Getting practical about doing right

For those not in the Huddle, we are current studying Ron Sider's Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger and John R. Schneider's The Good of Affluence. Our second meeting last week saw some  brainstorming about how we are better aid the needy and steward our resources. This post is meant to give us a convenient place to brainstorm further. Post ideas! Even if they occur to you half a year from now, post away. Here are some ideas to start with, from last Friday:

• Write a letter to your congressperson, local store, etc.
• Buy used clothing
• Start with the basics, such as looking to buy minimally packaged goods.
• Gradually get educated regarding fair trade companies
• Check out Slavery Footprint
• Do activities such as walk for homeless, raising money via 5k run, etc.
• Donate items you don't use much to shops like Second Thought Resale Shop etc.

"...for your love is more delightful than wine "

How did medieval Christians use the Bible differently from the way we do?

First, in the way they read Scripture, their hermeneutic. Given their focus on Scripture as written not just by human authors, but by the divine author, they were much more likely than us to interpret using allegory.

Second, in what they read. For instance, did you know that the Song of Songs [SoS] was “the most frequently interpreted book of medieval Christianity” [1]? Bernard of Clairvaux, in the 11th century, wrote no fewer than sixty-eight sermons on just the first two chapters and three verses. The Patrologia Latina, a collection of writings of the Fathers, “lists thirty-two Latin commentaries on the Song of Songs written from the time of Jerome and Ambrose to Peter Damián in the eleventh century. By comparison, …Galatians comes under study only six times, …Romans only nine.” [2] So popular was this book that the SoS was second only to the Psalms in the number of times it was set to music by Renaissance composers [3].

This book makes no mention of God, and by all appearances is simply erotic poetry. Yet the face-value meaning of the text, is certainly the minority one for pre-modern readers. It has been seen as an allegory for God and Israel (the traditional Jewish interpretation), God and the Church (the traditional Christian view), God and the believer (also popular historically) and even God and Mary.

Despite the difficulty SoS had making it into the Jewish canon, and further challenges to it by Christians in the 4th and 16th centuries, some have owned it proudly. As Rabbi Akiba said at the council of Jamnia in 90, “All the ages are not worth the day on which the Song of Songs was given to Israel. For all the writings are holy, but the Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies.” [3]

As you can imagine, the allegorical method can be nowhere as stretched as when applied to erotic poetry. So for Origen, the breasts, hair, lips, neck, etc. are the “powers” of the soul. According to Ambrose (4th cent. bishop of Milan), “What are the breasts of the church except the sacrament of baptism?” For Gregory the Great, the fawns feeding among the lilies are saints who “are unto God a sweet savor of Christ” (quoting 2 Cor 2:15). Again from Ambrose, on the SoS 7:2: “Small, too, are the navel and belly of the soul that ascends to Christ.” [4]

A medieval Jewish interpreter, Saadia, said the Song is like a book for which the key has been lost [5]. Indeed, it seems no interpretation is without its problems. The love-song reading appears to revel in loving but premarital sex. The poem is more a collection of poems, and the narrative at times unclear. At the same time, it has such detail that any allegory either ignores those details or contorts to fit them.

Still, similar allegory is not without precedent; both Hosea and in Ezek 16 draw a line between God’s love for his people and a suitor for his love. Even Jesus refers to himself as the “bridegroom.” But these passages are clearly figurative, whereas SoS gives no hint it wants to be read this way. Indeed, allegory limits what one can learn from the text. Where it agrees with the rest of Scripture, we affirm the allegory; where it doesn’t, we reject it. Thus, we cannot learn anything new from the SoS.

Well, not quite. Even if it says nothing new doctrinally, SoS may say it with greater depth and feeling. I had a friend in college, Amy, who was a very trusting and spiritual Christian. I remember very clearly her telling the rest of us in a prayer meeting of how she’d wandered Tappan Square in prayer, as if wandering with her boyfriend lost in conversation. You could see from her eyes that her passion for Jesus was deeper than many married couples have for one another.

Many of us will find it awkward thinking of Jesus as husband. But I have never forgotten Amy’s intense desire for intimacy with God.

So it is with curiosity that I have begun to explore some of the vast literature on the SoS. John of the Cross, for instance, while imprisoned for his support of Teresa of Avila, wrote his own Spiritual Canticle [6]. His poem is essentially a rewriting of SoS in a form more amenable to the allegory of the soul pursuing intimacy with God. Here is an excerpt:

We shall go at once

To the deep caverns of the rock

Which are all secret,

There we shall enter in

And taste of the new wine of the pomegranate.

There you will show me

That which my soul desired;

And there You will give at once,

O You, my life!

That which You gave me the other day.

The breathing of the air,

The song of the sweet nightingale,

The grove and its beauty

In the serene night,

With the flame that consumes, and gives no pains.

The nuns of John’s day prevailed upon him to write a commentary on his poem, but even without it we see a clear and eloquent description of the pursuit of a soul for and by God’s Spirit. John sharpens the God-soul allegory while retaining the eloquence of the Song.

Rabbi Shalom Carmy wrote, “Holiness is synonymous with intimacy; that is what the Song of Songs tells us, in a way unique among the books of Jewish Scripture” [7]. Perhaps it is hard to read SoS as pure allegory, and certainly it is a waste to disregard its beauty as romantic poetry. But it can be more than just advice to young lovers. Its history challenges us to set aside modern exegetical inhibitions, to read SoS with Christians through the centuries, and to learn of a passion for Christ which is as strong as death itself (8:6).

* * *

[1] E. Ann Matter, "The Voice of My Beloved: The Song of Songs in Western Medieval Christianity" (1990), 6; quoted in Thomas F. Ryan, “Sex, Spirituality and Pre-modern Readings of the Song of Songs,” Horizons, 28/1 (2001), 81-104.

[2] Endel Kallas, “Martin Luther as Expositor of the Song of Songs,” Lutheran Quarterly, 2 (1988), 323-341.

[3] http://www.npr.org/2011/07/13/137800097/stile-antico-asks-a-different-kind-of-love

[4] Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture, OT vol. IX.

[5] J. Paul Tanner, “The history of interpretation of the Song of Songs,” Biblioteca Sacra 154 (1997), 23-46.

[6] You can read it online at http://www.ccel.org.

[7] “Perfect Harmony,” First Things, Dec 2010, p. 33.

Figures:

Figure 1: Bede, Super cantica canticorum, England, St Albans, first quarter of the twelfth century; from St Albans Abbey, where this copy of Bede’s commentary on the Song of Songs was made. Illuminated by an itinerant professional, the Alexis Master (act. c.1100-1130). The initial to the first book shows the intimate embrace of bride and groom, interpreted as the mystical union of the Church and Christ. [http://www.fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/gallery/cambridgeilluminations/themes/2.html]

Figure 2: Capital from the Song of Solomon in Winchester Cathedral. Author unknown, date 1100s, source http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/~jtreat/song/270.html

Divinity school

One of the most breathtaking passages in the NT, and one which gets little air time, is 2 Peter 1:3-11, which begins

His divine power has given us everything needed for life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Thus he has given us, through these things, his precious and very great promises, so that through them you may escape from the corruption that is in the world because of lust, and may become participants in the divine nature.

Consider what the "promises" give us: participation in the "divine nature." The idea that this might be open to us seems incredible.

But what does it mean? The word "participants" is the Greek koinonoi, meaning companions, partners, sharers, so we are given the chance to be partners in God's nature. It's a tough concept to wrap one's head around for several reasons. First, there aren't many parallel concepts; one never speaks of sharing in the angelic nature, or even the canine nature, much less the divine. Second, sharing in the divine nature means that humans are somehow capable of achieving such a lofty height. Third, it also means that God is not altogether "other." Surely God is so great, dwelling in the inscrutable heights of heaven, that we cannot hope to pin down his nature, much less share in it? According to 2 Peter we can.

So what is God's nature--at least, the aspect of it we can participate in? When we think of the divine nature the "omnis" come to mind: omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent. Yet none of these is promised to us, either in this life or the next.

It turns out that this phrase and concept were well known in ancient times. The dualistic Greek world view associated permanence and immortality with the divine nature and transience and mortality with the creation. And there were various theories of how the divine nature was achieved [1]; through ritual (the mystery religions); through philosophical contemplation and detachment (Platonism); through the secret knowledge (Hermetic literature), in the afterlife, or through mystical ecstasy (Philo).

For Peter, as in Hellenistic thinking, the divine nature allowed escape from corruption (v. 4). But for Peter, it comes first through knowledge (v. 3), not through any of the above avenues. And while in the culture of the day corruption was in the very nature of the physical world, for Christians and Jews alike, the corruption was due to sin, which entered the world through Adam. To escape sin is to escape the death that reigns in this fallen world. Believers will be granted new life in the resurrection of the dead, and freedom from sin.

But there is another related element of participation in the divine nature which happens now. As it says in Jn 1:18,

No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.

Our understanding of the divine nature comes through Jesus. We believe that in living among us Jesus set aside his "omnis," but not his divine nature. This is described in Philippians 2:5-7:

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,

did not regard equality with God

as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself,

taking the form of a slave,

being born in human likeness.

The central aspect of Jesus' ministry, the greatest way in which Jesus reflected the divine nature, was in his dying for us, his self-sacrificial love, a perfect reflection of his humility.

We may look forward to the next life, but not at the expense of this life. As Fred Craddock puts it,

...the conversion from this life to the next is not achieved simply by dying and therefore passing from mortality to immortality. Rather the change is moral and ethical. [2]

The divine nature is characterized by humble, Christ-like, self-giving love. Turning aside from the lusts of this corrupt world, fueled by knowledge of Christ's sacrifice, and following in Jesus' footsteps, we share in the very nature of the transcendent God.

* * *

Why the Pelican Art? In the middle ages, it was believed that pelicans pierced their own breasts in order to feed their young. This became a symbol for Christ's life-giving sacrifice: "O loving pelican, O Jesu Lord, unclean am I but cleanse me in thy blood" (Thomas Aquinas, Adoro Te Devote). The reference can also be found in Dante's Paradiso (25:113) and Act IV, scene V of Hamlet, where Laertes says to the king, "To his good friends thus wide I'll open my arms; and like the life-rendering pelican, repast them with my blood."

The first image is from: The Cloisters Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; John Stewart Kennedy Fund, 1922, reproduced in The Medieval Menagerie - Animals in the Art of the Middle Ages by Janetta Rebold Benton, Abbeville Press Publishers, New York, (1922), pg 22 [http://donna.hrynkiw.net/sca/pelican/index.html].

The second image is from The Hague, Museum Meermanno, MMW, 10 B 25, ca. 1450 [http://physiologus.proab.info/?re=524].

[1] Richard J. Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, Word Biblical Commentary (1983), p. 180.

[2] First and Second Peter and Jude, Westminster Bible Companion (1995), p. 98.

it's all about the data

When discussing science & religion, there are two types of people: those for whom historical and anecdotal data can be relevant, and those for whom scientific data are the only data.

Perusing old issues of the American Journal of Physics I ran across some letters to the editor concerning a book review of Ian Barbour's Religion in an Age of Science. First, one physicist complains,

...it seems to me that the basic underpinning of most modern religions is unquestioning acceptance of life-after-death as an absolute truth. But this is in direct conflict with the scientific fact that there is no life after death. (One such proof: human memory is stored in the circuitry of the brain and after death this circuitry completed decomposes.) I fault the reviewer for not telling us how Barbour resolves this fundamental conflict between science and Religion.

Another physicist replies,

Professor [so-and-so] makes a number of mistaken claims. The proposition that the human soul is immortal has been subject to rational demonstration since the time of the ancient Greeks--hardly unquestioning acceptance! Instead, he presents his unquestioning acceptance that human memory is limited to the brain, as a fact. How does he know this? It is his materialistic belief that excludes the possibility of a soul. He eliminates a priori any possibility that his assertions can be tested and so renders any claim to the mantle of "scientific" for his position empty.

One test for his assertion would be: have people come back to life from death? The scriptures contain numerous accounts, even of one after being 4 days dead. Of course these depend on the evidence of witnesses, but so much in life depends on such evidence, even the credibility of physicists themselves.

(The Greeks subjected resurrection to rational demonstration? How did they do that?)

These letters point to two fundamental roadblocks:

First, the materialist discounts anecdotal and historical evidence (i.e., Scriptures) as unscientific and certainly not strong enough to support the existence of resurrection. (Note the common, Bayseyan assumption that the grander the claim, the greater the evidence needed.) Here the second writer shoots himself in the foot by allowing in all anecdotal evidence. Now he's carrying around Joseph Smith's golden tablets. Yet somewhere in there is a valid point: Not all data are scientific data, nor are historical and anecdotal evidence without merit. Those in the humanities can be just as interested in truth and evidence. In fact, the historian of science must sift evidence and is capable of drawing conclusions just as the scientist is.

A good example is the discovery of solitons by naval engineer John Scott Russel in 1834. He observed a wave travel at high speed down a channel for well over a mile without diminishing. This didn't fit the current theories of wave motion, and giants of the day such as George Stokes denied its very existence. Now solitons are established in theory and experiment and may be found many places in nature and engineering, but for long time their basis was only anecdotal. Not all things which exist fit our current theories, or readily admit to observation and measurement.

Second, the materialist would likely reject the idea that he had made any assumption at all in his materialist beliefs, appealing to that great obfuscator, Occam's Razor, by which one counts (weighs?) assumptions when deciding propositions. The materialist might well reply, "I suppose I did make the assumption that the soul doesn't exist. I also assume fairy dust doesn't exist, but you don't fault me for that."

Yet we need not, and should not, feel compelled to throw out scriptural evidence. Rather we have the harder task of sorting and weighing it. The fairy-dust response is only valid if there exists no evidence for God, the resurrection, etc. There does, just not scientific evidence. (See the first point.)

The debate continues for a few years past those letters. A conservative Christian quotes Ezekiel's dry bones passage as if it were God announcing by megaphone that he does engage in resurrection. (Exillic literary context and imagery be damned!) A setback for the non-materialists, unfortunately. The ensuing discussion includes many old saws, the persecution of Galileo by the Catholic Church and the non-overlapping magisteria. And quite a number of letters cheering for materialist reductionism.

Is it possible for these sides to talk to, and not past, one another?

Prophetic ecstasy

We are being treated to sermons about the Song of Songs this summer at RCRC.

The SoS has long been interpreted allegorically, first by Jewish, then by Christian readers.

Which may seem like a stretch. After all, it's one of the two books of the Bible which doesn't even mention God. In fact, there's nothing in it to suggest it is more than an intimate love song.

The problem with allegorizing is that, while you may illuminate a point of doctrine, you can't create new doctrine. After all, Scripture is inspired--not necessarily your allegory.

A good friend pointed out that the

re has long been a parallel drawn between experience of physical love and interaction with the divine, hence the connotations in "prophetic ecstasy".

This friend also pointed out a prime visualization of this, namely Bernini's statue The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, shown here.

This sculpture--or group of sculptures--is based on this following passage from St. Teresa's Autobiography:

I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying.

It is hard not to be entranced by this--and perhaps it makes the allegory of SoS a little more credible.

Broken symmetry

The most famous goal of the Large Hadron Collider at CERN in Switzerland is detection of the Higgs boson. This particle's existence is wrapped up in a theory called spontaneous symmetry breaking. This concept, first elucidated in the context of condensed matter physics, won Philip Anderson the 1977 Nobel Prize.

Outside the esoteric realm of high-energy physics, it's a surprisingly simple idea. Imagine a round pencil standing on its tip. If the pencil is symmetric, and the table smooth, and there is no breeze, the pencil won't fall. This is a consequence of symmetry: since there is no preferred direction for the pencil to fall in, it can't fall without breaking that symmetry. The symmetry is a reflection of the perfectly balanced forces acting on the pencil--and if they are balanced, the pencil can't fall.

Pencils do fall. Some slight movement of the air, some accretion of microscopic collisions of air molecules with the pencil will be enough to nudge it one direction or another, and the pencil will fall. The original symmetry, demoted, is not completely violated, though. If you stand up a vast number of pencils and measure their directions of fall, all directions will be equally represented. In the parlance of physics, this is now a hidden symmetry. For each pencil it is spontaneously broken by the smallest of imbalances--only to be revealed again en masse.

There are many other examples of spontaneous symmetry breaking in the world around us. Appropriate to the season is the growth of ice crystals on a window pane. The glass may initially seem symmetric, each point on its surface being like any other. Yet the crystals crawl slowly across the glass as if following a topographical map we can't see. Only when 50 or 100 or 1,000 windows are compared does the symmetry, the uniformity, reappear.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus' first sign is to turn gallon upon gallon of water into wine. We know nothing of who was being wed or their circumstances, only that Jesus, who apparently didn't start the day intending to transmute any liquid elements, put on the spot by his mother, gave one of the best wedding gifts ever.

Why Cana? Why this wedding? This was surely a life-changing event for those who witnessed it. John says the purpose of the sign was to reveal Jesus' glory and bring about greater belief on the part of the disciples. But nothing about the couple or Cana or even the date of the event was apparently special. In that sense, there was a symmetry: there was nothing about the date and location of this wedding which would allow you to pick it from another. This symmetry was broken when Mary directed the servants to do what Jesus commanded. Like the falling pencil or the ice crystals, seemingly minor or arbitrary factors changed history.

In theology this is a form of what's called the scandal of particularity. The most common version of this is the question: If God were to save humanity, why through a single man, this man, why in the first century, why Palestine, and so on. Why was Jesus born when and where he was, to Mary and Joseph, and not some other couple? (Or, if you prefer, why were Mary and Joseph living where they were and not somewhere else?) To answer that this fulfills prophecy postpones the question without answering it.

This apparent paradox can undermine belief in a more general way. Why would God hear my prayers when so many others seem to have their prayers unanswered? We are tempted to conclude: my prayers are no different, and God doesn't play favorites, so when it appears a prayer is answered, it must just be coincidence.

When the pencil falls, there's a reason, though it may be submerged at a scale we can't perceive.

Why does God hear my prayers, and not those of someone else? God's varied responses to our pleas apparently break symmetry. What hidden symmetry awaits those with eyes to see?

The Gregory Peck adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird begins with a childhood song playing while the camera pans a collection of old items--a pen knife, a pocket watch, etc. (if memory serves). Any collection like this calls to mind the scent of your father's shirt while sitting on his lap as a child, or the feel of your mother's hand around your much smaller one.

Each of us received from our parents a box full of things, some precious, some just things we haven't gotten around to throwing out. As we go through life, many of us discard items when we decide they are irrelevant or are tired of carrying them around. An old marble here, a campaign button there.

The box is metaphorical, and more precious to us than any collection of real items. It's our collection of beliefs. For someone raised in the church, it may include things from "Jesus is the Son of God," to "our elders are trustworthy," to "Republicans/Democrats aren't trustworthy."

Most of us start tossing things before we hit our teens. "Santa Claus" gets ejected pretty early. Many a non-discriminating teen-age hand has grabbed all of these, along with God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit, and only kept things like "If you work hard, things work out for you" or "Beautiful people are happier."

Tossing things can be a sad, lonely, even agonizing thing. It can get us kicked out of churches and put a gulf between us and our families. But sometimes it can be a relief.

If you go to seminary, you are likely to ditch quite a number. A good seminary will help you remove things like "Jesus knew everything" and will get you to ask, "Did Jesus feed the 5,000 and the 4,000?" And maybe you'll toss some things out of your box at that point.

Sadly, some seminarians, even some who become professors, throw away little objects labeled "inspiration" or "predictive prophecy" or "reliability of Scripture", leaving "divinity of Christ" feeling somewhat lonely and vulnerable. Peter Enns wrote a book a few years ago in which he systematically catalogs some of the things he's jettisoned (though not in those terms), and encourages other to do the same. He does the community a service by getting them to look at their boxes, though doesn't offer much help keeping these central beliefs. You can imagine him wandering around showing his mostly-empty box to any who will look, all the while chiding them for the things they are still holding onto.

That Jesus did a tremendous amount of box-auditing for his listeners, Pharisees and Sadducees especially, goes without saying. Jesus removed from boxes many beliefs regarding the Sabbath. First-century beliefs about the Messiah? Needed some sifting to say the least.

It also goes without saying that the things in our boxes can become sacred enough to demand their own allegiance. The longer something's in there, the harder it is to distinguish it from the things which must be believed. Caution argues for a minimalist approach. How central to the gospel are all our beliefs? If you can't say with certainty that a belief is biblical, is entailed by the core of the gospel, it should be held lightly.

It also makes you think again about creeds, confessions and ordinances.

What do you keep in your box, and what have you reluctantly, or eagerly, tossed?

How about

• Inerrancy of biblical authors in statements not central to the point they are trying to make (i.e., when Jesus teaches in Mt 19 that God created humans male and female, he is making a statement about divorce; can inferences also be made from that passage about same-sex marriage?)
• Limited atonement (Christ's sacrifice applies only to the elect)--people keep trying to put this one into my box!
• Jesus was sinless but that doesn't mean he never got halfway to work and realized he'd left his keys at home (...and what does "perfect" mean in Mt 5:48, Col 1:28 and Hebrews, anyway?)
• God has one path in mind for each of us in this life...
• ...and it's possible to walk off this path when we sin, as the younger brother did in the Prodigal Son
• God, who loves to give us good gifts, would be happier if more of us were speaking in tongues, prophesying, etc., so long as we did it in the spirit of love and service to the Body
• There was a literal Adam (Wheaton grads cheer or wince!)
• You can't do right before God--but you can be a conduit for his righteousness
  

This doesn't even get into worship styles or beliefs about creation.

I'm not saying which of these is in my box, and I've purposely made these a little imprecise. You'll also note that the things in this list--as in most of our boxes--ranges from minor to foundational. All sorts of things end up in there.

What would you add? What have you removed from your box that you wish others would too?

‘Pay attention to what you hear; the measure you give will be the measure you get, and still more will be given you. ²⁵For to those who have, more will be given; and from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.’

(Mk 4:24-25)

is salvation hard? (is grace easy?)

"Strive to enter through the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able." [Luke 13:24]

In this is the passage Jesus warns those he lived and worked among that they weren't saved by proximity. Many take it to mean salvation shouldn't be taken for granted, and in some sense isn't easy. This passage isn't unique. As we read in 1 Peter 4:15,

If it is hard for the righteous to be saved,
what will become of the ungodly and the sinner?

Or 1 Tim 4:16,

Watch both your life and doctrine closely. Persevere in them, because if you do, you will save both yourself and your hearers.

The idea that salvation is difficult (which we work out with fear and trembling--Php 2:12) is a central, often unspoken tenet in much of the church. Which middle-class American can read of the camel and the eye of the needle in Luke 18 without feeling ill at ease?

Following Jesus is difficult. But what aspect is difficult? Belief? Forsaking money? Purity and holiness? Self-denial? Not compromising under pressure or persecution? All of the above?

In the subconscious of many Christians this logic occurs:

1) Salvation is difficult
2) Following Christ requires [insert requirement here]
3) Therefore [requirement] must be hard

Jesus said salvation is difficult; he didn't say that all aspects of the Christian life must be difficult. Our expectation can lead the any requirement in (2) and (3) to become difficult. Belief? Must be hard, or we've substituted a false, easier gospel. Not compromising? If it's not tough, we must be blending in. Forsaking money and possessions? If you've gotten used to tithing, then you are clearing not giving enough--not giving your "widow's mite." Self denial? If you ever become comfortable you clearly are in danger of stagnating. [*]

What do you find hardest in the Christian life? This may be your personal cross to bear. Just maybe, though, this is what you've decided discipleship entails, and therefore must be difficult. In other words, your point of greatest discomfort may reveal your answer to the question, What must I do to be saved?

Let's not forget, though, that Jesus tempered his warning with consolation. Gary DeLashmutt writes about the parable of the Good Samaritan,

[Jesus’ main point] is not that we should help people who break down on the freeway, but that the lawyer does not keep God’s Law, and therefore he does not qualify for inheriting eternal life.

This is why Jesus taught two ways to go to heaven. Sometimes, he taught that eternal life was a free gift from God to be received by simple faith (Jn 3:16; 6:29; etc.). Sometimes, he taught that you have to earn your way to heaven by doing good works. He didn’t embrace two contradictory soteriologies—he spoke to two different kinds of people.

Whenever Jesus teaches the “earn your way” approach, it’s always to people who think they can (Mt 5:17-48; Mk 10:17-22; this lawyer). And it’s always so they’ll realize they can’t earn it and humble themselves to receive it as a free gift…

Whenever he teaches the “free gift” approach, it’s always to people who realize they can’t earn it (Samaritan woman; etc.). There is no need to convince them of this, so he goes straight to the good news.

We disregard Jesus' warnings at our own peril--but we also carry many more burdens than necessary. Next time we head to church, we should ask whether we truly feel that his yoke is easy and burden is light. Do we forever feel behind the curve, forever longing for rest for our souls? Maybe the Holy Spirit is convicting us of a sin we need to address, or trying to purge us of legalism. Or maybe we need to hear again one of the most serene benedictions ever to grace parchment:

May God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful and he will do it. (1 Thess 5:23-24 )

* * *

Photograph: Amy Collins; The church of Simon of Cyrene, along the Via Dolorosa

[*] This attitude can also infect our reading of Scripture: We read a passage, and look for the interpretation which makes life hardest.