The Sin of Losing Hope

For those that follow this blog regularly, I posted about my personal devotional practices a while back. Part of that process has been to read through the monastic tradition of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Those writings are compiled in a series called the Philokalia. I love the theology of Eastern Orthodoxy. That may be strange since I work at a Protestant (Methodist) church. But much of Wesley’s theological flavor can be traced back to his love of the Eastern monastic tradition.  For example, in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, the term “theologian” had little to do with propositional truths and systematic theologies. A “theologian” was a guy who gave up his former existence for the chance to go pray on a mountain top for the rest of his life. A “theologian” was a person who could talk about God accurately simply because he spent all his time in prayer with God. Novel concept, huh?

 I came across a quote in the writings of St. John of Karpathos the other day that really got me thinking. He was writing to a group of monks in India who were struggling to keep the faith. He said this: “It is more serious to lose hope than to sin.” I stopped to absorb the quote…simply because it flies in the face of everything we are taught in Protestant Christianity. Sin is at the center. The cross happened because of sin. Guilt over sin is often used as a “motivator” for better living. And here’s this 7th century monk making sin take a back seat to losing hope. 

So, I began to cross reference conversations and actions of the past few months. And as I sat there, the common theme with many that I spoke with was hopelessness. People who had been “beat up” by life: co-workers, family, bosses, “the economy,” etc. Some of them had been viciously skewered by the church. And all around them they had well-meaning people cheering for their return – rooting for them to get up and dust themselves off and jump back in the ring of life. But all they wanted to do was lay there. They had lost their hope.

Funny thing is, all these people are really good people. They love God, they love their families, they are all accomplished, well-educated, and respected by their peers. Their problem was not some over-the-top sin or tragic character flaw. They would be the envy of many…they had done things “right.” Yet, it didn’t protect them for the hopelessness they felt. I told them the opposite of most of the other counsel they received. I told them to take their time. Heal their wounds. Regain their hope. Take as much time as you need. And when you’re ready, get up.

I think John of Karpathos is on to something here. He discovered something we rarely consider in Western Christianity. It is more serious to lose hope than to sin because hopelessness leads us to do things we would never consider otherwise. In many Christian circles sin is more important than hope, but the potential for sin lies in losing our hope. That’s why the Apostle Paul wrote things like this to the Ephesians: “I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope he has given to those he called—his holy people who are his rich and glorious inheritance” (3:18). Find your hope first. The rest will follow.

The Most Well-Known Person in the Room

We live in a society of over-exposure. Information is overly-accessible for anyone who wants to know something about someone else. Yet, on a very real level, we are very closed to those around us. We rigorously protect our feelings, opinions, and personal preferences from those with whom we work and socialize. Why? Mostly because we are afraid of disclosing information about ourselves that will reflect negatively on us. It’s the reason we refuse to offer a contrary opinion in a business meeting, speak candidly with someone at church, or are deathly afraid to update our Facebook status. We are afraid of what others might think.

Now, some people have the opposite problem – they have no personal boundaries at all. They are more than happy to tell a co-worker or acquaintance far more than they are truly interested in knowing. There’s debate as to whether such honesty is appropriate. I read this article the other day that addresses this exact issue. But whether the infomation is honest or not, where is the line for self-disclosure in our society?

I’m going to suggest something radical for church leaders here: be the most “well-known” person in the room. In the secular workplace, they expect you not to overstep the boundaries of disclosure enforced by corporate culture. That’s a good rule to follow. But what about in a church environment? Few things are more important than authenticity among church leadership. People need to know what we are thinking. If you are willing to leverage your power and authority, also be willing to leverage any semblance of personal pretense.

Now, of course, vulnerability through self-disclosure opens us up for criticism. But here’s the thing: you’re going to be criticized regardless. So, the least you can do is provide a foundation of honesty and self-disclosure that helps explain the decisions made and the vision that is cast. And, of course, there are levels of disclosure that are healthy and those that are not. No one needs to know all the details. Also, self-disclosure does not necessarily equal intimacy. You can know much about Tiger Woods (and join the swelling chorus of those criticizing him for his public mistakes) yet never sit down and have a conversation with him. However, becoming vulnerable can allow you to lead from a place of authenticity that moves beyond power structures and politique. And that’s why, though the congregation and staff surrounding you may choose to remain closed, leaders can lead by example through self-disclosure. That’s the difference between preaching with well-crafted words and preaching with your life.

To put a theological slant on the matter, we rejoice in God’s willingness to self-disclose his nature in the person and ministry of Jesus Christ. And that level of self-disclosure constantly put Jesus at the mercy of angry and misinformed people. Yet, at no point did he recoil from that place of vulnerability. In fact, Jesus gave everyone ample opportunity to find something wrong with him and to crucify him for it. I don’t want to be crucified anytime soon, but the least I can do is be personal, open, authentic, and real. And each of us have to take the initiative to do that. No one is going to do it for us. But there’s something appealing about following the most well-known person in the room. You know what you are getting. And that personal vulnerability entreats us to follow the most revealed individual of all time: Jesus.

The Dark Night of the Soul

Ever heard of the “dark night of the soul?” It’s part of the mystical process that found it’s full development in the High Middle Ages. Christian mystics throughout church history have generally had a particular way of reaching God. The term “dark night of the soul” is part of that process. Unfortunately, its original meaning doesn’t translate very well in modern Christian contexts. Let me explain… 

Contemporary pastors commonly describe this stage to help individuals cope with loss or tragedy, usually insinuating that God is using this “dark night” to teach lessons of character and patience. I read a devotional email by Chuck Colson that said this exact thing a few years back – I think he quoted the mystic St. John of the Cross. So, it’s a common assumption, even among the best contemporary Bible teachers. Although this can help people cope with loss by attempting find spiritual meaning in suffering, it really has nothing to with the original mystical use.

The mystic “way” is generally composed of five steps: 1) awakening, 2) purgation, 3) Illumination, 4) “the Dark Night of the Soul,” and 5) union with God. The “dark night” stage follows a stage of illumination where the mystic has experienced the presence of God in an intense, up-close, and life-altering way – through a vision or ecstatic trance or the like. They often describe some beautiful experience that makes them feel like God was just breathing on the back of their neck. The “dark night” is the time that occurs after that experience has ceased and the mystic must push on in faith towards union with God without the experience to accompany the journey.

When mystics have written about the grief associated with the “dark night of the soul,” it has nothing to do with external circumstances of loss or tragedy but rather the fact that God’s presence was so close they could feel it. For mystical seekers, nothing could be worse than tasting the presence of God and then having it removed for a period of time. They are distraught over God’s closeness, not his distance. His immanence, not his transcendence.

Now that is way different from having a pastor tell you that unfortunate circumstances in life have some spiritual meaning while God stands off in the distance as you learn life’s lessons. Don’t buy it. The mystics who came up with the term thought the opposite. They wrote from the perspective of one who had felt the closeness of God’s presence in a significant way. Their distress came from the prospect of not being able to saturate themselves in that presence on a daily basis as they once so easily had done. The “dark night” stage of mysticism echoes the cry of David in Psalm 51, “Do not take your Holy Spirit from me.” After being so close to God, mystics feel they might die without him.

As a Christian, I feel that way sometimes. When I’m in the presence of God worshipping him, I think, “This is home.” But sometimes I go several days before I return to that place of intimate fellowship. How do I know I’m overdue for some serious worship? My heart aches for it. To me, on a much smaller scale, that’s every Christian’s “dark night.” It has more to do with us choosing not to seek God’s presence and nothing to do with learning some spiritual lesson from an arbitrary circumstance in life. The beautiful thing is I can jump right back in God’s presence when I’m ready – Jesus made sure of that. Though the mystical understanding of the “dark night of the soul” exists, it never has to last.

The Playful God

The Trinity is confusing. But it’s really important. Why? Because until we understand how God relates within his own being, we really can’t understand how he relates to us. And what does the Trinity teach us? That God is playful.

When I say the “playfulness” of God, I am attempting to describe God’s inter-Trinitarian nature. You see, since the beginning of time God has existed in three persons. He didn’t split into parts at John 1 and Acts 2. God is the Father, the Son, and the Spirit. Before the creation of the world, God interacted within his own persons, giving and receiving from each part in communion and unity, expressing the reality of his nature: love (1 John 4:7-11). Scholars (Jenson or Fiddes are good places to start) call this concept perichoresis: the equal interpenetration and mutual indwelling of divine persons. Trinitarian theology in this regard is still making its way into the popular religious mind. Due to subordinationism’s subtle influence on Protestant theology, perichoresis may sound strange to you. I always had a monolithic view of God with very separate roles for Jesus and the Holy Spirit as a younger Christian. I never thought about their involvement with the Father, prior to creation. For me, God was a static deity – one where activity was unnecessary since he had done everything he needed to before my arrival. I have since come to another conclusion. God more accurately represents reciprocity and cooperation.

God is “playful” in the way he relates to each person of the Trinity and how he relates to us. He’s dynamic, social, interactive, and above all, recreational. That’s the word I like to use. He draws significance from interaction and co-habitation. He seeks relationship for relationship’s sake. As such, humans, made in the image of God, are meant to be social, recreational, and interdependent upon one another as well. We are called to be more than human – we are called to be co-human: humans in communion with God and each other. That’s why God created the world – so he could interact with it, affirming its significance. God is the essence of loving community…and draws us to share in his goodness.

The problem with such language about God is that we have not passed the functional aspects of God into our conceptual framework of deity. Let me explain that idea., Normally, we see the opposite. We have conceptual (ontological) ideas of God (God is love, peace, justice, etc.) yet, those never find their way to a place of functional praxis. God is peace – but how does that peace manifest itself to us on a daily (economic) basis? God is with us, but how is God for us? In talking about the Trinity we have the opposite problem. We understand functional roles of the Father, Son, and Spirit, ( see 2 Corinthians 13:14, John 3:16, or John 16:5-15 for examples of functionality) but have trouble making the leap as to how this may change our conceptual view of God. If God is a monolithic deity, then the Trinity is not being taken seriously. If we apply functional aspects of the Trinity from the Bible to our conceptual view of God, then God looks like what I describe above.

But the real issue behind this is: if God is relational and recreational, then why do we consistently require God to be overly stern, serious, and angry all the time? He’s that way because we want him to be…or need him to be. There are plenty of scriptures in the Bible about God’s character that reflect the “playfulness”  of God. Psalm 145:7-8. Psalm 35:27. Isaiah 61:1-3. Isaiah 62:5. Zephaniah 3:17. Matthew 11:25-29. Luke 10:21. Luke 15:6. Ephesians 1:5-9. Look ‘em up. This is as much a part of God as any other “serious” characteristic of God, like wrath. If that has functional attributes, then “playfulness” does as well. Maybe I’m just a “glass half full” kinda guy. I used to believe that God had to be serious in order to be sovereign. Now, I think his willingness to relate in community to us speaks to his great kindness and goodness. With character unmatched, he enters into our lives fully expecting interaction and reciprocity for those he loves so dearly. That requires a social God of recreation – a God willing to “play.”

History’s Take on the Word of Faith Movement

With the recent passing of Oral Roberts, I began to ponder the Word of Faith movement and it’s impact on our present theological landscape. I grew up on a steady diet of T.V. evangelists. And as a young Christian, I adopted much of the “prosperity gospel” or “Word of Faith” message I heard. Now, there’s much within “Word of Faith” that needs correction. A friend of mine wrote a balanced treatment of that here (give it moment to download). But there’s some good things about it as well. That may be strange for you to hear, since normally people either love the “Word of Faith” message or they think it’s heresy. Sorry, I wish it were that simple. Sure, prosperity preachers say some wacked out things. But they also believe God actually cares about the day-to-day issues of life, like finances and health. And that’s something many of their detractors have no answer for. People who say God does a greater work by “healing the soul,” and not the body are completely out of touch with real life. Of course, there’s balance – God’s not gonna give you a Mercedes because you confessed it into existence. But neither am I the least bit afraid to say that God does bless people materially and financially.

Most people see the “prosperity gospel” as a new phenomenon – something created in the last 40 years or so. An “Americanized” form of Christianity that hinges upon Western consumerism and greed. And if you merely study contemporary reflections of Christianity, you may convince yourself that you are correct. But there are countless examples throughout church history that say otherwise (you can start with historians Keith Thomas, Valerie Flint, and Stephen Wilson for this information). For example, Keith Thomas in Religion and the Decline of Magic, tells the story of a local parishioner who believed his excommunication was ineffective since he had his best crop production the following year. In other words, this guy thought that if God had been angry at him, he would not have received such blessing. Yet his material prosperity stated otherwise. Most Christians throughout history have followed this line of thinking.

Equating material and relational “prosperity” to Christianity is as old as the church itself. This most commonly involved alternative uses of consecrated items found within the church. Parishioners drank holy water as a cure for illness, sprinkled it on their homes, their fields, and on their cattle for protection. Clergy performed exorcisms to make fields fruitful, lit holy candles to protect animals, and spoke curses to drive away vermin, weeds, and crop destroying insects. During communion, parishioners would not swallow the host but hold it in their mouth until they returned to their seat. They then carried the host as an amulet for protection, to cure disease, or sometimes ground it into powder to sprinkle over crops as a charm against caterpillars. Christians also took the blessed palms from Palm Sunday back to their farms where they placed them above their beds, on religious pictures, over doors, or planted them in the fields to ensure good crops. They were also placed in the cradles of babies, used to ward off storms, or weaved into small crosses that the people used as talismans. The practice of making palm crosses was banned in the 1540s, yet people continued these practices to the end of the 1800s. At calendar festivals, animals were blessed by the priest, sprinkled with holy water, and ritually washed or dipped as part of ceremony for health and protection. There are reports of parishioners withholding their tithes from ministers who refused to perform such remedies.

Despite clergy’s efforts to state otherwise, Christians have always believed in a prosperity gospel. The examples above explain this thinking: though Jesus helped in the afterlife, a cross worn around the neck protected from peril now. Though the Eucharist represented a life of spiritual communion with God, the host could be sprinkled over crops now. Though the blood of Jesus atoned sin, communion wine could heal a sick child now. It shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that the rise of such practices roughly coincided with the marginalization of spiritual gifts by clergy.

Belief in ”prosperity” did not stop with the Reformation or with the Enlightenment. With Catholic and Protestant clergy condemning their use, people continued to employ alternate methods for physical and financial well-being. In 1594, Lutheran inspectors in Germany reported that “the use of spells is so widespread among the people here that not a man or woman begins…or refrains from doing anything…without employing some particular blessing, incantation, spell, or other such heathenish means…” They did this because clergy gave them no Christian alternative. So, they found substitutes. Documented examples like this exist into the twentieth century.

So, Sam, what are you trying to say? I’m saying that most Christians (until they are taught otherwise) honestly believe that God should be willing to intervene in their daily lives bringing “prosperity” in the forms of material blessing, protection, deliverance, healing, and wealth. Telling them they shouldn’t expect such things has never deterred anyone from seeking God’s blessing. The “Word of Faith” movement is merely a modern manifestation of this. And though some may see such requests for “blessing” beneath them, the majority of Christians throughout history have thought differently. The “prosperity gospel” isn’t new. In fact, wherever you find well-meaning Christians seeking the kindness and generosity of God, you’ll find it. If God cares at all, then he must care about all aspects of our lives.

Heretics, Cults, and Crazy People: What’s All the Fuss?

As a follow up to the Interview with a Wiccan post, I thought I’d explain a little about cults, the occult, and alternative religions. I find these to be some of the most confusing topics about religion. Hopefully, I can clear up some misconceptions with this post.

Sects/cults become credible over time as new members are added and others begin to accept their existence. As sects turn into more accepted denominations, they often breed spiritual complacency among their members who begin to desire to return to the “good old days” when the movement was smaller and more radical.  In turn, this produces more sect formation by dissatisfied members. These “renewal movements” only  become independent sects when the existing church rejects their overtures for spiritual renewal. They merely want to renew the spiritual life of the church. If they are accepted, we call them “revivals” and talk about how great they are. Pejorative labels such as “cult” are given by the mainstream body after rejecting the movement’s overtures for change. Often times, sects require strict adherence to beliefs and high levels of commitment – essentially an  ”all or nothing” approach. Conversely, sectarians believe that the stress of asceticism is rewarded with spiritual power – something the group that rejected them did not possess.

And that’s when all the heresy talk starts. Our understanding of heresy now (which is applied to all types of religious “infractions”) is not the same as the early church. Initially, it only dealt with foundational truths of the Christian faith – namely the divinity of Jesus. In the fifth and sixth centuries, it became associated with other aspects of Christianity - for example Origen’s musings about universalism. But honestly the modern term most commonly derives its nastiness from the writers of church history. Hopefully everyone knows by now that only the “winners” in history write the books. And the same is true of church history. Cult critics initially only disapproved of a group’s method of worship, not the doctrines themselves. But over time, as accusations are repeated in church histories, the doctrine was often deemed heretical as well. For example, the Montanists (initially part of the church) were a rigorous and devout group of Christians – orthodox in their foundational beliefs. However, by choosing to self-appoint church leaders and hold a place for women in leadership, they came under ecclesiastical fire. Along with that came the critic’s rejection of the Montanist’s use of spiritual gifts. It’s not that the gifts were wrong – but that women were practicing them. Eusebius quotes Apollonius: “Does a prophet paint his eyelids?” The issue was not with prophecy but rather who was prophesying: someone the church had not sanctioned. Throughout church history, heresy had little to do with doctrine and much to do with issues of recognized authority.

As such, cults aren’t usually heretics in the authentic sense of the word. What cults oftentimes are is heterodox. Now that doesn’t mean “wrong.” It means outside of mainstream acceptance. Any evangelical historian worth their salt will tell you that “orthodox” simply means the “majority opinion” – it doesn’t necessarily mean that the majority opinion is “correct,” though many times it does. So, many of the “orthodox” opinions we hold today were at one time heterodox, until enough people accepted them. To step away from religion for a minute, we all hold gravity to be an “orthodox” part of science. But Newton developed the “heterodox” idea of gravity from his occult beliefs in Neoplatonism, and alchemy. That may surprise you. But that’s a perfect example of something “heterodox” evolving into an accepted mainstream and orthodox belief. If the origins of gravity embarrass you, then you’re missing the point. All things are heterodox at their inception - including religious belief systems.

So, what should you glean from all of this? First, stop throwing around the term “heresy” for every little religious belief that doesn’t match your preconceived ideas. Secondly, no matter what mainstream religious group you belong to, you can thank your original “cult” leaders for being persistent in the face of opposition from the mainstrean religion of the time. What people called “crazy” then, we call “normal” now. And, third, be kind to the people “beneath” you on the religious food chain – they will be where you are within a couple of centuries…

Sometimes I Feel Bad for Arius…

Back in the first centuries of the Christian movement, a priest from Africa named Arius stirred up some trouble. Though Arius spent the majority of his days as a religious upstart at Alexandria, he was trained at Antioch. That’s an important bit of info. There were two main “schools” of thought in Christianity then: Antioch and Alexandria. Alexandria was known for interpreting the Bible in an allegorical fashion. Much of the Alexandrian writings are first year church history for seminary students. Antiochan giants like Theodoret of Cyrus, Theodore of Mopsuestia, and Diodore of Tarsus held to a strict literal interpretation of biblical passages. These are really important theologians who receive very little attention nowadays. Yet, if you haven’t spent some time with these fellas, you’re gonna have a pretty simplistic view of early church history. Then again, you could just read Bruce Shelley.

Arius began devoting his sermons to investigating the question: “Was Jesus really God or was he just a human?”Arius had trouble believing God and Jesus existed together prior to the incarnation. This really isn’t that surprising. Antiochian theology focused on the “humanness” of Jesus – it was only a slight misstep that would lead Arius toward a form of adoptionism. So, for roughly the next three centuries, Alexandrian-heavy councils dragged Arius and company through the mud in their writings using nasty words like “heretic.” And for most Christians, that’s all we know about him. Was Arius wrong? Sure. Jesus is God. But there’s more to the story.

People rarely ask why Arius struggled with the divinity of Jesus. His reasoning is not much different from many struggling Christians today. Most of us were taught growing up that God the Father was a sovereign despot concerned with protecting his image of magisterial omnipotence. Liberal Protestant preacher Lyman Abbot put it this way: God is a “kind of awful omnipotent police justice” and each of us is a “scared culprit who knows he is liable to punishment but does not clearly know why.”  And that keeps many Christians in line. Afraid of God…but in line.

There’s only one problem. Jesus looks very different than that…and in John 14, Jesus had the gall to say he was just like the Father. And that’s what bugged Arius so long ago. He had been taught that God was unfeeling (impassible) and Jesus seemed so different. And because God did not seem to possess the qualities associated with Jesus, Arius assumed they weren’t the same at all. He was protecting the Father’s impassibility over against the “human” suffering in Jesus. If God did not feel our pain, how could he become one of us? Arius’ answer was simple: he didn’t. Arius’ responded when asked if Jesus and God are the same: “No! I would never insult the majesty of God that way!” This thought pattern also affects how many view the cross today: good Jesus protecting us from bad God.

There’s a good lesson here. People’s actions make it in the textbook. But their intentions rarely do. And what’s important to note here is that a struggling priest was attempting to think outside the box when reconciling his ministerial training with what he actually read in the Bible. He’d been taught that God was a “police justice” and wasn’t sure what to do with the compassionate Jesus he read about in the gospels. No one else had a good answer either so he courageously took a stab at it and was branded a heretic for the ages. But really, he was just a man attempting to understand God a little better. We should be careful when reading our history books. While it’s important to oppose false doctrine, we need to be careful not to disdain the struggles, fears, and mistakes of people in the process. Arius was doing the best he could. May we have grace to do the same.

Spiritual Gifts and Reformed Theology: Can They Co-exist?, Part 2

3) Confining spiritual gifts to conversion: By the time of the Reformation, Christian mysticism had developed into several different strands. The mystical treatises previous to Luther’s time always emphasized the availability of God’s presence in a post-conversion state, similar to the doctrines of sanctification and the baptism in the Holy Spirit of the Holiness and Pentecostal traditions. But Luther consciously rejected these mystics and chose to draw from the work of John Tauler and the anonymous Theologia Germanica instead. Both of these works (and subsequently Luther) taught that all the gifts you need you receive at conversion alone. There is no post-conversion experience and the gifts these works cite are the Isaiah list passed down through Scholasticism. This is really the first place that the idea of “one baptism, many fillings” shows up in Christian history. Any experience a believer can have originates strictly at the salvation moment. There is no baptism in the Holy Spirit other than what the Holy Spirit does to enforce the saving work of Christ.

Because of all of this, Luther’s commentaries pass over most passages that describe Jesus’ healings in the gospels. Miracles have passed away and “no new and special revelation or miracle is necessary” since an “immeasurably greater and more glorious work and miracle” is found in salvation. Tongues is no longer given since the church speaks all languages and only “fanatical spirits and sectarians” would seek such a gift. Luther, like Gregory before him,  attaches merit to not seeking spiritual gifts since “nobody should presume to exercise it if it is not necessary or required.” The inference here is that since God determines all detailed events in life by his sovereignty, the need for signs and wonders should never arise. A miracle would contradict the natural order and ultimately contradict God’s predetermined will.

Calvin towed the line, stating that healing “had its beginning from the Apostles, which afterwards, however, was turned into superstition, as the world almost always degenerates into corruptions.” His cessation sentiments are similar to those before him: “[The possibility of spiritual gifts] either does not exist today or is less commonly seen.” Counterfeit miracles are determined by their association with wrong doctrine rather than their supernatural nature. For Calvin, the more charismatic gifts of 1 Corinthians have mutated into more permanent gifts of the intellect – tongues is seen as the ability to preach in a foreign language and the gift of discernment is the ability to rationally determine false doctrine. That sounds alot like the Reformed tendencies of today to me.

4) Modern expressions of these issues: Charismatics maintained a distinct post-conversion experience until the rise of the the Third Wave movement in Pentecostalism. Beginning in the 1980s with its influence continuing well into the 1990s, the basic premise of Third Wave groups is to embrace the move of the Holy Spirit, particularly the aspects of healing, deliverance, intimacy of worship, and spiritual warfare without disrupting the general church structures or denominations of which they are apart. The phrase was coined by C. Peter Wagner, who spearheaded the doctrinal emphasis of the movement. On a practical level, however, John Wimber and the Vineyard Movement were the driving force behind the Third Wave phenomenon. Wimber, once an associate of Chuck Smith, would eventually separate from Calvary Chapel due to his emphasis on spiritual gifts while choosing to retain a Reformed approach to doctrinal issues. Similarly, Wagner cites a Reformed-based approach to spiritual gifts in describing Third Wave doctrine. This is particularly evident in the Third Wave belief that the baptism in the Holy Spirit only occurs at conversion with multiple fillings that may resemble what Pentecostals would normally consider a second experience. Once again, “one baptism, many fillings” is directly imported from the Reformed tradition. Also, common the Third Wavers is the absence of the gift of tongues. Though the Third Wave movement made some charismatic manifestations acceptable in mainline denominations, it aggressively minimized the distinctive phenomena that had characterized the Pentecostal movement since its inception. Following its Reformed roots, the Third Wave essentially made Pentecostalism non-Pentecostal.

Many theologians, although accepting limited roles of experience, reject a secondary post conversion event. James Dunn, Max Turner, and Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen restrict forms of Spirit baptism to the conversion experience. Unfortunately, even some Pentecostal theologians have gone along with the crowd. Assemblies of God theologian Gordon Fee followed the Reformed tendency to see sanctification as merely a “metaphor for conversion.” So even though charismatic manifestations are now acceptable, all historical attempts to integrate spiritual gifts into Reformed theology have consistently resulted in the diluting of spiritual gifts. Reformed attempts to integrate spiritual gifts have generally left charismatic Christianity a mile wide and an inch deep. History proves this to be true. And though it’s not the popular opinion, I just can’t accept that. I can’t help but feel that Christian spirituality is meant to be deep and event-laden. To minimize the charismata is remove one of the main points of intimacy between us and God. Though others see the gifts as expendable, I’ll take them every time. Can spiritual gifts and Reformed theology co-exist? If historical precedent is any indication, the answer is no.

Spiritual Gifts and Reformed Theology: Can They Co-exist?, Part 1

A little while back, I told some fellow bloggers here that I didn’ t think charismatic gifts (the traditional 1 Corinthians list) and traditional Reformed theology were compatible. Though you could write a book on this topic, I do want to address some the issues I believe make them difficult to reconcile. As always, you’re free to disagree and comment. Please know that I am writing this assuming a basic understanding of both topics at hand. I won’t be stopping for definitions and the like. I’ll handle the issues in this order: 1) allegorization of miracles, 2) the Isaiah gift list, 3) confining spiritual gifts to conversion, and 4) modern expressions of these issues.

1) Allegorization of miracles: Even though the gifts of the Spirit were still common during the postbiblical period (even by “scaffolding model” timelines), clergy began to substitute allegorical interpretations for actual miraculous events and charismata. The need for miracles and spiritual gifts began to be seen as an elementary approach to Christianity, similar to the way the Alexandrian school taught that literal interpretation of scripture was beneath a mature believer. Rather, God’s acts of creation and the ”healing” of the soul (conversion) became the true miracles of the church. Augustine, in his Homilies on the Gospel of John, stated, “The Samaritans had waited for no sign, they believed simply His word.” Emphasizing faith that does not require miracles, he stated that mature Christians have “believed on Christ through the gospel; we have seen no signs, none do we demand.” Earlier, disgusted with commoners’ use of amulets to cure disease, Augustine stated that we should “rejoice” when someone is sick “tossed about with fever and pains” in hopes that the gospel “placed at the heart” will “heal it from sin.” Sin was the most urgent “disease” facing humanity. The Reformers picked this line of reasoning up.

2) Substitution of the Christological gifts of Isaiah 11 for the 1 Corinthians 12 list: Around the same time, clergy began to teach regularly on the gifts in Isaiah 11:2-3. The Isaiah list (wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge, piety, and the fear of the Lord) became the standard gift “list” associated with the Christian walk. Though it is difficult to speculate exactly why these gifts were chosen over the 1 Corinthians list, some reasons do come to mind. For one, the Isaiah list prophetically describes the giftings of Christ. The church at this time was highly involved in defining Christology against heretical movements and the Isaiah gifts reflected that concern. Secondly, the gifts in Isaiah had less of a supernatural element to them. Wisdom, for example, has a more natural element to it than say, tongues. Counsel could be gained through interaction with creation – the Augustinian vehicle for God’s self-revelation – as opposed to prophecy which required direct revelation and inner experience. Third, the 1 Corinthians gifts appealed to the direct experience of the individual believer – something most ecclesiastical authorities believed was dangerous, particularly after the Montanism “scare.”

The Isaiah list didn’t replace the 1 Corinthians list overnight. Beginning with the Alexandrian school, spiritual gifts were adapted to accommodate theological beliefs. Origen cited language, wisdom, and knowledge as gifts only available to “worthy receivers.” Ambrose, describing the sacrament of confirmation, emphasized the reception of the “sevenfold gift” – listing the traits of Christ in Isaiah 11. Augustine followed suit. Gregory the Great made this substitution permanent. In his famous Pastoral Rule, Gregory wrote a tremendous amount about love and self-control but steered away from any recognition of the power gifts listed in 1 Corinthians. In his commentary on Job, Gregory explained that the seven gifts act as armor against spiritual attack and other evils. In a homily on Pentecost, Gregory specifically addressed the gifts in 1 Corinthians, but in the postbiblical age, he stated they are considered the gift of the clergy alone. Parishioners would do better to focus on the seven gifts that promote fruitful Christian living rather than power gifts that could possibly lead to pride.

We find the consummation of the allegorical and sevenfold gift traditions in the Reformed tradition. Luther’s German translation of the hymn, Veni Creator Spiritus, while referencing the seven gifts, allegorically interprets the gift of tongues as preaching: “You are with sevenfold gifts/The finger of God’s right hand/You deliver the Father’s Word speedily/With tongues into all the lands.”  These ideas are still reflected in Reformed theology today.

I’ll discuss issues 3 and 4 tomorrow…

“Healing the Desperate”, Part 1

I preached this sermon on March 29th to mixed reviews. There’s nothing like the topic of physical healing to polarize a congregation. I’ll split it up into several posts on the blog but if you are interested in hearing or reading it in its entirety before then, visit www.tfumc.com and go to the sermon section. Unfortunately, the emotional reserve needed to absorb this sermon was immediately swept away afterwards due to a single announcement. Our conference has requested that my senior minister take an appointment in Albany, GA. As part of the “Methodist way” (as I like to call it), she has agreed. Needless to say, people were completely shocked. Who’s coming in? That hasn’t been finalized yet…and that’s part of the adventure I suppose. But I certainly will miss Leigh Ann. I have a learned a tremendous amount from her. Anyway, on the the sermon…

 

Healing the Desperate

Text: Mark 10:46-52 

Today we are continuing our series on the healings of Jesus. Specifically today, we are going to talk about Jesus healing people who were desperate.

I love to read church history. Not for the councils and creeds and such (though that’s certainly important), but for the people you meet along the way. One of my favorite stories from medieval history is the story of Tanchelm. In 1112, local clergy begged for help from Frederick, the archbishop of Cologne, concerning a wandering preacher they called “our Antichrist.” Tanchelm, who was probably a monk, started his ministry calling for stronger Gregorian reform – he then forbade his followers to take the sacraments and urged them not to tithe to the local church. As his popularity grew, he proclaimed his own divinity and thousands flocked to his side. And thisis the pertinent part for today’s message. According to the local clergy, Tanchelm’s followers began to distribute his bath water in small doses and drink it as a sacrament to heal their bodies of disease. Finally, the local clergy had endured all they could stand and devised a plan. They selected a priest who took Tanchelm on a boat ride. At just the right moment, the priest took the oar, smacked Tanchelm upside the head, and pushed him into the water. And that was the end of that. Slightly horrifying…but still a great story from church history. You can’t make that stuff up, people! Personally, stories like this one make me cringe with embarrassment and wonder exactly how Christians can make such “undignified” decisions. It’s like watching a theological train wreck! I think God is up in heaven shaking his head in disbelief. Then, I begin to look beyond their “legacy” to the people behind the actions. That’s when drinking the bathwater of a medieval “David Koresh” begins to make sense. I like how Paul Tillich explains it. He said that fringe groups like Tanchelm’s are “the criticism of the church for the gap between its claim and its reality.”

 Tanchelm’s followers were desperate. “Desperation” is a word that makes us uneasy, specifically when you associate it with something mysterious like our present topic – healing. We like things to be ordered, calm, reserved, dignified, and predictable. We don’t really like “desperate.” It conjures up images of recklessness and threatens our respectability with the possibility that someone might make a scene. What’s worse, they may even make a scene for Jesus! But the gospels are full of examples of people being undignified. Two weeks ago, Leigh Ann talked about a hemorrhaging woman who was willing to risk the ritual impurity of everyone around her to touch Jesus’s clothing. And that story is couched within the frame of Jairus – the biblical version of a modern day city council member or mayor – falling down in the dirt and crying for Jesus to heal his little girl. And the story of Bartimaeus is also great example.

 Talking about healing is really difficult. It makes ministers shake in their boots. And that’s mostly because of the theology involved. When it comes down to it, we must admit that we don’t have a good “theology” of healing. Questions like “Can God heal?” or “Will God heal?” have complex answers. Oftentimes, it’s beyond our grasp. And when we discuss them, we go around and around in circles like a dryer full of clothes at the local Laundromat. That reminds me a lot of my youngest daughter, Annagale. Annagale is a free spirit. We use words like “expressive,” “energetic” and “inspired” to describe her, if you catch my drift. She is always entertaining to be sure. We’ve been working on understanding the Trinity at our house lately, though I don’t think it’s going as well as I hoped. At preschool the other day, the teachers informed me that they were also discussing the Trinity with Annagale’s class. The teacher said, “So, the Trinity is the Father, the Son, and the Holy….” Annagale jumped up and said, “Holy Cow!” So, I suppose everyone’s theology could use a little “tweaking” now and then.