Christian Thought and Culture

I was happy to learn that volume 10, Kierkegaard’s Influence on Theology–Anglophone and Scandinavian Protestant Theology, in the excellent series, Kierkegaard Research: Sources, Reception and Resources, has recently been published. I wrote the chapters on Kierkegaard reception in Reinhold Niebuhr and Francis Schaeffer. I found the Schaeffer chapter particularly enjoyable to write, in part because Schaeffer has had such a profound influence on evangelical theology generally–and on evangelical understandings of Kierkegaard, in particular. It felt a bit like a trouble-shooting expedition into the origins of some of evangelicalism’s most pernicious problems and perplexing inconsistencies.

Here is my concluding assessment, from the essay:

“Schaeffer’s presuppositionalism should have heightened his appreciation of the value of subjectivity, of the place of contextuality in knowledge and even of the importance of Kierkegaard for modern theology. But his equal allegiance to the Princeton theology of his teachers forced his methodology into odd contortions and limited his “reading” of Kierkegaard to a mainly uncharitable and unappreciative one. The glaring contradictions in Schaeffer’s methodology are thrown into sharp relief by his heavy critique of Kierkegaard. Perhaps had Schaeffer attended more closely to the texts—or perhaps read them at all—he would have recognized that Kierkegaard’s own assumptions about subjectivity, sin, Christianity and even epistemology (in particular the relation between faith and reason) were closer to his own than he realized. Moreover, Schaeffer’s optimistic view of the restoration of full epistemic (and objective) capacities of the Christian through propositional revelation prevented him from recognizing the important place of subjectivity in his own method. In this respect, Kierkegaard’s critique of rationalist theological method and of objective approaches to Christianity serves as a compelling challenge to the epistemological assumptions represented by Schaeffer and some versions of fundamentalist Christianity today.”

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The energy in Hugh Halter’s Sacrilege is palpable. There is much in this book I affirm. I think his emphasis on communion/eucharist as real, table fellowship (practiced as generous hospitality), his desire for a “tangible Kingdom” (eschatology impacting the present), his plea for reaching out to the “least of these” with open hands and passionate hearts, and his emphasis on grace over judgment are all right on.

Where I think the book breaks down for me is in its Christological assumptions. Halter wants us to find the real Jesus, to strip through the facade of “religion” (or religiosity), to move past arcane, distracting doctrinal arguments, and to follow Jesus into the highways and byways of a broken, needy society of hurting persons.

Ok, but who is this “real Jesus,” anyway?

Halter rightly registers his awareness that it’s possible to get Jesus wrong. In fact, it’s possible to create a Jesus in our (my) own image. How often does this actually happen? When scholars have gone looking for the “historical Jesus,” unfailingly what they end up finding is a bigger and better version of themselves. They find (or project?) what they would love to become themselves–or how they might view themselves on their very best days.. So Jesus becomes a prophetic revolutionary, or a mystic sage, or a peripatetic teacher, or a healer, or (in the case of Sacrilege), an extroverted, attractional, missional leader.

Consider this passage from Sacrilege, in which Halter describes the Jesus of the Gospels:

“Don’t mistake this one fact: Jesus was The Man! If he had owned a house, it would have been the most visited on the street; people would have askesd him to coach their little league team, chair the community coalition, principal their school, host their fund-raiser, or govern their city. He would have been the first one you’d call when you wanted to go out for a beer with the guys, and you would’ve been desperate to have him in your house if your non-Christian buddies were coming over” (51).

How does Halter know all this about this historical Jesus of Nazareth?   This sounds

Jfurlong at en.wikipedia

suspiciously more like “the Mayor,” Fred Hoiberg (for you non-college basketball fans, see photo at left) than the Jesus of the gospels.

Jesus was, by trade, a carpenter (tekton, a “worker in wood”). Carpenters were far from middle-class in first century Palestine. They weren’t community organizers or basketball coaches. They were pretty low-brow, socio-economically–one of the lowest rungs of the social order. Jesus certainly wouldn’t have been asked to govern any cities or principal any schools. During his public ministry, he attracted some crowds. But they didn’t all “receive” him. Even his disciples had a difficult time staying around him. Frankly, I don’t know that he’d be the first person I’d call to go out for a beer. I’m afraid he might make me a bit uncomfortable. That whole “taking up your cross” thing, leaving your wealth (such as it may be) behind, “hating your father and mother,” and all. Mark’s gospel narrates the difficulty Jesus’ closest disciples had in following him. No one wants to hang around somebody who teaches the transforming significance and inevitability of suffering.

Jesus was able to relate to the “least of these” in large part because, qua human being, he was one of the “least of these.” 

What Sacrilege seems to miss, Christologically, is not just the fact that the “real Jesus” probably would not have made Tony Robbin’s most attractive person list. There’s a glaring methodological issue here: the “real Jesus” cannot simply be read off the gospels that way. We have four gospels–and each of these four gospels gives us a different theological vantage point on the person and work of Jesus. As Luke Timothy Johnson points out, in the gospel of Matthew, Jesus is not only portrayed as the teacher of Torah (the Law), but as its embodiment and its fulfillment (5:17-20); indeed, Jesus “personifies Torah” (see Living Jesus: Learning the Heart of the Gospel,” p. 151). Matthew’s Jesus is not an extroverted proponent of “sacrilege,” but the Son of God who defines community, discipleship and mission through the embodiment of justice and mercy in his person. Certainly Jesus critiqued and deconstructed how the Pharisees and Sadducees had interpreted Torah and God’s Kingdom. And in this respect, perhaps it’s fair to suggest that Jesus practiced “sacrilege” (toppling down ‘sacred cows’ of pet and incorrect interpretations). But in this re-defining, we have to reckon with the fact that Jesus the Messiah would have been much more challenging and discomforting than attractive. And we certainly should reckon with the fact that the Jesus of the gospels would not have had nearly the social capital that Halter’s missional church approach seems to desire.

I’ll leave off this reflection with a quote from the aforementioned Living Jesus:

“This path of holiness does not consist in an imitation of the historical incidentals of Jesus’ human life; these remain in the past and are irrecoverable. Jesus’ specific time and place in the world, his maleness and Jewishness, his speech patterns and his deeds, his mode of ministry and his manner at meals, even his enemies and his way of fighting them: all these help define the Jesus of the past but no longer define the Jesus of the present, who finds specific bodily expression in the lives of others through the power of the resurrection.” (pp. 46-47)

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“Why are our churches dying? Why is the influence of believers decreasing? Why is our Christian way losing its voice and respect in this country? The answer may be found, to start with, in our arrogance and overconfidence on many noncritical theological positions” – Hugh Halter, Sacrilege (p. 71)

Halter is convinced that much of Christianity’s image problem lies in our lack of epistemological and doctrinal humility. Like the Pharisees of Jesus’ day, Christians are prone to constructing systems of thought and walls of doctrine that keep people out, rather than invite people in and that turn people off rather than compel them.

Halter seems to think of theology as primarily either dogma or doctrine and thereby with a primarily negative opinion (or at least that’s how it comes across to me). Dogma is theology petrified. Doctrine includes “pet” interpretations of Scripture, that are divisive, detractions from the primary mission of reaching out to the world with the love of Jesus. Witness, Halter says, the splintering of Christianity into ‘hundreds’ of denominations (actually, I’m pretty sure the number is around 38,000).

Of course, Halter is right that Christians can be so concerned with theological precision and doctrinal correctness that we forget or ignore our primary mission of to serve, to love, to heal, to witness to the love of Christ. Halter is critiquing a particular way of thinking about theology, a particular kind of theology that is self-concerning, speculative, and purportedly “objective”–the proverbial “angels on pin-heads.”

But doctrinal arguments (even ones we might–in hind-sight–think of as “petty” or the consequence of “pet interpretations”) are very often serious, heart-felt and earnest communal acts of soul-searching and Bible reading. They involve conflicts of interpretation regarding what it means to follow Jesus in the first place. What does it mean to love? What does it mean to speak truth? What does it mean to “do justice and seek mercy and walk humbly with thy God?” “Following Jesus”, it seems to me anyway, is not nearly as self-evident as Halter suggests. I’ve been a part of numerous church small group discussions in which people earnestly try to figure out what it means, practically, to serve the poor, widows and orphans. Do we forgo our children’s education account? Do we spend family spring break vacation serving the poor, rather than visiting Grandparents? Do we replace our old, leaky refrigerator or buy a one for a needy family? As much as it can seem like “diversion,” practical questions abound.

Further, the current conflicts within many denominations and churches today over gay marriage and gay ordination are prime examples of the genuine struggles of theological and biblical interpretation. People on both sides of the issue sincerely believe they are following Jesus in their reading of Scripture and in their response to the Spirit; it is precisely their differing convictions about what it means to be an “apprentice” of Jesus (to use Halter’s term) that leads to conflict. You could say the same thing about the nature of baptism, the practice of Eucharist, and any number of theological/doctrinal issues upon which unity was either threatened or disrupted, leading to new denominational bodies. In this sense, I think Halter sounds similar to my favorite religious philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, who famously noted that the problem with Christianity isn’t that the Bible is hard to understand; rather, the problem is with our disobedient hearts.

I’ve always liked this sentiment and, in principle, it’s easy to agree with. Just focus on the things that are ‘clear,’ do what is right, and quit using theological and hermeneutical conflicts and ambiguities as an excuse to evade the hard demands of the New Testament. But, on closer look, it’s not so easy to separate the “clear” from the ambiguous. Or, we should be at least honest and recognize that what we assume is clear is not always so (or, at the very least, its significance may be far from self-evident).

Furthermore, I wonder if one of the “image problems” that Christianity suffers today is actually a different problem from the one that piques Halter’s interest? I wonder if Christianity is rejected by many for its lack of serious intellectual engagement with major, pressing issues? I wonder if the unwillingness of many of its leaders to offer theological reflection in preaching and church life is actually a root cause of its perceived (or actual) irrelevance?

Another thought: Halter wants to distinguish between religion (or what he thinks of as ‘religiosity’) and following Jesus (or in his preferred terminology: being apprentices of Jesus). This differentiation reminded me of the spoken word video that recently went massively viral. The poet, Jefferson Bethke, contrasted false religion with ‘true Christianity,’ suggesting that it is somehow possible to escape the trappings of religion and follow Christ purely, authentically, and to leave ‘religion’ behind in order to serve the world in the name of Jesus. As several commenters have pointed out (of Bethke), while some elements and expressions of Christianity are unhelpful and destructive, while its institutional religious forms are often in need of critique and deconstruction, and while proponents and practitioners of Christianity are often prone to hypocrisy and judgmental attitudes, it’s really quite impossible to shake religion and simply follow Jesus. To do the latter requires engaging in those cultural and sociological realities we call ‘religion.’

In any case, while the distinction could be made more clear, Halter’s primary point is that religion can become idolatrous (and surely sometimes does); Christians too often put the proverbial cart before the horse: adhering to ‘rules,’ regulations, cultural mores and personal preferences while disregarding the weightier things: justice, mercy and love. We too often make the ‘non-essentials’ essential, and the essentials peripheral. If that’s what it boils down to, it’s hard to argue with that. Halter hammers that one home, with conviction.

In my next post, I want to focus on Halter’s claim to have read the “real Jesus” off the pages of the Gospels. I believe that on this point Halter’s work needs the most clarification and is in need of further elaboration. I also think that this point might illustrate a potentially problematic lack of engagement between some elements of the current missional church movement and theology. In particular–in Halter’s case-Christology and the atonement. Serious theological engagement is a friend to the missional movement. Indeed, the Christologically-informed practice of “sacrilege” will be most profoundly constructive when it does not avoid the critically reflective rigors of theology, but when it taps into it as a powerful, deconstructive and reorienting resource.

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This is the first of what might be several posts in Patheos’ online book discussion of Hugh Halter’s Sacrilege: Finding Life in the Unorthodox Ways of Jesus (Baker, 2011).  I was happy to join in the discussion because I am interested in what the “missional church” movement is up to these days. Halter’s is the national director of Missio and the “lead architect” of Adullam, a network of missional communities in Denver, CO. One thing is clear: the author succeeds in communicating a passion for God’s mission for the world and for God’s love for all people, particularly for those the Church excludes or leaves behind.

In sum, Halter wants Christians to step out of their comfort zones, to quit being hypocrites and pious jerks, and to start being more intentionally relational, more authentic, and more accepting and hospitable toward the “least of these” (sound familiar?) In short, Halter says, Christians should be more of what they claim to be: followers of Jesus. Jesus hung out with tax collectors, prostitutes, and lepers—in short, with “sinners”—and Christians should model Jesus’ life, relationships, and Kingdom values.

There is, of course, more to it than this. Halter shows how Jesus knocked down people’s sacred cows. He challenged their assumptions about what counts as “righteous” and “holy.” He taught and showed a new way to live, a way that is outwardly directed rather than internally focused. He ate and drank with sinners—and so should we. He exhibited a posture of grace, openness and forgiveness toward sinners—and so should we. He denounced religious hypocrisy, blasting away at unjust religious systems and structures–and so should we. Religion (read: religiosity) excludes, rather than includes; it judges rather than embraces; it denies rather than affirms, it kills rather than makes alive. In short, Halter says, Jesus practiced the art of “sacrilege”: or of “tipping holy cows” (p. 32) And Jesus invites us, his “apprentices,” to do the same. As we follow Jesus in obedience, we will step out of our comfort zones, think little of our religiosity, and passionately engage God’s mission of unconditionally loving the world. Following Jesus means setting aside our own personal interests, comforts, peripheral but cherished theological agendas, and embracing sinners (“shaking hands with the world”) in the name of Christ.

I appreciate much of what Halter does here. He wants to get us out of our chairs, churches and offices and out into “the world.” He rightfully challenges our complacency, self-righteousness, and judgmental attitudes. But for the sake of dialogue, I want to raise some critical questions.

Halter has a real concern with Christianity’s “image problem” (it really bothers him): non-Christians perceive many Christians as judgmental, angry, self-righteous, “holier-than-thou,” and so forth. And he’s right: some (or many) Christians do seem to fit the bill. There’s no denying the image problem, as we witness the decline of American Christianity right before our eyes. And I think part of Halter’s response to this image problem is exactly right: if Christians would spend more time and energy serving and loving the outsider rather than condemning them or trying to preserve “family values” at all costs, this might change. At other times, however, Halter’s solution to the problem seems a bit superficial: maybe if more Christians would just loosen up, get a tattoo or two (he’s quite proud of his, it seems!) and drink good microbrews (I can go with him on that one), we could fix our image problem. In other words, be “real,” enjoy life (and food and drink), and don’t let your religious stuffiness preclude genuine relationships with outsiders to the faith. Well and good. But what’s the line between a serious response to the image problem and a superficial one? Can the problem really be addressed by how we market Christianity—and even by how we market ourselves? Should pastors follow Halter’s example, calling themselves “non-profit consultants” rather than pastors, in order to dodge negative perception? Maybe a better response is to show that a pastor doesn’t need to be a hypocrite? Finally, I can’t help but feel that, if a major problem is that too many Christians are judgmental jerks, will a book like this really help correct the problem? Will judgmental jerks want to read this book in the first place?

In my next post, I plan to raise what I think are more significant issues: (1) the problematic separation of “religion” and “following Jesus” (which is a large component of Halter’s book), (2) the problem of Halter’s claim to have read the “real Jesus” off the pages of the Gospels. Finally, I will suggest that maybe Halter’s desire for “sacrilege” could be furthered by showing, more explicitly, the connections between theological understanding and missional practice.

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Christian Piatt has written a thoughtful response to Piper’s push for a “masculine Christianity.”

Piper says:

“When I say masculine Christianity or masculine ministry or Christianity with a masculine feel, here’s what I mean: Theology and church and mission are marked by an overarching godly male leadership in the spirit of Christ with an ethos of tender-hearted strength, contrite courage, risk-taking decisiveness, and readiness to sacrifice for the sake of leading and protecting and providing for the community. All of which is possible only through the death and resurrection of Jesus.”

Christian responds:

“First, a few points of agreement. If Piper and his ilk simply focused on values such as “tender-hearted strength, contrite courage, risk-taking decisiveness, and readiness to sacrifice,” we would have plenty of fertile common ground. But why this requires “an overarching godly male leadership” for these traits to be realized still is a mystery”

Go here for his entire essay.

Some are suggesting that maybe Piper’s push for a masculine Christianity is simply addressing the “why men hate going to church” phenomenon. If so, that’s a great discussion to have. We could ask questions like, “how can church be more participatory, less passive for the congregation, less obsessed with music and performance, more prophetic, bold, demanding, and adventurous, etc. And by the way, I think a lot of women would welcome that conversation–perhaps as many women as men. But this “masculine Christianity” seems more about solidifying patriarchy, to the exclusion of female leadership, by employing the socially constructed “masculine” as a way of privileging men in God’s purposes. If I’m wrong about that, I’d love to know it.

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Rachel Held Evans has awoken me from my bloggging slumber.

She threw out a gauntlet recently, challenging men to respond to a statement John Piper made at his recent pastors conference devoted to the theme, “masculine Christianity.”

John Piper has caused a bit of a kerfuffle in the blogging world recently with his proclamation at a recent pastors conference that, “God has given Christianity a masculine feel.” God, Piper said, revealed Himself in the Bible as “king not queen; father not mother.” Furthermore, “the second person of the Trinity is revealed as the eternal Son not daughter; the Father and the Son create man and woman in His image and give them the name man…the Son of God came into the world to be a man; He chose 12 men to be His apostles; the apostles appointed that the overseers of the Church be men; and when it came to marriage they taught that the husband should be the head.”

Piper concludes that “God has given Christianity a masculine feel.” I say that Christianity that has given God a masculine feel.

Granted, there are plenty of male-oriented images, allusions, and references in Scripture that are male-oriented. (It doesn’t surprise anyone to learn that the Bible’s authors are mostly — or exclusively — male in mainly patriarchal contexts). “Father” and “Son” are unmistakably male references. The term “masculine,” however, is a highly ambiguous, socially constructed, and culturally dependent term. Further, as Scot McKnight points out, the Greek word for  ”masculine” (andreia) never appears in the New Testament (see McKnight for the lone exception, which does not save Piper’s argument).

But I want to focus on another issue. Piper bases much of his argument for a “masculine Christianity” on the idea that God is revealed as male. God (Yahweh) is the eternal “Father”; the eternal “Son of God” becomes incarnate as a human male in Jesus of Nazareth. What do we make of this language? Is “Father” and “Son” supposed to be interpreted literally, or do these terms denote the familiarity and intimacy of the relationship itself? This question flings us headlong into a debate regarding the nature of religious language. Piper’s literalistic hermeneutic involves a univocal view of language, such that “Father” becomes exclusive of anything “feminine” and is used to prioritize the male over the female. It’s a handy move if you want to retain patriarchy. But is God actually gendered as male and therefore exclusively or primarily masculine (whatever that might actually mean?). Any literal ascription of gender to the eternal divine being (think ‘ontological Trinity’) has generally been ruled quite out of bounds in Christian orthodoxy. The notions of divine simplicity, unboundedness, incorporeality, etc., long have prevented theologians from taking gender references to God literally.

Of course, in the incarnation, the second person of the Trinity quite literally becomes in-fleshed in the Jewish, male body of Jesus of Nazareth. Christians rightly take joy and comfort in the particularity of the incarnation for, in Jesus, God was and is reconciling the world. In and through Jesus God heals creation from the inside out. What is not assumed is not healed; therefore God becomes a unique human individual in order to heal all of humanity. The Jewish flesh of Jesus makes sense given that Jesus was to be the Messiah and his mission was to announce and embody the kingdom for Israel and on behalf of the world. But there is nothing really to suggest that the incarnation required incarnation as a male. Perhaps, as some have suggested, the Logos became a man because, to have become incarnate as a woman, and to have sacrificed oneself for the world as a woman, would have been rather unsurprising and unremarkable to first-century observers. That’s just what women do. But when Jesus, this Jewish Rabbi who had come from the right hand of God, willingly set aside his “rights” and his power in order to lay down his life in solidarity with and for the salvation of humanity, he made quite an impression (Phil 2:1-11).

Furthermore, according to orthodox theology, we must be careful when conceptually transferring from the human particularity of Jesus to his divine nature. The Council of Chalcedon asserts the two natures of Jesus are related “without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the distinction of natures being in no way annulled by the union, but rather the characteristics of each nature being preserved and coming together to form one person and subsistence.” The human nature of Jesus, having the particularity of male humanity, does not imply that the divine nature of Jesus becomes distinctively male – or most certainly — “masculine.” The incarnation, by the logic of the creed, does not imply that “God is male.”

Furthermore, Piper’s focus was on God the Father (Yahweh) and the Son of God. But has he forgotten the Holy Spirit? Irenaeus suggested, quite memorably, that the Son and the Spirit are the two hands of God in the world. If the Son causes us to think of God in terms of maleness and “masculinity” (again: a constructed notion), then the Spirit might draw our attention to more “feminine” aspects of God. The Spirit (“ruach” in the OT and “pneuma” in the NT) suggests creative and re-creative (nurturing, sustaining, and life-giving) activities. In Genesis 1, the Spirit hovers over the waters and spirit gives life to human and animals. The Spirit re-creates the earth (Isaiah 44:3), the Spirit comforts (Jn. 14), teaches (Lk 12:12) and heals. Images of the Spirit in the Bible include breath, wind, and wisdom (the latter is often personified in Scripture as female). The prevalence of what could be seen as female allusions in Scripture’s depiction of the Spirit led some early Christians to refer to the Holy Spirit in explicitly female language. The fourth-century Syriac Christian, Aphrahat, wrote, “By baptism we receive the Spirit of Christ, and at that moment when the priests invoke the Spirit, she opens the heavens and descends and hovers over the waters, and those who are baptized put her on” (Demonstration 6:14). Several medieval theologians felt free to play a bit fast and loose with gender distinctions in the Godhead, certainly allowing for a female dimension in God. But while some early Christians were happy to speak of the Spirit as “she,” our age is one that has largely forgotten the importance of the Holy Spirit altogether. As Elizabeth Johnson points out in She Who Is (Crossroad Publishing, 2002), the marginalization of the Spirit in the church corresponds to the marginalization of women in the church.

So, if one wants to speak in terms of “masculine” and “feminine” traits in Scripture and in God, one should do so hesitantly. Our talk about God must always take into account the mystery of God and the anthropomorphic and metaphorical nature of theological language–yes, even Scripture’s inspired language. To the degree that the terms “masculine” and “feminine” are helpful distinctions, the “two hands of God” in Jesus and the Spirit ought to cause us to be inclusive in term of how we speak of them in God and with respect to God’s relation to us. We should not make a habit of saying that God is, in any literal sense, either male or female. Granted, Jesus was a male. But his Jewish, male body was resurrected and has ascended. There is no way to know what resurrection and ascension imply for gender particularity.

In any case, if one wants to insist that Jesus was “masculine,” keep in mind that Jesus redefines what it means to be a human, and therefore he redefines what it means to be male and female. We dare not define Jesus’ “masculinity” in the image of our culture’s ideals. Furthermore, if Jesus is ‘masculine,’ the Spirit is “feminine” We (both male and female) are created in (the Trinitarian) God’s image; we don’t create God in our image.

God has not given us a Christianity with a masculine feel. Rather, Christianity has created a God with a masculine feel, to the extent we have forgotten that (1) God is not literally gendered (except in the incarnation) and (2) The Spirit and the Son — the two hands of the Father — suggest a diversity that just might validate the diversity in human creation and thereby give value equally, not just to both sexes, but to all configurations and combinations, in individual persons, of what society has traditionally called “feminine” and “masculine.”

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What does it mean to have the “mind of Christ” and to live out the Gospel in the real world? What is the will of God on economics, abortion, immigration, health care, homosexuality, and war? And why is it that Christians so often disagree starkly on these issues?

Left, Right and Christ spotlights those differences, as two thinkers (Lisa Sharon Harper of Sojourners and D.C. Innes of World Magazine) from very different ends of the political spectrum argue, respectfully and impressively, that their positions reflect “the mind of Christ,” or—less boldly, perhaps—the most faithful and efficient way to promote the flourishing of the image of God in human communities.

For me, this book is timely. As a Christian theologian, I suppose it is rather embarrassing to admit that I haven’t given a great deal of time and energy to thinking through the sorts of issues this book addresses. I’ve reflected on them here and there, of course, as they bubble up in the media and public discourse. But I’ve given little sustained time and effort to thinking through the implications of my Christian faith in terms of what that means for taking a well-reasoned position on a number of social issues. Perhaps I’ve hidden under the protective umbrella of more abstract theological interests. But I’ve come to realize that theology cannot remain in the abstract. While we rightly reflect on God’s mysteriousness and incomprehensibility, God’s love is specific and his mission is tangible. It is lived out socially and experienced culturally.

See the rest of the essay here

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Dear Friends,

I know that seminary can be a mixed bag for women studying and training for vocational ministry. You likely encounter a confusing blend of support, apathy, and even downright hostility—perhaps all in a single day. I can’t imagine what it would be like to dedicate oneself to God and to devote oneself to the ministry, while sorting through such a mixed reception from fellow students, professors and church leaders.

I will never forget a female student who, after a class discussion on the theology of gender and ministry, shared—with tears in her eyes—her struggle with this confusing reception. She was about to complete her Masters of Divinity, with the goal of following her passion toward God’s leading in a church. But a troubling reality was settling in: the vast majority of the jobs posted by churches in her conservative denomination were explicitly designated “for men only.” No mixed message there.

For the entire letter, go here 

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Tonight I’ll be participating in a unique panel discussion at the Guthrie, following the play Burial at Thebes (an update of Sophocles’ Antigone. The Guthrie and the Minnesota Consortium of Theological Schools have partnered to offer post-play theological discussions. This play provides, I think, some especially interesting fodder for reflection. What is the relationship between patriotism, justice and love? What’s the connection between civil authorities and divine law? How does eschatology (in this case, the underworld, or the realm of the dead) impinge upon our values and commitments in this present life?

I think the pietist baptist tradition (which I will represent) offers a good bit of insight into these questions. Baptists have traditionally held respect for the ‘rule of law’ and have taken a variety of positions on the just-war vis a vis pacifism spectrum. Historically, baptists, periodically marginalized and oppressed, have taken strong stands (often at the cost of their lives) for religious liberty. For them, the “divine command” trumps the law of kings, emperors and even religious authorities. The baptist doctrine of “soul liberty” upholds the right of believers to follow their religious convictions, even when they clash with the law of the land. In this sense, Sophocles’ Antigone, who gave her brother a proper ceremonial burial (in direct conflict with King’s Creon’s order), resonates with the beating heart of the convictional baptist. The call of the eschatological realm trumps the present world order. Our ultimate allegiance lies there. But one must be careful. Because what if they mis-hear the divine command? “Soul liberty” can become an umbrella for misuse of power, particularly when the marginalized and the oppressed become the empowered oppressers.

Baptist Robert Robinson (1735-1790), author of the hymn “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” wrote:

“Nothing can contribute more to the moral good of a nation than freeing conscience from all human restraints, and it may justly be questioned, whether the sad want of religious principle, and the consequent depravity of manners, of which some whole nations complain, be not in a great measure owing to arbitrary impositions on conscience, the setting of human authority in this throne of Almighty God. That we rightly deem a good civil government, which renders justice cheap to the poor, easy to the illiterate, accessible to all.”

(quoted in “The Liberty Not to Be a Christian: Robert Robinson of Cambridge and Freedom of Conscience,” by Karen Smith, in Distinctively Baptist: Essays on Baptist History, Ed. Marc Jolley and John Pierce).

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