All my trials...

This paragraph practically killed me:

If Christ has experienced his trials and temptations and overcome them, then what of the disciples of Jesus? The disciples are not spared further peirasmos; on the contrary, temptation and trial come at them with a renewed force if anything. Thlipsis is to be expected as normal; they are not to be surprised by the coming of the ‘fiery trial’ (1 Peter 4:12). The allusion to Jesus was offered in Hebrews to comfort believers who were in the midst trials. The disciple is thrown back on the human question of the flesh, faith and allegiance to God. Can he himself now overcome the peirasmos, perhaps because he looks with new eyes on the old problem?

That would mean that Jesus merely exemplified the right response to peirasmos. The testimony of the NT is otherwise: Jesus supremely and uniquely passed through this test and tempation. The disciple, who in affliction may even become a martyr, does not witness to his own overcoming of peirasmos but to the victory of Christ in the flesh, in faith and in allegiance to God. That he is tested and remains steadfast even to the death is a witness to Christ’s decisive defeat of the Devil – not to a fresh victory, but only to a sharing in the same original victory that belongs to him.

I just want you to know it is hurting!

A thought about Christology

In the temptation/testing of Jesus we do not observe so much the victory of moral rectitude, or finally of one human being who has developed the strength to overcome; but rather we find an example of dependence on the Word of God and trust in his will. He overcomes not by being superhuman, but by being MORE PROPERLY HUMAN. He is victorious by following the human vocation as it was originally given...

Augustine on martyrdom

In particular it was the Donatist crisis that prompted Augustine’s reflection on martyrdom in the period 410-415 AD. For the Donatists, literal and bloody martyrdom was a measure of the authenticity and purity of their Christianity, in contrast to that of the tainted Church with its traditores. By contrast, Augustine emphasized the necessity of a true faith and the unity of the Church for authentic Christian martyrdom. Suffering itself is not enough – in fact, Augustine vigorously opposed the Donatist fixation on suffering as an end in itself. Without love, suffering is meaningless – therefore, the schismatics who attack the unity of the church cannot claim the title martyrs because they lack caritas. It was the cause, not the suffering, that made a martyr. The long Christian tradition of glorifying suffering had been a false trail – and pathologically so.

Need a martyr suffer then at all? When the persecutions had ended – what was to become of martyrdom, which had been such a feature of Christian self-identity in the first three centuries? Could there be a retention in some form of the martyrological impetus without the need for shedding of blood? One Christian answer, as Judith Perkins observes, was that the martyrological spirit was sublimated into ascetic practices as a way of replicating the test of the arena. But this was not quite Augustine’s teaching (though he wasn't opposed to asceticism). As he explained, Divine Providence had allowed persecutions in order that the ‘number of martyrs or witnesses for the truth might be completed or consecrated, and that by them proof might be given that we must endure all bodily sufferings in the cause of the holy faith and for the commendation of the truth’ (City of God X.32). In the new era, however, the war was to be waged inwardly. Trials and temptations were not found to be lacking now that the external threat had diminished. Now, temptations were persecutions. The lesson of the martyrs was there for the Christian to learn the virtues of self-sacrifice and patience.

Six theses on Temptation and Providence

My task is here to draw together some of the themes of our discussion of temptation and providence, as they related to martyrdom as the pattern of the Christian life. We have proceeded by establishing that temptation – or more rightly, peirasmos, which includes temptation and also trial– is genuinely a part of the narrative logic of martyrdom. But what does this observation itself in turn reveal?

1. Peirasmos as temptation is a given of human existence: it is Adamic. It is a feature of the primal human story; and also part of the redeemer’s experience in identifying with hapless human beings. Human identity is not ever constructed aside from this inner battle with sarx and diaboloj. We do not know of a time when human subjects did not have to face these opponents.

2. Peirasmos is a test of the free human response and obedience to the divine call. As such, it tests our awareness of our own identity as his creatures – our recognition of our maker’s voice and our responsiveness to him. It describes not the moment of that call, but our memory of the call at the moment when it appears to be gainsaid in our experience: ‘did God really say…?’ The trial or temptation comes to us as a contradiction of the Word of God: it came as temptation in the garden, and in the post-lapsarian era has been intensified through the unyielding nature of the world itself.

3. The peirasmos threatens the individual with her own disintegration as a person. It leads to the captivity of the self to the world of sin, the flesh and the devil (to use New Testament language). The biblical history is a history of the human subject’s utter capriciousness; of the human individual’s unwilling inability to be truly herself, even to herself. That is to say, trial and temptation throw into question – a question not readily answered – what the ingredients of an authentic human life might be. For Gregersen, under the pressure of trial and temptation ‘both the objective arena of the world and the subjective arena of the self are seen as unreliable. Only God is reliable.’ We see something of this disintegrating human subjectivity under the power of sin famously expressed by Paul in Romans 7:7-24: ‘O wretched man that I am!...’

4. It was necessary for Jesus Christ to undergo peirasmos to demonstrate his total solidarity with humankind and to defeat the evil one. The trials and temptations of Jesus in the wilderness and in Gethsemane are shown so that it might be known that there was one who passed through the peirasmo,j known to us all and emerged victorious over Satan. These episodes reveal not only Satan’s impotence against the Son of god, but also the fittingness of Christ to become High Priest and sacrifice. The cross of Christ itself is the sign of his ultimate defeat. (This is a theme in Pauline theology: ‘He disarmed the rulers and authorities and made a public example of them, triumphing over them in it.’ Col 2:15 )


5. In answer to the peirasmos of human experience, Christ re-invites trust in the providence of a covenanting God – whose providential care of the world is revealed most completely in him. We learn much from the manner of his victory: he reaches down into the Word of God and rests on it; he submits his will to God as he prays, for the good of others. Further, he himself carries out the divine providential action in his death and resurrection, by these actions enabling the world ‘to become itself by action within, and over against, its fallen structures’.This is inclusive of human beings; who rightly respond when they cry out to the Lord for deliverance.I have in mind in particular Romans 8:19ff, where the redemption-action of Christ has its effect in terms of the adoption of human beings into the family of God and also the future liberation of the creation itself, which elicits much groaning under the present conditions of trial. The Lord’s prayer – the prayer taught by the Son of God to his disciples – gives voice to this felt disparity in human experience.

6. Christ’s disciples are thrust anew into an experience of peirasmos: the weakness of the flesh, the hostility of the world, and the attacks of the Evil One. As they seek to imitate Christ, peirasmos naturally features as part of that mimetic action; as it was part of the narrative logic of his life, so it is now of theirs. Satan renews his efforts against those whose determination is to defy him; though it is not by their strength in this battle that he is defeated. The victory belongs already to God himself. The peirasmos may result in bloody martyrdom: as such it is entirely unsurprising, because it is the outworking of battle already fought.

The Lord's Prayer

The disciple of Jesus has to refrain from worry, and pursue as a priority the kingdom of God. In other words, as Bonhoeffer puts it:

The Christian lives from the times of God, and not from his own idea of life.

This was the lesson of Abraham too. And it is the same attitude that Jesus himself taught his disciples, in the Lord’s Prayer. The prayer itself is an articulation of a subjectivity experienced in media res but also in the hope of eschatological deliverance. It is distinguished from the verbose Gentile prayers who try to demand divine notice by sheer volume of words (6:7). This prayer is a very different kind of speech-act. First, it addresses the one in heaven (6:9); which is to say, it addresses the ruler of all things as he sits on his throne. This is a prayer from one who has a limited view of things to a being who has a superior vantage point indeed. It is a prayer to a known rather than to an unknown divinity, it should be noted: this prayer proceeds on the basis of the prior revelation of God’s identity, on the basis of promises he has already spoken. He is can be addressed by his name because he is known. Second, the primary request of the prayer is that the Father would hallow his own name, and carry out his will ‘as in heaven also on earth’ ( 6:10). Clearly the (earthly) perspective of the prayer is one which observes that the divine will is not yet fulfilled, and the divine name not yet hallowed. The experience of the pray-er is that of not being able to see that God’s rule is everywhere enforced; but yet, there is a drilling down into the character of God as he has revealed himself that can only be named ‘faith’.

Abraham's Test and the Providence of Yhwh

Genesis 22:1-19 tells the story to which Israel looked back for the revelation of Yhwh Yireh - ‘Yhwh the provider’. It was the story of Yhwh’s trial (nissah) of Abraham, too. At the outset, a word comes from God that makes Abraham’s experience of God to this point baffling (22:1). He cannot see the pattern of the divine plan. He cannot make sense of this command according to some rational scheme; or according to some morality to which he imagines that God is subject like everyone else; or, by dint of some hermeneutic strategy lately learned, hear something other than what he has heard. He does not even begin to doubt his own sanity. There is the semblance of cruelty in the request, even: God reminds him that he, Abraham, loves his son (22:2).

With what attitude does Abraham set out on his journey? In the other pieces we have of his story, we have presented to us a fearful doubter. In Egypt he presents his wife as his sister; in the disastrous begetting of Ishmael, he is seen (with Sarai) as attempting to foreshorten the gap between the divine promise and its realization in his life. In those tests he stumbled; here now, he silently presses on towards the mountain. He cannot see what is ahead, but rather only possesses the promises of the God who called him. As he says to Isaac, ‘God himself will provide the sacrifice’. That is the perspective that to which he clings.

At the climax of the story, the angel stays Abraham’s hand; and the ram – a superior sacrifice? – is found caught in the thicket. This provision of God of course is not merely a result of his action as a supreme being – if it were, then this whole episode would certainly be an exercise in divine sadism of the hapless human subject. However: this is not the God that Abraham encounters here; he proceeds on the basis of the God who has previously revealed himself to him, and meets at his journey’s end the Yhwh Yireh. Abraham receives the provision of a ram as a demonstration of God’s determination to be the Lord of the covenant with his people in its concrete history.

The Temptations of Allberry...

Sam Allberry, maker of Oxford's finest Thai curries, considers temptation in James here and here.

Foucault and pastoral power

A friend and I were having one of those late night discussions - this was about the use of power by pastors in a manipulative way to have control over people. We weren't talking about a context of any actual abuse or sexual seduction - though these things happen too. Rather, for some of us pastors, just the thrill of having the keys to someone's life is extremely hard to let go of. Noticeably, people without strong father figures are extremely vulnerable to this kind of relationship - they tend to hand over control of themselves to a strong male figure, and a pastor often fits the bill..


It struck me that, of all people, Michel Foucault had been most insightful at this point. Foucault invented the term “pastoral power” to describe what he saw as an extremely influential view of government which it inherited from Christianity. This very special form of power is a concern for the salvation of the individual, and seeks to care for the individual; it is not merely a form of power that commands, but is also prepared to sacrifice itself (as opposed to, say, royal power); and it demands that people reveal their innermost secrets and so is therefore is linked with the production of truth – the truth of the individual.[1] In its transferral to use outside ecclesiastical institutions, the concern for salvation has become this worldly and therefore taken up in terms of (to list some examples) health, well-being, security, wealth and sanity. The function of truth-production led to the proliferation of the human sciences, whether as a population or as an individual.

Why do we demand that people confess to us? Or, press them to tell us the details of their inner lives? Is it not because it is exhilarating to have that kind of power over someone? At least, that was my temptation in pastoral ministry...

Reflections anyone?


[1] Foucault, “The Subject and Power.” p.333-4

Narrative Logic: sequence vs pattern

Temptation is part of the ‘narrative logic’ of martyrdom.

What do I mean by 'narrative logic'? ‘Narrative logic’ indicates the ‘patterns of order which are proper to story rather than to discursive reasoning’ Richard B. Hays, "The Faith of Jesus Christ: An Investigation of the Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3:1-4:11" (Thesis (Ph. D.), Scholars Press, Emory University, 1981., 1983), p. 223

Stories are composed of actions and events order to one another by reference to time. To view the story as a unity, each subsequent event must be intelligible in relation to what preceded it. It can be surprising; or the intelligibility may not be obvious immediately; but the events must show some kind of fitness. Ricoeur’s way of putting this is to say that narrative conclusions must be, rather than deducible, acceptable. The follow a ‘particular directedness’ that propels them forward to a conclusion – though of course we need to follow it to the conclusion because it is only from that point of view that we can ultimately judge the acceptability of the sequence. Paul Ricoeur, "The Narrative Function," Semeia no 13 1978 (1978): p. 182

That is not to say that there isn’t a ‘logic’ to the way stories proceed, of course. Rather, it is almost a truism to say that successful narratives do possess an explanatory power that resonates – profoundly so – with the human experience of events.

Ricoeur goes on to develop his analysis of the logic of narratives by claiming that all narratives combine two aspects, one of which is chronological and one of which is non-chronological. The first he calls the ‘episodic dimension’, by which he means to indicate the way in which narratives throw up the question of ‘and then’? – that is, ‘what happened next’? Simultaneously, however, telling a story is also about construing ‘significant wholes out of scattered events’, attempting to grasp the series of events as a unity – its ‘configurational dimension’, as Ricoeur labels it. Ricoeur, "The Narrative Function," p. 183-4 Ricoeur observes then that narratives combine both sequence and pattern – though, it must be said that these two elements exist somewhat in tension with one another:

‘this structure is so paradoxical that every narrative may be seen as a competition between its episodic and its configurational dimensions, between its sequence and its pattern.’

The possibility of not submitting

As Eliot shows in his drama, the renunciation of temptation leading to martyrdom is the fruit of a particular response to divine providence. Temptation occurs within an apparently dualistic framework in which the tempters (and, what’s more, the Tempter) may be seen to have an unrestricted power to attack. The doctrine of providentia dei is a reminder of the overarching monotheistic structure of Christian belief: that nothing, not even the temptation, falls outside the sovereignty of God. But, to be distinctively Christian, belief in providence must be allowed to be articulated in Trinitarian terms. So, amidst the dualism of experience with all of its peirasmoi, the martyr rests on the singularity of the Father's providence, expressed in the supreme and effective example of the Son's renunciation of temptation and his strength under trial to the point of death, and in the comforting presence of the Spirit.

The providence of the God who was in Christ reconciling the world to himself is implemented in this act of reconciliation. The self-emptying of the Son was to the extent (and further) of subjecting himself to the trails and temptations of life in the world, under the auspices of the devil, in the likeness of sinful flesh. Thus, the testimony of the martyr is not merely to a remote understanding of the divine mastery of events from outside, but in fact to the loving providential action of God in Christ from within the sphere of the human. As Colin Gunton writes:

A Christological structuring of divine providential action understands it in the light of the one who became human, identifying with the world’s structures in order to reshape them to their eschatological destiny. Incarnationally conceived action – action understood through the focus provided by the true humanity and self-giving to death of Jesus – indicates contingency but not ‘pure’ chance as the heart of the matter.

The divine being whose sovereignty is unchallengeable lives for a while ‘a little lower than the angels’; he submits himself to the possibility of not submitting.

An anthropology of temptation?

A couple of posts ago I buried in a piece of verbosity a suggestion that I thought might interest some people: namely, that temptation is part of being human in a very fundamental way. Jesus needed to undergo temptation in order to identify with us, to be like us in every regard. Which sends back to thinking about the garden...

There is but one restriction: the notorious tree. The restriction stands as a reminder to the creature of his creatureliness – for man of all creatures was most likely to forget this about himself and to believe in his own independence from God and his Word. And yet, as Bonhoeffer writes ‘innocence means clinging to the Word of God with pure undivided hearts’.[1] That is why the Tempter, when he comes, comes armed with the Word of God; and concealing his true nature.[2] The beauty of the lie he told the woman and the man was that it was not completely a lie. In fact, it was close to the truth. ‘Did God really say’ he whispered, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’? (Gen 3:1)

There had been a command, true, and it had been about trees and eating. But the woman is able to put aside this first suggestion: God in fact had said ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die’ (Gen 2:16-17); only one tree was off limits. Far greater was their freedom than their restriction. But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil’ (Gen 3:4-5). God really doesn't have your best interests at heart, but is only protecting himself; God doesn't want you to have a power that you deserve but that only he has; God has lied about what will happen if you disobey him; without God you can be your own moral arbiter: these were profoundly attractive – indeed, tempting – lies. They are an attack on the Word of God itself: on the very God-ness of God. Adam’s ingratitude at the extraordinary liberty in the task offered to him and his failure to imagine his task as sufficient for his needs are part of his deafness to the voice of God, his lack of response to his call.

The temptation has three aspects: first, one that relates to the flesh and its lusts – the allure of the fruit is matched by the hunger of the man and woman. Then, secondly, there is their sheer disbelief – their lack of faith in the Word of God about himself and about them. There is also, thirdly, a challenge to the power and authority of God involved: that his rule is not as absolute as it appears: the scent of revolution is in the air. Adam is tempted in his flesh, his faith and his allegiance to God.[3]

[1] Bonhoeffer, Temptation, p. 15
[2] ‘The voice of the tempter does not come out of an abyss only recognized as ‘Hell’. It completely conceals its origin. It is suddenly near me and speaks to me…Indeed there is no sign of the origin of the tempter in fire and brimstone. The denial of the origin belongs to the essence of the seducer.’ Ibid.
[3] Bonhoeffer applies this triad to Jesus, but doesn’t read it back into Adam’s (and Israel’s) temptation as I have here. Ibid., p. 18-21

The temptation of man

The author of Hebrews describes in a very elaborate way the process by which Jesus became qualified to the sacrifice of purification. The mere process of incarnation was not sufficient to demonstrate or achieve his perfection: he had to undergo the trials and sufferings of human life and overcome them with obedient submission to the Father.

The word 'peirasmos' can mean either 'trial' or 'temptation'. A trial is an external and public thing; a temptation is more internal and personal. The word retains its ambiguity in the Hebrews letter somewhat, such that it is hard to see which part of the narrative of Jesus' life the author is referring to. See, for example, Hebrews 2:17-18

17 Therefore he had to be made like his brothers in every respect, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people. 18 For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.

Linking suffering to temptation/testing here is probably evidence that he is talking about the 'test' of Gethsemane and the Passion, the suffering that comes from an external source or threat. But, interestingly, it is this suffering test that Jesus needed to endure to complete the incarnation, to complete his identification with his brethren - 'in every respect' - in order that he could function properly as the high priest. The effectiveness of his priestliness is dependent on his complete identification with the people he represents in making the sacrifice - the peirasmos is, while not the whole of this identification, the significant last part of it.

From here the author moves on to a typological discussion of the wilderness period and the temptation at Massah, using the unforgettable Psalm 95 as his verbal map. The recipients of his letter are warned not to give in to the temptation of unbelief (3:19) and deafness to God's voice. Of course, the one being tested at Massah was Yhwh himself: the people's testing of him was evidence of their hard-heartedness and resulted in their inability to enter the Rest of God.

The recipients of Hebrews however have a significant advantage in their resistance against hardness of heart: they have not merely Moses, but a high priest who is the Son of God but who is also one who has 'in every respect' been tempted as we are - so he is able to sympathize (literally, 'suffer along with') with us. So Hebrews 4:14-15:

14 Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. 15 For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.

Peirasmos, it seems, is so closely bound up with human experience, is so universally a feature of what we undergo in this life, that we are not truly represented by a saviour who has not undergone them. Who is Adam after all if he is not the one who was tempted, even before he fell?

What exactly is the reason that temptation/testing is such a feature of the human story? It has to do with the nature and reality of human creature-freedom: the presence of the peirasmos, which offers or prompts an alternative to the obedient response that the Word of God demands, shows that the obedient response is a free submission of the creature. It is therefore a real, genuine and not fraudulent submission to that Word in real personal relationship with it.

Temptation: a sketch

By making the central part of his first act the scene of temptation, Eliot suggests that temptation - or rather, its renunciation - is a crucial matyrological theme. Of course, as an imitatio Christi martyrdoms will always find echoes of Christ's passion, including his temptation by Satan and his trial by the authorities, so it is perhaps unsurprising that temptation is a prominent theme here.

For temptation to be real requires the presence of a freedom to accept it or reject it. In fact, temptation is a moment of decision for the individual prior to the public testing before the court or in the circus, an inward crisis whose outward counterpart is the trial before the powers. This is crucial, because the martyr must be one who freely chooses not self-determining freedom but submission to the divine will.

The renunciation of temptation requires a particular understanding of divine providence. Temptation occurs within an apparently dualistic framework. The doctrine of providentia dei is a reminder of the overarching monistic/monotheistic structure of Christian belief. But it must not be allowed to be articulated in a non-Trinitarian way. So, amidst the dualism of experience, the martyr rests on the singularity of the Father's providence, expressed in the supreme and effective example of the Son's renunciation of temptation and his strength under trial, and the comforting presence of the Spirit.

The Lord's Prayer is an interesting example of both perspectives: the Father is in heaven and rules - that is the basis of the prayer; yet we pray that his kingdom may come and his will may be done.

We must note the biblical words massah and peirasmos both mean 'trial' and 'temptation'. The seperation of the two concepts linguistically is a feature of later Latin theology. The temptation idea is more closely linked to the work of Satan and is designed as a trap; the test comes from God and is designed to strengthen the believer. The tricky text is the prayer 'lead us not into temptation': can he or would he do this? Can we really get around the problem with the rendering 'trial'?

Strangely perhaps, the early martyr-acts do not depict temptation stories, though they do depict trials and tests of course.

The Temptation to do good

'Sin grows with doing good', Eliot has his martyr say.

Alongside invitations to do quite marvellous works of piety and love, lies the temptation to somehow seek pride in them, or to use them manipulatively, or to love God less because of them.

The devil tempted Jesus to make bread and to share in rule and to save himself, all in themselves not bad things. The goodness of creation itself and serving its needs, which are real and authentic goods, can be extremely diverting from the ultimate purpose of human life, its worship of God.

The story of Mary and Martha - which I always found to be a great rejoinder to people obsessed with housework! - perhaps is suggestive of this. Martha is busy in doing good, doubtless. But her good spills over into her fury with her sister; and earns her a famous rebuke. Was Cain's sin likewise not the ungood of his offering, but his envy of his brother (see I John 3)?

2. Love - instead of answering hate with hate, Jesus loved even his enemies by dying for them

Adam's fall resulted in the murderous violence of Cain, who belonged to the evil one.

The fruit of Jesus' resistance of temptation was not murder, but love. Instead of vengeance, he sought the good of enemies. He did not resist them, though he did challenge them; he did not call down curses upon them, but prayed for their forgiveness, even as they killed him.

His death was the great example of the Father's love: God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8). It is a love that costs.

Jesus showed in his life and his death that devil's work in sowing discord and disharmony had been short-circuited. And more than that: that his death as a sacrifice for sin has brought us into a new way of being human, not one like Adam and Cain, but now like Jesus himself.

No wonder John in his letter can say How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!

How did the Son of God destroy the devil's works?

Adam & Eve's story of temptation, fall and death, corresponding to the three works of the devil is of course tragic. It is a story of unreached potential, of two beings who are in every way a shadow of their former selves. It is a story we are all enmeshed in.

But it is a story that has a sequel. Our text, remember says that the Son of God appeared to destroy the works of the devil.

How did this happen? What did Jesus Christ do to destroy the works of the devil? His story in many ways is a parallel to the story of Adam: only with a very different outcome.

There are three works that Jesus Christ did, as he retraced the steps of Adam, that directly confronted the devil's work.

1. Truth - instead of believing the devil's lies, Jesus believed and told the truth.
2. Love - instead of answering hate with hate, Jesus loved even his enemies; and began a group of people who would known by their love of each other.
3. Life - Jesus in his death made a sacrifice for sin that broke the devil's power over death

God's word is not chained

It is an honour to give this sermon at St Giles Normanton in the memory of George Seamer, a man who stood firm on the Word of God.

My text today is these verses from 2 Timothy:
8 Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel, 9 for which I am suffering even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But God's word is not chained. 10 Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory.
[2 Timothy 2:8-10]

On October 6th, 1536, in a prison yard in the castle of Vilvoorden just north-east of Brussels a 42-year-old Englishman named William Tyndale was strangled and then burnt at the stake for heresy and treason. Tricked and betrayed by an agent of King Henry VIII, he had endured 500 days of harsh imprisonment and a farcical trial prior to his execution. As he died, it is reported that he cried out ‘Lord open the King of England’s eyes!’

What was the nature of his crime? Why was he such a threat to the King and to the Church that he had to be silenced?

Apparently fluent in eight languages, the scholar Tyndale’s crime was to translate, print and distribute parts of the Bible into the English tongue, something that had been expressly made illegal in 1409. Tyndale’s life was committed to the power of words. He was convinced that God himself has spoken in words that ordinary people could understand.

The God of Jesus Christ is not a mysterious, distant and unknown deity who, if he speaks at all, speaks in a babble of Latin. By no means: the message of Jesus Christ and his victory over the devil and the grave is for all people everywhere, of every tribe and every tongue.

This message is not static, but dynamic: it is marvellously potent. It is the power of life itself! What Tyndale realized was that power of God himself lay not in the structures of the church, or with popes and bishops, or even with Kings, but in the word of God, living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword.

Tyndale staked his life and safety on the power of God’s word. He knew that the word of God in the hand of the ploughboy was dynamite to kings and popes because it was the word about the rule of the Lord of lords. The irony of it was that not so long after Tyndale’s death King Henry himself authorized an English translation of the Bible which was substantially based on Tyndale’s work and which forms the basis for our English translations up to the present day.
God’s word is not chained!

Tyndale knew this because he knew what the apostle Paul knew.

These few words from 2 Timothy 2 are written by a man who also knew the deprivation and despair that comes with the loss of freedom. This was the man who had a calling from God to preach to the Gentiles, from one end of the earth to another. He had big plans: even to visit Spain with his good news, at the far edge of his known universe. But: he wasn’t going there while he was rotting away in chains. He wasn’t able to be with the churches that he had planted, or to be there in person to guide Timothy, timid Timothy, through his first stumbling steps in ministry. Was the mission going to fail? The question must surely have crossed Paul’s mind. What was the future to be? How could the gospel of Jesus possibly go forward with its chief apostle off the pitch and out of action? Would the Christian movement wither away and become a quirk of history, an artifact to be discovered and pondered over by antiquarians but of no ongoing significance?

If Paul knew first hand the impotence of his imprisonment, he knew also the shame of being chained up ‘like a criminal’, as if he was not the messenger of a mighty and glorious God but one of the numberless villains and vagabonds that frequented the Roman Empire. He was being treated as an enemy of good order and a threat to peace. This was not supposed to be the position of a respectable and cultivated Roman citizen; he was certainly not going to get access to the top end of town in his current position, nor influence the movers and shakers in society. What influence could he possibly have as a common criminal?

But the problem of the apostle’s imprisonment was deeper even than this: it was a real question mark over God himself. For, if his great apostle to the Gentiles is cooling his heels under house arrest somewhere in the empire, what is God doing? Is he really as powerful as he pretends? Is he really the master of events, or have events somehow conspired to master him? Is trust in the promises of this God somehow misplaced, if so little apparent progress can be charted?
It is a question we ourselves may feel like asking, even today. We experience from some quarters an open hostility to the gospel and a flagrant rejection of the word of God as if it were a polite suggestion.

That is more often a voice from within the church, sad to say.

From without, we experience rather the complete apathy of our friends and neighbours, the yawns and bored stares rather than the raised voices. Perhaps it is the apparent dagginess and the irrelevance of the gospel to most people that is more depressing than its explicit rejection by some. For every full church in the UK, there is at least one down the road that is virtually empty.

We may well ask: where today is the evidence of the power and authority of God?

But let us turn back to Paul at this point. What is his response?
He is not despairing: for, as he says: ‘God’s word is not chained!’

Why can he be so sure? Why can he be so confident when the evidence of the shackles jangling around his wrists would say otherwise?

What Paul says is that it is in the nature of his message. His gospel is what gives him confidence in his gospel.
And what is his gospel?
Have a look at verse 8. He asks his readers to ‘remember Jesus Christ’ – and two things about him in particular.

It has two parts:
First, Jesus Christ was ‘raised from the dead’.

That is to say, this man, the figure at the centre of Paul’s preaching, had been victorious over sin and death! The prison of the tomb could not keep him in. The chains of death and hell could not hold him: on the contrary, on the third day he had risen victorious. His grave is empty!

It is worth us pausing here to think: what kind of power is needed to raise the dead? Clearly this is not merely a human power: it is beyond the power of human beings to achieve. It is a power beyond our ordinary conception of what is powerful.

The word that Paul preaches is a message not only about life beyond death: it is a message of the defeat of death. It is a declaration that death has been reversed.

So: Paul’s gospel is about God’s power to reverse the effects of sin and death. It’s an announcement of the forgiveness of sins! And it’s a message from the same God who called light out of darkness and called things that are not as though they were.

What’s more: this power is also the power to transform lives. It’s a power that makes a difference for individuals. Paul could talk about this from his personal experience, of course: a man who once sought to murder the followers of Jesus but then miraculously became one of his leading followers. In Romans 8:10-11 he writes:

10 But if Christ is in you, your body is dead because of sin, yet your spirit is alive because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit, who lives in you.

People here today know about this. People here have been changed by the power of God’s word, brought out of darkness into God’s wonderful light; they know the power of God’s word to liberate us from captivity to sin and death. People here live in full expectation that sin and death will not have the last word; and that they will have eternal life together with God. Like Paul, they have experienced it for themselves – they have heard this word of God and know how powerful it is.

The second part of Paul’s gospel: Jesus Christ was ‘descended from David’

This may at first seem like unremarkable thing to say. After all, lots of people could claim that they were descended from David: Joseph for example. But here it is far more significant that that: as the son of king David, Jesus was the heir to Israel’s throne and to all the promises of God that came to David. Back in 2 Samuel 7, God had made a covenant with King David that his kingdom would be without end. He had said to David:

12 When your days are over and you rest with your fathers, I will raise up your offspring to succeed you, who will come from your own body, and I will establish his kingdom. 13 He is the one who will build a house for my Name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever.

A son is promised; a direct descendent of David who will rule, and for ever. Though David will one day die, this Son of David, will live and live. In his gospel, Paul proclaims Jesus Christ as the one through whom God’s promises come to fruition.

God is powerfully true to himself. The true king who has ascended on high and NOW rules! The resurrection was not just the beginning of new life for Jesus: it was his enthronement as Israel’s mighty king: the king who was to rule not only Israel but the nations as well. All authority in heaven and earth is given to him. Jesus now rules: he is LORD. This was another way in which Paul summarized his gospel: Jesus is Lord.

And so, Paul’s gospel is powerful precisely because it is about power: it is a message about who is in charge, really. It is a word from and about a king who calls on people everywhere to recognize his authority and to submit to him as the son of David and the true heir to his throne. This word of God, about the rule of Jesus, has no regard for what human beings think is powerful: even though it be spoken by a man in rags or a by a poor woman it demands that kings, and princes and presidents and prime ministers and chief executives submit to his rule and the rest of us along with them.

So: Paul is able to say that God’s word is not chained because of what that word, his gospel: it is about: Jesus, raised from the dead, descended from David. And for Paul this means that he endures everything for the sake of others who believe it. He is able to withstand even his imprisonment, with all its deprivations and shames, because he knows that God’s word is powerful to accomplish his will. He is not despairing. He is not browbeaten. He is not bullied into silence, or embarrassed into defeat. Paul is all the more encouraged to continue on in hope, knowing that if even he should die with his mission unfulfilled that God’s word go to the grave with him. He endures everything (vs 10); he puts up with the trails and persecutions with an unbattered confidence in the power of the gospel. He knows that his own failings and weaknesses and sufferings are not an obstacle to God accomplishing his word.

So: for us there is I think a great comfort, but also a strong rebuke as well. We’ll start with the rebuke:

There is a sharp reminder for us that when we think that the word of God is chained to our programmes, our business, our effort, and way of doing things we are completely and arrogantly mistaken. It is a great temptation for evangelical churches in these days of thinking strategically about our church’s mission, and analyzing church growth, and signing up for programmes and courses and what have you. We do tend to think that the gospel could not possibly go forward without us and without our strenuous efforts. Our busy-ness which we offer to God to use does not make him dependent on us, though he certainly loves to make use of us. We must certainly resist this belief in our own indispensability: but I am afraid that in lots of evangelical churches resistance to this temptation has been rather minimal. We have started to believe in the power of the means that we use to do evangelism and run church services and not in the Word of God itself. We have fallen in love with our own technical excellence and forgotten that the only thing that advances the cause of the gospel is the gospel: that it is a powerful word about a risen king, a word that doesn’t need power-point to make it powerful. This morning I would like to invite us to re-consider our attitudes in this matter – not that programmes or thinking about the practicalities of our mission are wrong, but that we put them in the right place and recognize afresh our dependence on God’s word.

But also and more obviously here we have a great comfort: the word of God is not chained - so do not fear and do not despair at the attacks on the gospel or at the apathy of the wider community. Do not be afraid of standing on the word of God: where else can one stand? Do not be perplexed by the self-serving cleverness of those people who would tell us otherwise. Do not be surprised by resistance to the gospel – it is in its nature that it is a message as much rejected as accepted. Do not be surprised when the gospel is criticized for its irrelevance or its dowdiness – people need to find excuses to evade it, after all. But there is no need for us to be cowed or depressed either. Rather we can take great strength from the fact that God’s word does not return to him empty. This was after all the word that created the worlds, that caused the sun to shine and put the moon in its place; this is the word that rules the sea and the stars. God said, and it was so. And it is the word that brought Jesus out of the tomb; it is this word that rules: it is the authoritative word, the last word.

Let this church then be one that never ceases to rest wholly and only on the word of God, and nothing else. Let it be fearless in its declaration of the message of the gospel of Jesus, though it be foolishness or a stumbling block to others. Let it not trust in the brilliance of its ministry team or the magnificent planning, efficiency and wisdom of its PCC. For the word of God is not chained.

William Tyndale not only translated these magnificent words, he believed them too. And, he was not despairing even though his opponents in this work were popes and kings. He was not despairing even as he went to the stake with his work incomplete, and with the full realization of his dream – that the bible be freely available to all English men and women in their own tongue – was several decades away. His example is a great witness for us in our experience today of hostility and apathy to the word of God to endure everything.

Let’s finish with Paul’s words:
2 Timothy 2: 10 Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory. 11 Here is a trustworthy saying: If we died with him, we will also live with him; 12 if we endure, we will also reign with him. If we disown him, he will also disown us; 13 if we are faithless, he will remain faithful, for he cannot disown himself.

Hauerwas vs O'Donovan on martyrdom

Stanley Hauerwas asserts with no small vigour the view that by ‘taking up Rome’s project’ and making it their own, the Christians were bankrupting themselves of their own witness.[1] In accepting the power of Rome as a weapon for their own armoury, the church was conceding its own identity to the world against which the martyrs had so successfully fought. Martyrdom stood as a sign against Rome’s attempt to victimize Christians. Though the refusal to obey Caesar was (it seemed to the pagans) an irrational act, it witnessed to a higher rule; and by doing so, undid that rule’s claim to absoluteness:
‘The church – exactly because it does not seek to rule through violence, though it necessarily manifests God’s rule – triumphs by remembering the victory of the Lamb through the witness of the martyrs.’[2]

The new offer of a share in Rome’s rule was an understandable temptation, because Christians had always proclaimed the ultimacy of God’s politics; and here was a chance to exercise that politics – to demonstrate in practice the truth of the claim. For the ancient Christians so for the Christians of today: the temptation of collusion with rule threatens to dim the light of the church’s witness to the risen Lord of all. Hauerwas sees the issue as being ‘how we [i.e. the church] can witness to God’s rule through church without ruling’.[3] In other words: no matter how friendly and peaceable the offer of co-operation be, the answer for Hauerwas will always be ‘no’.
For Oliver O’Donovan, however, the victory of the martyrs is to be understood somewhat differently. He finds Hauerwas’s version of Christendom to be historically doubtful, for Hauerwas too readily assumes that the Christians who applauded the conversion of Constantine did so because they wanted to pursue the growth of the church by means of the apparatus of the empire. In fact, the picture is more complex: there were those who warned about the dangers, and those who declared no more than that the ruler had submitted to the rule of Christ. They were not ‘taking up Rome’s project’. This is not collaboration with coercion, necessarily. Rather, the very hope of vindication for which the martyrs yearned had, in part and temporarily, come to pass. Yet, under the ministrations of a Hauerwas, this same hope comes to look like a temptation! Rather, for O’Donovan:
…since true martyrdom is a powerful force and its resistance to Antichrist effective, the church must be prepared to welcome the homage of the kings when it is offered to the Lord of the martyrs.[4]

It is not surprising – indeed it makes good theological sense – that the rule of God should manifest itself in history though not yet absolutely. Martyrdom is not merely a stance of eternal dissidence; it is a witness to the rule of God in Christ. As such, it can be faithful witness to say yes as well as no. Hauerwas’s martyrs die shouting ‘they make take our lives, but you will never take our freedom’ just as Mel Gibson’s William Wallace did. And yet, as Augustine himself said ‘it not the punishment, but the cause, that makes a martyr'.

[1] Stanley Hauerwas, After Christendom? How the Church Is to Behave If Freedom, Justice, and a Christian Nation Are Bad Ideas (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1991), p. 39
[2] Ibid., p. 38
[3] Ibid., p. 43 Hauerwas’s somewhat surprising ally is Augustine (or at least, his re-reading of Augustine).
[4] O'Donovan, The Desire of the Nations - Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology, p. 215

Constantinianism, continued...

If on the one hand John of Patmos accentuates the bestial aspect of the imperium, it is a tone moderated by the refusal of Paul to see the powers as falling outside of divine providence. For both, the expectation was that hostility to those bearing the Messianic name would be a feature of the new age. This is as it turned out, although sporadically rather than consistently in the first few centuries. For some Christians, the lack of hostility was problematic, so accustomed had they become to identifying with the idea of martyrdom. The longing for a martyr’s death was so strong that Augustine, for one, spent not a little effort in reminding Christians that martyrdom was not to be invited. Origen in his Exhortation to Martyrdom falls just short of recommending Christians provoke it where it is not on offer. Stories are told of Christians presenting themselves for martyrdom at the local governor’s door, much to his annoyed surprise! The martyrs had been so exalted that it was hard to think of martyrdom as not the norm; and Origen (for one) had declared it a sure path to heaven.

Thus the conversion of Constantine, which itself almost immediately followed a period of intense persecution (that of Diocletian), was not an eventuality for which there were obvious theological resources. As O’Donovan writes ‘[T]here was no revealed political doctrine in the New Testament, prescribing how the state was to be in Christ.’[1] The Christians were as unprepared for the peace as they had been prepared for the war. Where it had been the tendency prior to 315 to demonize the imperium as implacably hostile to the kingdom of God (forgetful of Romans 13), in the new dispensation it was perhaps rather the tendency to sacralize the emperor. The temptation was to see this as the moment of victory – that here was an end to the need for mission because the mission had apparently been accomplished.

[1] Oliver O'Donovan, The Desire of the Nations - Rediscovering the Roots of Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 219

Constantinianism, anyone?

Oliver O'Donovan is often accused of 'Constantinianism', especially by the likes of Stanley Hauerwas and his followers. In fact, at a recent conference I am lead to believe that this accusation was given quite an airing - though not in his presence! What I think they mean is that he does see some positive place for state-craft, and a requirement for the church to be at least attuned to it, or in conversation with it, especially when providence delivers a repentant 'king'. What were the Christians supposed to do come the Edict of Milan 315 AD? Say to Constantine, 'thanks, but no thanks'? Does the church really insist that the state return to its former persecuting ways and undo its gesture of repentance? I suppose it is easier to live with a hostile state because we all know where we stand!

Of course, the Constantinian arrangement has produced some rather rotten fruit: medieval papalism on the one hand, and Erastianism on the other. One makes the church into a (parallel?) secular power (the pope having armies for example) to which kings must give allegiance; the other makes the church merely the puppet of the state (as with the German Christians in the 1930s). Strangely, in both cases there is an exchange of evangelical authority for the instruments of earthly rule. In the case of papalism, a misapplication of the doctrine of the keys from Matthew 16 is brought forward: 'binding' and 'loosing' become acts of judgment and punishment in the hands of ecclesiastical authorities. The context of Peter's declaration of Jesus as Messiah is eclipsed...

Today in the West (at least in the US and Australia - Christians in the UK seem politically toothless) a resurgence in the political power on offer to Christian groups appears as a temptation for them to forget their primary task of preaching the gospel and instead pursue what are actually secular ends by secular means. The terrible danger is that we think we are building the kingdom of heaven by engineering a 'Christian' government. But that does not necessarily mean that the repentant politician or the political party which wants to know what Christians would like to see should be left swinging in the wind.

Martyrdom, as ever, provides an interesting point of divergence between the two views. O'Donovan sees martyrdom as a possibility latent in the Christian experience but at times not a necessary path to pursue, when the ruler appears to be genuine in his/her desire to submit to the authority of God. Hauerwas would ask at this point 'why isn't anybody killing us?' and seek to emphasis the points of divergence to such a degree as to produce a violent reaction against the church... While I am attracted to Hauerwas' radicalism, I am also disturbed by it!