies receive comeuppance. I can only offer an autobiographical answer. When, the other day, my enemy received a comeuppance, I did experience a moment of vindication, and furthermore, intermingled with that vindication was a feeling of distinct pleasure. I think that, rightly understood, this is merely the reflection of my heart’s inward desire for justice being fulfilled. There is a kind of universal fittingness whenever bad things happen to bad people—it’s the way we are imprinted to believe that the universe works, because we are creatures made with a longing for justice. However, my pleasure was rapidly tempered by a few thoughts. First, I wondered to myself who might feel such pleasure at my downfall? And furthermore, am I certain that I am in the right? And in turn these thoughts gave way to prayer, because I did not wish for the destruction of this person more than I wished for repentance and change on their part. I hoped that the experience would bring about an adjustment in thinking, in attitude, and in public discourse. Critical to recognize for the Christian who wishes to grow in holiness is that it will be difficult to experience full-blown schadenfreude when you are praying for your enemies and blessing those who persecute you. Heartfelt prayer means that my intentions toward all the individuals in my life, those with whom I agree as well as those with whom I disagree, means that I am eager for all of their difficult experiences to bear fruit in greater repentance, more Christlikeness, and real, lasting change.

In the end, it seems to me that the right ordering of the experience of schadenfreude is to ensure that my exultation and rejoicing are situated more upon the inevitability of God’s justice than it is on the suffering of the person. Should I look to rejoice in the visible displays of God’s justice? Most certainly, and rightly, and it is good and meet so to do. And yet we must be ever cautious to ensure that our pleasure gives way to compassion, concern, personal reflection, and deeper prayer.

Diagnosing Deception—How Can I Know I’m Not Deceived?

At this moment, in the Church, there are large groups of people who are cripplingly, trenchantly, blindingly deceived. This must be the case, because groups who both claim to be Christian claim mutually contradictory positions to be true. Is Jesus the only way to salvation, or are there equally valid alternatives? Does Christ come to make us healthy and wealthy, or is suffering part of his plan for humans? Does our increase in knowledge mean that our approach to sexual ethics must change as well? Does God bless homosexual unions or not? Abraham Lincoln, reflecting on the divided morality of the Civil War, had this to say: “The will of God prevails. In great contests each party claims to act in accordance with the will of God. Both may be, and one must be, wrong. God cannot be for and against the same thing at the same time.” Either Jesus is the only way or he is not, either health and wealth is true or it is not, and either God blesses homosexuality or He does not. There can be no middle ground between them.

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As I see it, however, the really troubling factor sits deeper than a disagreement about doctrine (although doctrine does indeed matter). The real question—the real nugget of the problem—is that both sides in each debate claim to be following God’s Spirit. Both sides claim to have the same religiously derived affirmation, the same spiritual sense that they are right. Both sides are reading the same Bible, claim to pray to the same Being, and experience religious feelings that validate their positions accordingly. If God is not a contradiction, then one side must necessarily be deceived.

Last month I read a chapter of Jeremiah each morning and night. I was struck, again and again and again at Jeremiah’s uncompromising rejection of falsehood—false prophets, false teachers, those who mislead Israel. His words, speaking for God in Jeremiah 23:31-32, stood out as a particularly clear example,

31 “Behold, I am against the prophets,” declares the Lord, “who use their tongues and declare, ‘The Lord declares.’ 32 Behold, I am against those who have prophesied false dreams,” declares the Lord, “and related them and led My people astray by their falsehoods and reckless boasting; yet I did not send them or command them, nor do they furnish this people the slightest benefit,” declares the Lord.

How can I know that I’m not deceived? If two sides both appeal to the same sets of feelings and data to bolster our mutually contradictory positions, how can we navigate between them? And rather than asking how I can know I’m right, what factors can give me confidence that I’m not a false prophet operating against the Lord?

lost-at-sea

The place to begin, if we would have clarity on the issue of deception, is through diagnosing deception itself. In this, I think there might be four components which contribute to deception. The first is that deception is rooted in the corrupted heart. Jeremiah 17:9 states it clearly and simply, The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick; Who can understand it?” Every thought, motive, and action of the human heart is to some degree corrupted by a layer of deception. No human has ever had a perfectly pure motive in his or her life. Even our best motives—to acts of generosity or love or sacrifice—are flavored however momentarily by the lurking desire for rewards and recognition. How much more our middling or base desires? We are sneaky and self-deceiving creatures, eager to make ourselves look good, eager to gloss over our misdeeds and elevate the goods we perceive of ourselves. Solzhenitsyn, writing in his Gulag Archipelago, famously said that “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” G.K. Chesterton, responding to a newspaper inquiry on the topic of “What’s Wrong with the World,” responded, briefly and poignantly: “Dear Sirs,” he wrote, “I am. Yours, G.K. Chesterton.”

Because the heart is deceived, this means that our feelings about whether or not we are right are also deceived. The heart is deceitful above all else, therefore the ratifications of my heart are also subject to this overarching deceptive power. This means that the feeling that I am right about something is in itself insufficient. A couple of examples might clarify this further.

solzhenitsyn_timePreachers (like me) often describe a certain sensation while preaching—it is a strong sense of feeling that rushes to enlarge the preacher and his rhetoric with a sense of divine power. We might call this the “preacher’s spirit,” a rising feeling of being “in the spirit” that comes over us. But the trouble with this feeling is that while I might feel it, and feel that I am really preaching the true gospel, I can listen to another preacher who is also feeling it but preaching the opposite of the gospel! There are very bad preachers—bad in doctrine, bad in rhetorical technique—who nevertheless feel the same rush of the preacher’s spirit. We can only conclude that the preacher’s spirit is an unreliable measure of the teacher’s validity.

Another area of confusion is related to the conscience. Many people appeal to their conscience as indication of their religious orthodoxy—what conscience permits, and doesn’t permit, is considered to be a good indicator of right and wrong. Many Christians even claim that their conscience is virtually the same as the Holy Spirit. The problem is that the conscience, although a genuine moral indicator, is deeply culturally formed. I work in an Asian context, and for my many Asian peers it is unthinkable—indeed unconscionable—to walk into a person’s house wearing your shoes. But this is clearly a trained behaviour, and not a divine mandate. On the opposite side of the matter, there are many things to which my conscience registers no opposition whatsoever, but which the Spirit of God interjects His insistent voice (an unkind thought, an improper look, and so forth). Many Christians have simply neglected the training of the conscience, and in the process have come to believe that they have a relationship with the Holy Spirit when in fact they simply have a relationship with their conscience.

The overarching point remains the same, that our feelings—religious, conscientious, or otherwise—are unreliable guides to truth because of our deceptive heart.

This brings us to the second component, which is that deception originates in the corrupted will. Here I think we can helpfully revisit Eve’s decision in Genesis 3:6, When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was desirable to make one wise, she took from its fruit and ate; and she gave also to her husband with her, and he ate. Eve’s choice was a choice against God’s plan—a choice for personal desire, a choice that placed the human will in priority over God’s. It was, in essence, the choice to cling to God’s gifts—the garden, the fruit—but in a way that rejected God as the giver of gifts. Eve confused the gift with the giver, and that act of self-deception was the inaugurating moment for all our subsequent self-deceptions.

Eve and Serpent

The act of placing desire in priority over obedience birthed a confusion that continues to plague us at almost every valence of human life. We are confused beings, often incapable of making moral choices because our inflamed desires war against our capacity to will rightly. One particular expression of this corruption in our faulty reasoning is in the way that we regularly conclude that possession of a gift is license to use the gift. We see this expressed vividly in life itself, sex, and the spiritual gifts. God gives us life—it is a gift—but in giving it we are not licensed to use it however we please. God gives us sex—it is His great and good idea!—and yet He does not license us to use it how we please, but specifically limits and proscribes its use. And God gives us spiritual gifts as well—preaching, teaching, prophecy, and so forth—but the presence of the gift is not therefore license to use it. The gifts must be used under the permission of God and in accordance with His will. When we assume that God’s gifts are ours to use apart from His permission—when we assume that the presence of the gift is itself permission—then we repeat the sin of Eve.

A third component in diagnosing deception is to recognize that deception thrives in a validating community. In Paul’s words from 1 Corinthians 15:33, “Bad company corrupts good character.” In time, such company, uncritically evaluated, can lead the believer astray on a vector angled far from God. The reason for this is because communities—especially the self-elected community of friendship—give us power and permission for our desires. We all have friends to whom we turn when feeling sad, or friends to whom we look when we want to have fun. But in the same way we are also aware of times we have turned to certain friends because in their company we experience a kind of permission for bad behaviour—friends with whom we can get drunk, or cause trouble, or gossip, or whatever. In this way, good communities bolster good behaviours, but bad communities reinforce bad behaviours. This is more than simply an echo-chamber effect, it is the magnification of the will’s corruption through companionship giving license to the illicit.

Dead Flower_Pinterest

Bad company, like bad conditions, kills life.

I am reminded here of the chilling words from 1 Kings 22:19-23, when King Ahab, knowing that many of his own prophets were unreliable, demanded that Micaiah, a known prophet of the Lord, speak the truth to him.

19 Micaiah said, “Therefore, hear the word of the Lord. I saw the Lord sitting on His throne, and all the host of heaven standing by Him on His right and on His left. 20 The Lord said, ‘Who will entice Ahab to go up and fall at Ramoth-gilead?’ And one said this while another said that. 21 Then a spirit came forward and stood before the Lord and said, ‘I will entice him.’ 22 The Lord said to him, ‘How?’ And he said, ‘I will go out and be a deceiving spirit in the mouth of all his prophets.’ Then He said, ‘You are to entice him and also prevail. Go and do so.’ 23 Now therefore, behold, the Lord has put a deceiving spirit in the mouth of all these your prophets; and the Lord has proclaimed disaster against you.”

Not only was a deceptive spirit at work, but the community of prophets created a validating community which ensured that the deception would remain unexamined and unchecked.

These three factors, then, show the origins of deception—that I choose the thing I want, then validate it with both my emotions and in community. The result of this spiral of deception is the fourth factor in deception—deception bears fruit by redefining God. Psalm 50:21 powerfully describes this attitude, when God saysThese things you have done and I kept silence; You thought that I was just like you. When we give priority to our deceptive hearts, then the end result is that we attempt to form God into our own image, into our own likeness. We shape our theology, our ideas of God, and our interpretations of experiences so that we favor our deceived perspective. We choose our theology over God’s reality, create golden calves to worship and call them Yahweh. Instead of being formed after His likeness, we turn Him into a vile projection of our own wicked desires. He becomes the licensing agent of our own perversions, servant of our lusts, sanctifier of human dissolution and decay.

Golden Calf

To some degree, we each have traveled down all of these deceptive paths—we have listened to our deceptive hearts, we have chosen God’s gifts over God Himself, we have appealed to validating communities to give permission to our choices, and we have redefined God to an image that favors us in the process. Clearly, the first step in preventing self-deception must be to acknowledge my propensity towards deception.

What can be done, then, to prevent further self-deception? Above all else I will require something from outside myself, an outside help. If deception is rooted in the heart, then I require something external to help straighten things out. I am reminded, then, of Jesus’ words in the sixth beatitude, that “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” This is, of course, an impossibility—how can I ever have a pure heart so that I can see God? I cannot—but perhaps the inverse is then true, that those who look to God will be purified in heart. The implication would be that a sustained gaze at God is necessary to purify our sight, our hearts, and our minds—that under the illumination of the vision of God our self-deceptions are in time consumed.

This looking to God is an iconoclasm that takes two forms, and these two forms are two treatments for deception represented in two commitments. The first is a commitment to pursue God as He really is, and not as I want Him to be. This is an attitude of submission to God which permits Him always to define Himself to us, to startle us, to make Himself Lord and master of our perceptions of Him. In this, we reject all our ideas of God in favor of God Himself, all our best thoughts about God are submitted to Him for His own personal review. I am reminded of what C.S. Lewis writes in A Grief Observed. Grieving the loss of his wife, Lewis had become frustrated with the fake images of her embedded in his mind. He didn’t want the image of Joy, he wanted Joy; He didn’t want his idea of God, but God. Not our silly and haphazard constructs of divine ideas, wood and paper and tape and paint—but the real thing.

Lewis and Joy Gresham

In this, the Christian who would be undeceived must maintain a sustained gaze at God, seeking Him and nothing less than Him, craving, longing, desperate to see the fullness of His glory, majesty, presence, and being. This will require a commitment to God’s self-revelation in Scripture. After all, if my heart is deceived, then my heart’s idea of God is also likely to be deceived. I need an idea from outside my heart, and that idea is found in Scripture. How God has revealed Himself in time is of greatest importance when we are filtering out our own, broken ideas of who God is. Such a commitment to the whole of God will also mean not choosing one section of Scripture over another, not putting God in a war with God by placing love in contrast with judgment, or holiness in contrast with mercy. Such a commitment over time means that the more we look at God, the more we permit Him to shape our affections, emotions, wants, and desires.

The second form of this iconoclasm is a commitment to pursue reality as it really is, and not as I want it to be. This is a rejection of subjectivism, of projecting on the world my own desires, of permitting reality itself to be iconoclastic. Proverbs 12:22 says that Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who deal faithfully are His delight. God considers deliberate falsehood an abomination—it is even enshrined in the ninth commandment that we shall not bear false witness. To act as a false witness, in a court of law, is to contribute to the murder of an innocent person. When we bear false witness toward the world, we commit a kind of murder against the truth. It is a lie where we read the world as we want it to be, and not as it really is. It is, again, an extension of the lie of Eve, who chose God’s creation over God’s will, who chose her version of the world over God’s revealed version of the world.

Again, the Christian who would be undeceived must choose a fundamentally iconoclastic posture of approach to the world. In epistemological humility I must refuse to map my own perceptions onto the world, I must reject subjectivism, I must suffer reality to veto and break my initial judgments and perceptions. Against the choice of Eve, I commit to rejecting all gifts in exchange for the giver. St. Augustine’s famous prayer is illuminating here as well, “O Lord, The house of my soul is narrow; enlarge it that you may enter in.” Break down my old understanding, my own weak and foolish constructs, and reveal to me the magnificence and fullness of who You really are.

st_augustine_hippo_24

In the early Church, during the era in which the Nicene Creed was being composed, the Church was very nearly overrun by a grand deception. Followers of Arius argued that Jesus was not actually God, but merely the best of God’s creatures. For a time, it looked as if the Arians would win the day—they had the support of a majority of the Christian world and of the Emperor as well. But by grace Arianism was defeated, made subject in the end to the revealed truth of who God is, and especially to Who He is in Christ. We may face similar deceptions today, and they may sweep across the highest echelons of the Church so that even the elect are deceived and the entire ship of the Church appears to all to be off course. And yet through it all God Himself will never be deceived, cannot be deceived. The truth remains unchanged by human fickleness. In the meantime, both sides may be wrong, and one most certainly is! May God strengthen His people to seek to be undeceived, to settle for nothing less than the fullness of Him and Him alone.

Of Orlando and the Ordering of Love

Boiled down, the primary issue between the LGBTQ community and the Church is not a matter of sexuality but of love—of the definition, the rights, the responsibilities, and above all the ordering, of love.

caution-out-of-order-sign-1045The central problem in the LGBTQ community is one of disordered love. The central witness of the Christian Church is a call to ordered love. The ongoing confusion in the Church’s formal response to the LGBTQ community is in its failure to properly disambiguate love. Quite naturally, we ought to anticipate conflict where a group anchored in ordered love comes into contact with a group espousing disordered love. But the elements of confusion and outright deception thrive when the Christian fails to comprehend the complexity of his own loves. No one is served well when we fail to understand love.

This confusion was on clear display in the aftermath of Omar Mateen’s furious June 12th rampage at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, to which vocal outpourings of Christian support flowed. Hasty judgments affixed blame on the Christian Church for the shooting (Mateen was in fact Muslim), then on ISIS (he shouted allegiance to that group at one point), and by proxy on all who oppose the LGBTQ agenda (specifically, religions). Time, however, revealed a different story, and in point of fact the shooter was himself a patron of the club, and reports indicate that he himself engaged in homosexual sex. Whatever the causes that led to this horror, they were far more complex than anyone perceived at first, and yet the kneejerk activity of the Christian world produced a bleak poverty of reflective response, a plethora of shibboleth solidarity, and a profound failure to be “quick to hear, slow to speak, and slow to become angry” (James 1:19). In haste to show a certain kind of love—civil solidarity—Christians failed to acknowledge the complexity of what we mean by love.

A community which espouses disordered love loves the wrong things in the wrong ways. Put differently, to live out disordered love means that some good love (in this case, sexual love), is placed in a position of priority over other loves. In this circumstance, sexuality is crowned king and made to rule all other loves. The Christian witness claims that sexual love, an implicit and God-given good, is meant to serve other loves, not rule them. The love of God receives the position of authority, and all sexual love must be brought into subservience to that love. This is the primary point of conflict between the LGBTQ agenda and the Christian faith.

Pyramid_Kheops

You have to have the right part at the base, or the rest of the structure will fail.

Disordered love renders the fulfillment of love impossible. A person who places a false love at the centre of life is incapable of achieving fulfillment. She might achieve ecstasy, or a feeling of temporary euphoria, or a sense of liberation, but in time all false loves will degrade to despair. Disordered love also warps perception, because a single love misplaced distorts other loves. This accounts for the excessive role that acceptance and affirmation play in the LGBTQ community. Idolizing sexuality as central to identity—to such a degree that there is little identity apart from sexuality—generates the all-or-nothing need for acceptance. If all you are is your sexuality, and someone questions your sexuality, then that person has actually questioned all that you are; there is no other part to you that can be questioned. In disorder you have collapsed your identity into a single facet. Acceptance in time becomes the single greatest demand, because the LGBTQ individual has wagered his whole identity on the affirmation of this disordered love. Deny him that love and you have denied his existence.

Such high stakes highlight the necessity of extreme care when the Church addresses the LGBTQ community. At the same time, the implicit danger of affirmation is that to extend friendship, or “solidarity,” can be taken as complete and unequivocal acceptance. LGBTQ individuals are persons who, desperately hungry for love, have adopted strategies that actively remove them from the fulfillment of love. The Church contributes to this inevitable and eventual despair when it fails to account for the deeper need. When the Church offers unconditional acceptance it contributes to the destruction of souls. In a tragic way, to offer “affirmation” or “acceptance” to a self-identified LGBTQ person is like offering beer to a recovering alcoholic. The drug will fail to resolve the addiction.

broken-glasses

The break fractures perception.

In a letter on the 18th of February, 1954, C.S. Lewis wrote the following about disambiguating our loves,

Charity means love. It is called Agapë in the N.T. to distinguish it from Eros (sexual love), Storgë (family affection), and Philia (friendship). So there are 4 kinds of ‘love’, all good in their proper place, but Agapë is the best because it is the kind God has for us and is good in all circumstances. (There are people I mustn’t feel Eros towards, and people I can’t feel Storge or Philia for: but I can practise Agape to God, Angels, Man & Beast, to the good & the bad, the old & the young, the far and the near.)

The Christian is called to express charity (Agape) to all persons—this is the love that most clearly images God’s love. And yet, Lewis warns, we must not exhibit Eros or Philia toward the world, if only because “friendship with the world is enmity toward God” (James 4:4). This tension raises two difficulties in loving others well. The first trouble in communicating Christian love to non-Christians is to love without friendship, to love without approval or allegiance, to love without an affiliation of causes; to love both wisely and with discernment. This requires a commitment to extend God’s love to an individual while acknowledging that our aims are fundamentally different; so different, in fact, that we have no concord or relationship whatsoever in our ideals or aims; that, in point of fact, I hold your ideals and aims to be foundationally inimical to the Kingdom of God. This is, decidedly, a love that does not affirm.

The second trouble lies in articulating what is meant by loving with God’s divine, Agape love. How are we meant to go about Agape-ing people? God, who is Love, must Himself be the defining arbiter of the meaning of love; we look to Him to discover the meaning of Agape. But this brings us to a discomforting place, because the love of God exhibits itself most clearly in an act of horror and rejection—Agape is cruciform. God is Love, and Love is a cross, and therefore Love somehow contains judgment, death, and punishment. The Love of God is not an act of uncritical acceptance, but acceptance at great personal cost, acceptance which demands acknowledgement, change, and submission on the part of the recipient. This is the fundamental—even crucial—place where our loves are ordered. We come to God with self in priority, and love of self regnant; we submit at the cross to the love of God, crucifying the self and self-love, and allowing God’s self-giving love to take the throne. Thus, salvation is free but demanding once received, and acceptance of God’s true Love generates hatred of the unlovely. Ordered love hates the usurping love which seeks to drag the soul back into corruption and despair.

St_George

In the story of St. George and the Dragon, the Dragon is actually the body, brought into submission to God’s way.

Orthodox Christianity can not, does not, must not, never has, and never will affirm the LGBTQ lifestyle, and any who do so but claim to follow Christ have compromised on the central witness of the Christian faith. They worship the god of love, but he is a god of their own manufacture, because his love is defined by their loves. Their expressions of love are idolatrous because they elevate their human perceptions of love in priority over God’s self-revelation of love. They have projected upon God their own perceptions, their own follies, and to them God says, “You thought that I was altogether like you” (Psalm 50:21). They are disordered in their thinking, and the result is confusion and eventual despair. They claim to follow God, but know Him not. They claim to love but have rejected the cross.

Returning to Orlando—but not Orlando because it is a matter for the world—what does it look like to love the LGBTQ community? How do you love without affirming? How do you offer an open door without acceptance? Three guidelines might help:

First, the difficulty of the Christian witness must be acknowledged. Christian love cuts against the grain of the world’s love. These loves are not the same, and the Church does neither the world, nor itself, a service when it confuses its commitments to love. Faithful Christianity is a difficult thing difficultly upheld. A commitment to orthodoxy is never easy. Christians must therefore resist the urge to affirm what should not be affirmed, to accept what must not be accepted.

Second, Christians must faithfully order our own loves so that our witness will not be compromised. If Agape is truly our call, then we must exhibit it in visibly cruciform living. The logs in our own eyes must be faithfully expunged as we approach our neighbors for the logs and specks in theirs.

Third, Christians must carefully strive to know our truths and understand our own hearts. Jeremiah proclaims that “the heart is deceitful above all else” (17:9). Unchecked, we will allow our passions to influence our commitment to truth. Love is more pain than pleasure, and commitment to truth is never accommodation. God’s truth is unchanging, God’s love is unchanging, but we, when we fail to seek both of these, fall short of our call to be images of God in the world, and in the worst case we become deceivers, even of the elect.