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?

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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?

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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.

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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.

Scofield’s Abominable Study Bible

I love the Bible, but I’ve hated reading it this past year, and the reason for my hatred has been C.I. Scofield.

By my count, I’ve now read through the entire Bible five or six times. I’ve read through the New International Version two or three times—once in High School when my faith came alive, once (I believe, but I’m not certain) in College, and once again in Seminary. When I was ordained I read it again, but this time for variety I read the New Living Translation. Afterwards, I read through the New American Standard, which is the version I personally use for preaching today. Last year, wanting to read still another translation, and always planning to spend time in the most famous of translations, I set myself to read the King James. The experience has been most miserable.

Scofield_Handsome VolumeThe edition I’ve read was a gift from my grandparents back in 1998 (likely a graduation present) and is quite handsome to look at—a hefty, burgundy leather volume with gold edges. It feels nice to open, and sits nicely in the lap, and looks impressive on my shelf, although its bulk rendered it inconvenient for travel so that I quickly found myself reading it only at home during my morning devotions. Devotions are meant to be a time of stillness before the Lord, a daily period of attentiveness to the word where we seek to hear His voice and attune ourselves to His presence throughout the day. They are not, as a rule, a good time for experimental reading, and yet into my efforts to engage the King James text an unsolicited voice kept inserting itself, noisily, bombastically, irritatingly. It was the voice of C.I. Scofield.

ScofieldCyrus Ingerson Scofield was a civil war veteran who came to Christian faith as an adult, later pastoring churches in Dallas and Massachusetts. Affiliated with D.L. Moody, Scofield later began work on his reference Bible, through which he popularized a new system of theological interpretation called “Dispensationalism,” developed by an Anglo-Irish man named John Nelson Darby. When Scofield’s Bible was published in 1909, at a time of great expectation about the end of the world, his interpretive matrix took fundamentalism by storm, quickly becoming one of the best selling Bibles in history. This is the Bible that created “The Thief in the Night,” Hal Lindsay, Christian Zionism, and Left Behind. In other words, it is the Bible which has dominated a very visible portion of the Christian imagination for the last 100 years.

In full knowledge of this, for over a year I pressed through with my reading—once through each book, four times through the Psalms, 1377 pages in total, countless marginal notes and footnotes. I read every word (and whether I’m a fool or a glutton for punishment has yet to be determined), and I read the whole thing partly because my dear deceased grandparents had given me the Bible. Ditching it felt a bit like ditching them.

The first of my problems with the Bible were its invasive edits into the text. Scofield (or possibly 1967 editors) had taken it upon himself to update a selection of language in the King James. But rather than offer marginal notes explaining difficult language, the text has forcibly replaced the “difficult” words with edits, and the reader must look to the margins to find the original. Many of these are completely unnecessary—for example, “nigh” has been replaced with “near,” “suffer” with “permit,” and “rent” with “torn.” These alterations are unnecessary, and have the effect of reducing some of the majesty of the text. After all, I’m not reading the King James because I want it to be a modern book. But every five to ten verses or so there was notation that indicated a word had been changed. This made reading a constant battle between the text and the margins.

Scofield_Text DetailBut Scofield’s Reference Notes are where the real grievances emerge, and I’ll narrow my vast,  overwhelming, and yearlong discontent to three categories of offense. A first offence is that the notes reveal an agenda other than opening the text. Scofield’s notes, by and large, don’t illuminate the text (which is the primary purpose of a Bible with study notes, as far as I’m concerned). There is a spirit of defensiveness in Scofield’s notes—he comes out swinging at a number of imaginary opponents, eager to defend the text against all foes. Notes then exist to engage in a fight to which the reader may or may not have any awareness. Just now, flipping through at random, I opened to Micah 4, where the footnote from verse 1 says the following:

Micah 4:1-3 and Isa. 2:2-4 are practically identical. The Spirit of God gave both prophets the same revelation because of its surpassing importance. It is impossible to prove that either prophet was quoting the other.

Here we can easily imagine Scofield’s perceived nemeses—those who would claim that the Bible is not, somehow, perfectly inspired (because Micah might have borrowed from Isaiah). So the note exists not to illuminate what Micah might be saying in chapter four, but to argue with an imaginary opponent who might claim that because there is a similarity between Micah 4 and Isaiah 2 the Bible is somehow falsified. Scofield’s way through this difficulty is to appeal to the Spirit’s revelation to both men—which certainly might be the case, but also does not have to be the case. And yet anchoring the Bible in Spiritual authority fits within Scofield’s underlying program of rendering the Bible impervious to various “modern” attacks. The agenda for the vast majority of notes is similarly cantankerous and argumentative, and regularly fails to open the text for interpretation. The dominant spirit is one of protection, not illumination.

 

Scofield_Nice on the Shelf

It looks so nice on the shelf. I guess you can’t judge a book by its formatting.

A second offence is that the notes reveal a fundamentally flawed methodology. When Scofield does interpret the text, he interprets it quite badly. As one example, consider his comments on Leviticus 2:1-11, where Moses describes the “recipe” for grain offerings in the tabernacle. Scofield writes:

The meal offering: (1) fine flour speaks of the evenness and balance of the character of Christ, of that perfection in which no quality was in excess, none lacking; (2) fire, of His testing by suffering, even unto death; (3) frankincense, of the fragrance of His life before God (see Ex.30:34, note); (4) absence of leaven, of His character as ‘the truth’ (Jn.14:6, cp. Ex.12:8, marg.); (5) absence of honey—His was not that mere natural sweetness which may exist quite apart from grace; (6) oil mingled, of Christ as born of the Holy Spirit (Mt.1:18-23); (7) oil upon, of Christ as baptized with the Spirit (Jn.1:32; 6:27); (8) the oven, of the unseen sufferings of Christ—His inner agonies (Mt.27:45-46; Heb.2:18); (9) the pan, of His more evident sufferings (e.g. Mt.27:27-31); and (10) salt, of the pungency of the truth of God—that which arrests the action of leaven.

This is an interpretive attitude that operates under the assumption that no text has value if it does not somehow point to Christ. The recipe in the text cannot be, simply, a recipe for a grain offering—it has to be something else. And while there might be a kind of devotional benefit in meditating on what the different elements of the grain offering represent, this interpretation stretches the bounds of reason by forcing the reader to interpret the text artificially. Meaning is in this way critically divorced from context.

An even clearer example is in Psalm 40, where David sings about waiting for the Lord and experiencing His salvation. To this Psalm Scofield offers the following interpretive comment:

The 40th Psalm speaks of Messiah, the Lord’s Servant obedience unto death. The Psalm begins with the joy of Christ in resurrection (vv. 1-2). He has been in the horrible pit of the grave but has been brought up. Verses 3-5 are His resurrection testimony, His “new song.”

Let’s be clear—Psalm 40 might be speaking about Jesus, but it most certainly is speaking about David first. This kind of “interpretation” places the whole meaning of the Psalm on its fulfillment in Christ, but it also by proxy eliminates our own engagement with the song. By being purely about Jesus, it can no longer be about us, and this is one of the effects of Scofield’s readings—when he interprets a text, his meaning eliminates personal application. Knowing what it’s “about” reduces our own responsibility to read the text devotionally. It is a kind of knowledge that replaces obedience.

A third offence is that the notes expose a theology that reads the Scriptures. This is one of my greatest pet-peeves, especially because I have such a great love of the Word. It is the attitude of a reader or interpreter who has forfeited his capacity to read the text for itself in favor of reading it through the lens of his preferred theological construct. In this, theology reads the Scriptures, rather than Scripture governing theology. This has a double effect on the reading of the Bible—on the one hand, when such a reader approaches the Bible, he is often looking, not for a fresh hearing of God’s voice, but for a confirmation of his preexisting theology. On the other hand, when such a reader encounters passages that don’t fit his or her preconceptions, those passages are often ignored or explained away. The lens of the theological construct, in other words, blocks the reader from perceiving God’s word as it is.

In Leviticus 16:6, where the text makes mention of atonement, Scofield offers the following note and comment about the theological principle of atonement:

Atonement. The Biblical use and meaning of the word must be sharply distinguished from its use in theology. In the O.T., atonement is the English word used to translate the Hebrew words which mean cover, coverings, or to cover. Atonement is, therefore, not a translation of the Hebrew but a purely theological concept.

What does it mean to “sharply distinguish” the Biblical use of a word from its theological use? Is that even possible? Doesn’t the theological use derive all of its meaning from the word’s use in Scripture? But here theology reads the text, rather than the text informing theology, and this kind of reading encourages a student to establish his own theological framework and then apply that liberally to the text. We believe what we think, then we read the text accordingly.

And, of course, the single greatest, ongoing, overarching element of this in Scofield’s Reference Bible is the issue of Dispensationalism, which is a massively unhelpful, thoroughly human, unhistorical, and false theological construct into which Scofield’s Scriptures are made to fit no matter what. The chief problem with Dispensationalism, however, remains one of methodology—it is a theology that reads the Scriptures, rather than the Scriptures reading the theology.

Dispensationalism Chart

The chart reads the text, rather than the text critiquing the chart.

I still love the Bible—in fact, it is precisely because I love the Bible that I hate what Scofield has done to it. And, as a matter of fact, I should say, in an attempt to separate the King James from Scofield’s foibles, that there’s nothing particularly wrong with the King James Version. And yet after a year in the text I can’t say that there’s anything particularly commendable about it either. For my part I am unconcerned about archaic language, and I find that alternative wordings very often illuminate texts in fresh ways. The single biggest problem I have with the King James itself is versification and the lack of paragraphs. Paragraphs, not verses, are the primary unit of thought, and when a Bible decontextualizes its own text for the sake of an artificial and arbitrary versification, this inhibits the proper reading of the text. In other words, when I approach a passage visually and expect that each verse is a unit of meaning, I from the start am not attending to the contextual meaning. Yet context is king, and therefore the versification of the King James militates against meaning. This is a fairly serious problem, and we see its continuing influence in modern theology today. In part, it makes a thing like Dispensationalism possible.

As far as readability goes, the Psalms are the litmus test of a translation for me. They have been my constant devotional companion for more than ten years now, and so even as I read straight through the rest of the Bible, I would work my way through the Psalms again and again. The first reading was wretched, the second was unmemorable, but I found that by the third reading through the Psalms I was enjoying them in the King James again. One key was my ability, after the first readings, to willfully ignore Scofield’s notes. Another was my increasing familiarity with their language. But four read-throughs is a steep price to pay for general comprehension, and I see no good reason to recommend the KJV to any new Christian.

Scofield_Top ViewThe past year has been difficult devotionally, and I can say with confidence that the Scofield Reference Bible is by far the worst Bible I have ever experienced. Will I read the King James again? Quite possibly–in fact, I’ve chosen to work my way through the Psalms again, and am reading the Sermon on the Mount as well. But I will purposefully avoid all those abominable notes at the bottom of the page, and thus save myself from further angst, frustration, and despair.

Boaz, Ruth, and Why There is No Such Thing as 20 Minutes of Action

Brock-turner-mugshot-large-teaseThe internet has been aflame these past weeks with outrage over the trial and sentencing of Brock Turner, convicted of raping an unconscious woman behind a Stanford dumpster. Adding fuel to the indignation, Turner has received a startlingly lenient sentence (six months, only three of which he is likely to serve). The episode has ripped wide the cultural wounds around rape, rape culture, privilege, and sexual freedom, and nothing in this story is pretty, or clear, or particularly satisfying. Of particular outrage has been the release of several character statements, one of which was provided by Turner’s father, in which he petitioned for a lenient sentence for his son on the grounds that his current sense of experiencing despair is “a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.”

There is something extraordinarily troubling about the father’s logic. It is not, contrary to the waves of internet fury, that the father does not sufficiently condemn his son’s actions. The purpose of the court-requested statement is to provide character witnesses in establishing sentencing. In this, the father is simply performing his duty to the court, and who but the most hard-hearted of fathers would fail to put their child in a positive light? And although the phrase “20 minutes of action” rings as insensitive, I don’t believe the father means “action” as a euphemism for sex, but rather “activity.” The father is arguing that the boy’s actions for 20 minutes ought not to determine the course of the rest of his life. But in some ways this is even worse. Is this how we evaluate actions? Does brevity of time automatically mitigate the extent to which we lay blame? Is it quantifiably better if it is only, say, 20 minutes of murder, or 20 minutes of pillaging, or 20 minutes of child abuse, or 20 minutes of torture? What do 20 minutes actually mean to a murdered body, a raped woman, or an abused child? Time, in these circumstances, is a flimsy point of negotiation. And the deep locus of the troubling logic here is in the fact that there simply is no such thing as “20 minutes of action.”

Brock Turner and Family

(Dan Honda/Bay Area News Group)

Let’s briefly review the circumstances as we know them. The assailant did not know the victim. Both had been drinking heavily, and sometime after the woman left the party she passed out behind a dumpster. There, Turner found her later and took advantage of her. He was caught in the act by two passing Swedes who sensed that something was amiss, chased him down, and restrained him until the police arrived. We must ask, at this point, To which 20 minutes is the father appealing in this story? The twenty minutes when his boy looked in the mirror before the party that night? The twenty minutes spent throwing back shots of alcohol? The twenty minutes of walking around looking for action? Or the twenty minutes in which he physically assaulted an unconscious woman? Are we to believe that the choice to take advantage of a prone woman is a happenstance occurrence, like finding a $20 bill on the ground and picking it up? Or do we believe that there is a deeper element of character which is formed much before the action takes place? It seems clear that, in reality, the choices which led to this scenario began well before the party, the drinking, and the rape. In this way, situations do not create character so much as reveal it.

The story of Boaz and Ruth contains some remarkable similarities to the Stanford case. Ruth is the widowed, Moabite daughter-in-law of Naomi, who has returned with her mother-in-law to Israel during a time of economic hardship. Politically and economically powerless, they discover a measure of protection and grace under the supervision of Boaz, an upright landowner and man of God. Realizing that Boaz is a relative close enough to redeem (restore) the family, Naomi petitions Ruth to get herself dressed up and meet Boaz under cover of darkness, after he has made an end of “eating and drinking.” The evening is the night of the harvest festival, a time typically of celebration and alcohol consumption, and we can presume in Boaz a state of some inebriation. Ruth approaches Boaz, sleeping alone at the threshing floor, and “uncovers his feet.” This sounds innocent enough in English, but in Hebrew this is a euphemism for uncovering much more than his feet—it is actually the full uncovering of one’s private parts; if you will, it is the action one takes before going to the bathroom. Boaz awakens, then, in the middle of the night, alone, naked, likely having drunk alcohol, and finding a beautiful young woman effectively offering herself to him. It is at this moment that Boaz’s character will be tested and proved, because at this moment Boaz has every earthly “right” to take Ruth. She has offered herself, no one will see, and Boaz as the landowner holds all the power in this scenario. After all, who will believe Ruth, the foreigner, if she tells a tale about Boaz’s evening indiscretion? But Boaz, upright in heart before the Lord, reveals his character and promises to redeem (and therefore marry) Ruth so long as one relative closer to him does not want to take the right. Boaz, tested with character, proves his character despite the presence of alcohol. Alcohol then is not an excuse, but reveals what is already within the soul. Boaz proves his righteousness even when drunk, and in the process becomes a paragon of virtue for all men.

(c) Shipley Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

(c) Shipley Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

This event has even greater importance, however, and when we recall the origins of Moab, this evening between Boaz and Ruth is enriched with even greater significance. In Genesis 19, after the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot flees with his two daughters. Believing themselves to be the only people left alive, the daughters hatch a plan—they will get their father drunk, have sex with him, and conceive children. They follow through with their plan, and one of those children is Ben-ammi, father of the Ammonites, while the other is Moab, father of the Moabites. Thus, with the full weight of Biblical irony, Ruth the Moabitess is redeemed in much the same manner by which the Moabites were born in the first place. Where sexual indiscretion creates lasting evil, sexual discretion has the power to redeem for great good. After all, Ruth is the grandmother of King David.

Character is a thing formed well before the 20 minutes of action that reveal character. This seems to me largely to be the point of James 1:13-15, “Let no one say when he is tempted, ‘I am being tempted by God’; for God cannot be tempted by evil, and He Himself does not tempt anyone. 14 But each one is tempted when he is carried away and enticed by his own lust. 15 Then when lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is accomplished, it brings forth death.” True temptation does not come from outside a man, but from within. It is our own lust, our own deceitful hearts, which prompt us to sin. Circumstances merely press upon those places of weakness, like fault lines in our souls. The trial comes, and lasts 20 minutes, or 40 days, or 40 years, and character is revealed when we continue to choose the good in the midst of those trials and temptations.

When we fail these tests it is rarely because of the 20 minutes in front of us. Always, we fail because we failed long before the trial came. We fail when we exceed our capacities for alcohol, reducing our inhibitions and making the irrational seem reasonable. We fail when we embrace an ideology of hookup culture. We fail when we denigrate sexual congress and instruct our children more in license than responsibility. We fail when we eschew the training of character in young men and women alike, neglecting to instruct in boundaries and limitations as well as freedoms. We fail when we continue to permit pornography to shape our expectations about sex and availability—and mark my words, there is no doubt in my mind that consumption of porn played a significant role in the events which led to this situation, because the lie of porn is that it tells men that all women exist for sex, that all sex is pleasing to women, and that all women will consent given the proper incentives. It is porn which is directly responsible for the self-deceiving lie of, “But I thought she liked it.”

binge_1647286c

Brock Turner’s character was formed well before he was presented with the prone, drunken form of this girl—formed by privilege (expressed in the belief that he can take what he wants), formed by alcohol (lending weight to his false sense of permission), and I suspect by porn (shaping thoughts about women in general). There never were 20 minutes of action, only 20 minutes of revealed character.

The letter from Turner’s father was intended as a character witness, and deserves to be read fairly and in that light. We ought not to judge a father unfairly for simply defending his son. However, due to the circumstances, the father’s statement sits poorly in the belly, and reads only like so much oily excuse-mongering. For the sake of healing and wholeness, it would have blessed the soul to hear the father confess his failure in shaping his son’s character, the deficiency of which is the source and fountainhead of the events of that tragic night.

What Do We Do with Albert Schweitzer? An Inquiry into Faith.

Albert_Schweitzer_NobelSince my university days I have been familiar with the name of Albert Schweitzer, his work having come up repeatedly during my study of Biblical Higher Criticism. Over the ensuing years his name has come up on several other occasions, and most compellingly in the context of a particular story about his life—that Schweitzer, unable to enter the mission field directly, pursued a medical degree so he could become a medical missionary. This spoke to such a measure of resolve, and to such unusual spiritual devotion in a scholar, that I wanted to know more about the man. The result was a journey through Schweitzer’s autobiography, Out of my Life and Thought (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1949), a book that in the end left me wondering if in fact Schweitzer was a Christian at all.

Schweitzer very nearly defines what it means to be a polymath. Born in 1875 in what was then the Alsace region of Germany, he grew up bilingual, later publishing books in both French and German. Educated in Germany and in the midst of the heyday of German Higher Criticism, his seminal contribution was the book “The Quest for the Historical Jesus.” Having earned a PhD in theology, he became a theological instructor as well as a licensed minister in the German Lutheran church. In addition to his academic pursuits, Schweitzer was also a performance organist, traveling and giving concerts, penning manuals on the proper execution of Bach’s organ pieces, and even writing tracts on organ repair and organ building. To the shock of his friends, family, and peers, at thirty years of age he resigned his post as a theology instructor and curate and entered into medical school so that he could become a missionary. His resolve to do this was formed some years before, and Schweitzer’s own words are worth recounting here,

The plan which I meant now to put into execution had been in my mind for a long time, having been conceived so long ago as my student days. It struck me as incomprehensible that I should be allowed to lead such a happy life, which I saw so many people around me wrestling with care and suffering… Then one brilliant summer morning at Günsbach, during the Whitsuntide holidays—it was in 1896—there came to me, as I awoke, the thought that I must not accept this happiness as a matter of course, but must give something in return for it. Proceeding to think the matter out at once with calm deliberation, while the birds were singing outside, I settled with myself before I got up, that I would consider myself justified in living till I was thirty for science and art, in order to devote myself from that time forward to the direct service of humanity. Many a time already had I tried to settle what meaning lay hidden for me in the saying of Jesus! “Whosoever would save his life shall lose it, and whosoever shall lose his life for My sake and the Gospel shall save it.” (Out of My Life and Thought, 84-85)

Medical degree in hand, he then headed to what is today Gabon in Africa, where he and his wife built a medical clinic from the ground up and served faithfully for a number of years, through the first World War, returning to Europe to raise funds through concert tours, and returning again to Africa to continue his service.

gabon_political_map

Schweitzer’s autobiography ends in the late 1930s, but after the Second World War he was awarded the Nobel Prize for a speech he gave, “The Problem of Peace,” and he later worked with Einstein to advocate for the abolition of nuclear bombs. He died in 1965 at age 90.

Schweitzer was a truly remarkable man—clearly brilliant, gifted, motivated, and compelling. His sacrifice and dedication to his work shines a poor light on our own weak contributions to the benefit of humanity. But one looming question lurks in the background of Schweitzer’s life—was he actually a Christian?

This is a scandalous question. Who am I, after all, to attempt to judge the faith of another professed Christian, and above all one whose service seems so unobjectionably clear? And yet what Schweitzer’s life exhibits is the tension between confessional and ethical Christianity. Is a person made a Christian by his profession of faith, or by his works before the Lord? Romans 10:9 is a passage (among others) that makes it explicit that the confession of Jesus is of paramount importance, while the judgment of the sheep and goats in Matthew 25 seems to make it clear that our conduct is the standard of judgment. Which is it, and where does Schweitzer fall, and are we even fit to make these kinds of judgments?

Let’s consider the final concern first—are we fit to make these kinds of judgments? The answer must be yes—for each of us, and especially for me as a member of the clergy, it is doctrinally, pedagogically, and missionally imperative that we outline the proper boundaries of Christian faith. It is doctrinally imperative because when we confess the truth of Christianity we are confessing a specific truth—being a Christian means a specific, bounded thing. Pedagogically it is imperative because we must instruct believers on what it means to be followers of Jesus—uncertainty in the definition of Christian faith means uncertainty for the people of God. Finally, it is missionally imperative because the profession of faith is actually central to our witness—how will we tell others how to become Christians if we are uncertain of what it means to be a Christian at all? And therefore we make judgments—we must make judgments—outlining the boundaries of Christian faith, seeking to faithfully declare what is “in” and what is “out.” We must do this of course with both humility and grace. Humility, because we are not omniscient and therefore don’t know the work the Lord is doing in a person’s heart at a given moment; grace because God is clearly more liberal with His salvation than we would be were we Him.

hadrians-wall-

Clear boundaries create clear expectations.

When it comes to Scripture, then, what do we make of the difference between Romans 10:9 and Matthew 25? Is our salvation based on what we have done, or what we have confessed? The answer is abundantly both. The confession of faith is essential—that we believe Jesus came, died, and rose from the grave on the third day, and is today Lord of all. The essence of Christianity is the confession of the resurrection of the Son of God. But that confession alone is insufficient—it is not enough to say the words, there is also an expectation of conversion—as a consequence of our confession, our way of life must exhibit our belief. James 3:14-17 says it clearly,

14 What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? 15 If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, 16 and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? 17 So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.

And yet works themselves are not a substitute for faith, because we cannot purchase God’s favor. If we believe our works earn us good things from God, then we believe that we can effectively buy God, and thereby we make Him a debtor—putting God under our own, human power. This is a line of thinking that Paul in Romans is at pains to eradicate. There is no way to win salvation by our work, but work must be the natural fruit of our salvation.

This has been a point of contention throughout the history of Christianity. Good people are not saved because of their goodness, and sacrificial people are not saved because of their good deeds. People are saved because of their belief in the Christian witness, in their confession of the person of Jesus Christ. But saved people are expected to display that salvation in works.

schweitzer_Time MagazineAnd this brings us back to Schweitzer. Throughout reading his autobiography, I found I was never entirely certain of whether or not he was actually a Christian. There is no recounting of his own conversion, instead he appears to be a product of a kind of nationalistic Lutheranism—a cultural Christianity which is as inherited as his Alsatian heritage and which assumes that he is Christian because he is Lutheran. Furthermore, the thoughts he recounts about faith and Christianity focus on the purely ethical—he appears to envision Christianity as a solution to the ethical dilemmas of his day, but he appears to do this to the exclusion of the traditional Christian witness. Christ, in other words, is a supreme example, but not a resurrected Lord. “Reverence for life,” Schweitzer’s primary ethical formulation, in context appears to be less indicative of studied Christian faith and more of German higher education in the early 20th century. And while it seems abundantly clear that he lived out what he believed to be Christianity in his time and context, it is also clear that Schweitzer would identify as an ethical, rather than a confessional, Christian.

The conflict between these perspectives was most clearly exhibited when Schweitzer applied to enter the mission field as a medical missionary. What follows is his own record of that situation when his application went before the committee:

But the strictly orthodox objected. It was resolved to invite me before the committee and hold an examination into my beliefs. I could not agree to this, and based my refusal on the fact that Jesus, when He called His disciples, required from them nothing beyond the will to follow Him. I also sent a message to the committee that, if we are to follow the saying of Jesus: “He that is not against us is on our part,” a missionary society would be in the wrong if it rejected even a Mohammedan who offered his services for the treatment of their suffering natives. Not long before this the mission had refused to accept a minister who wanted to go out and work for it, because his scientific conviction did not allow him to answer with an unqualified Yes the question whether he regarded the Fourth Gospel as the work of the Apostle John. (Out of My Life and Work, 114-115)

Refusing, then, to meet with the committee, instead he made personal visits to each member. In time, they explained further their theological concerns (that he would confuse the missionaries), and their concern that he would wish to preach. Schweitzer continues,

Thus on the understanding that I would avoid everything that could cause offense to the missionaries and their converts in their belief, my offer was accepted, with the result indeed that one member of the committee sent in his resignation. (Out of My Life and Work, 115-116)

It was clear, even in his own time, that Schweitzer held unorthodox positions, and that he was admitted to the mission field on restricted terms (for the record, he later breaks his commitment and preaches anyway). But his unwillingness to be theologically examined is in itself troubling, and would exclude him today from service in almost any missions organization.

Schweitzer did indeed live out what he believed to be a kind of Christianity in his time and context, and compared to many of his higher theological peers, he shines as a paragon of faith. And yet, Schweitzer’s ethical faith was a thing mostly of his own construction, albeit shaped according to the particular needs of his time. From the perspective of orthodox Christian confession he falls far short, and does not appear to contain either a confession of the Lordship of Jesus or belief in his resurrection (the two components of Romans 10:9). Final judgments, of course, are restricted to us, because the salvation of a man’s soul is ultimately the business of God and God alone, and therefore what work He did and has done in Schweitzer’s heart is unknown to us. And yet, from the evidence we possess, it would appear that Schweitzer’s life and work eschew the confession of Christ as Lord, and uphold a noble, if insufficient ethical practice. Good deeds are great, but can never win salvation, and if good deeds are all that Schweitzer offers, then for all his learning, we must conclude that salvation is not his.

Effective Prayer for Healing of the Emotionally Sick

Anointing the Sick

James 5:14 commands us to anoint the sick with oil and pray for their healing. Shown here is Rogier van der Weyden’s “Extreme Unction”

One of the key principles of effective prayer is that specific prayers get specific answers, while vague prayers get vague answers. If I ask for the Lord to provide a specific thing—a change in employment, a restored relationship, or financial help—then I can attend to the Lord’s specific answer. He might say Yes, or He might say No, but either way, the answer will be as clear to discern as was the request. However, if I pray for something vague, like asking God to “make me a better person,” then the results will be far harder to discern. In fact, the very process by which He answers that prayer—most often through pain—might cause me to pray, much more specifically, “God, take away this pain!” The more specific I am in a request, the more clearly will I be able to hear God’s voice when He answers; the more vague I am, the more difficult will it be to discern His voice. And this principle is no less true when we pray for the healing of the sick.

But this brings us to a challenge, because not all prayers for healing are of the same kind. While it is a relatively straightforward and specific thing to pray for healing when someone has cancer, or was in a car accident, or has contracted the flu, it is a far more uncertain thing to pray for someone who is experiencing historic or inherited pain. And yet I believe the obligation to pray for the sick extends to the emotionally sick—the wounded—as much as it does to the physically sick. And so we pray in faith for healing from depression, healing from memories, healing from anorexia, healing from abuse, and so forth. The answers to these prayers, however, are rarely as clear as those when someone physically sick has been made well. The simple reason for this—and this is something that was crystallized for me just a short time ago while praying with a young woman for her personal healing—is that prayer for the physically sick is typically prayer for release from pain, while prayer for the emotionally sick is typically prayer for the embrace of pain. The effective prayer for healing for the emotionally sick individual—the specific prayer which can return a specific answer—is the prayer for that person to embrace and acknowledge their own pain.

Elderly Woman Looking Off_Vedanism.com_This is a highly counter-intuitive move to make. For the depressed person, for the person with a history of experienced abuse, the very last thing he or she wishes to do is to walk steadily into the source and origin of their pain. And yet it is the avoidance of pain which so often results in all the unhappy symptoms and experiences which affect such individuals. Avoidance of pain always produces impoverished love, resulting in crippled relationships, inhibited intimacy, and harmful proxy behaviours (those poor attempts to anesthetize the pain-filled heart through drugs, sex, spending, and so forth). Until an individual is willing to step face first into his or her historic and ongoing pain, that individual can rarely find the healing which he or she so desperately seeks. Therefore, effective prayer for the healing of the emotionally sick is not necessarily prayer for the removal of pain—for depression to go away, for bad behaviours to stop, for new intimacy in relationships—but rather a specific prayer for the increase of self-knowledge, acceptance, and acknowledgment of the ongoing history of pain.

I find, when I discuss this with individuals, that it helps them to draw a distinction between healing and wholeness. Healing is the process we might reserve for those issues of physical pain—the car accident, the broken limb, kidney disease, cancer, and so forth. In those circumstances, God’s power when it operates for the healing of the sick involves the complete removal of pain and full restoration of the person to health. But this is never the case with deeper wounds. When God heals those wounds He does not take them away, but fills them, transcends them, operates within them to make His power perfect in our weaknesses. God’s healing power for our deep emotional wounds is not a power that removes the wounds, but one that fills them with God’s transforming presence. This process is what I call wholeness. Again, I find that many people who are under the burden of personal pain from historic wounds pray in despair that such things would never have happened to them, pray for the pain to simply go away, pray, in a very real way, for a kind of oblivion. But God does not answer those prayers in that way. Instead, the individual who truly wishes to be made well must strive less for the healing and more for the presence of the Healer. It is only in dependence on Him, and in step with His unwavering walk towards the center of our pain, that we will discover the ironic healing where God fills our wounds with His glory. This, most certainly, is part of the process of taking up our cross and following Christ.

Kintsugi_Japanese Pottery

I find these images of Japanese pottery fixed with gold to be striking.

There is a further irony. This is rarely a prayer that one person can pray for another by proxy. I can pray for the beginning of the process—for your growth in knowledge of the truth, for the increase in your knowledge of the self, for your willingness to embrace the un-making pain of being made whole—and yet true healing only comes when you pray this for yourself. It is only when the hurt individual personally surrenders his or her broken and wound-corrupted will to the pain-inducing hand of God that he or she will truly begin to experience healing of the inner man. Such a prayer, I believe, is rare, and comes at great personal cost. I would hesitate to encourage any to pray it who did not also have a strong community to pray it in and with. We never require the support of the Church more than when we seek the activity of God in our innermost person. Such vulnerability necessitates friends in faith.

In all this I am reminded of the time that Jesus healed the paralyzed man who was lowered by ropes from a hole in the roof. Before he healed him, he forgave his sins, much to the great consternation of many present. Who has authority to forgive sins but God alone? But Jesus, both to prove his authority and glorify the Father, healed the man’s paralysis as a way to witness to the deeper healing of his soul. It is a startling picture of the two kinds of healing in action, and it is made more explicit when Jesus teaches about the wine and wineskin shortly thereafter. No one puts new wine in an old wineskin because the action of the wine—releasing gas—will burst the old skin. And no one puts a new patch on an old garment because the washing process, which makes patches shrink, will tear and destroy the old garment. In the same way, what is the benefit of giving the man a new, healed body, if the old sinful nature will once again become active and tear the body to shreds? No, we humans require healing of the inner and outer man alike, and this to me says that the ministry of healing which does not account for the inner man will do a regular disservice to the wholeness to which the human person is designed to live. Therefore when we pray for healing we ought to pray specifically, knowledgeably, and with a constant eye for the wholeness of the human person.