'Don't fall asleep'...The Loneliness of Jesus (a sermon)

It can be very hard to stay awake if you are really tired. If what your body is telling you is that you really need to be asleep then it is very difficult to over-ride that by using reason. I don’t know if you have ever felt sleepy while driving: it’s a very frightening experience, isn’t it? You open the windows to let the air rush over your face; you find the most discordant music you can and play it at jumbo jet levels; you pinch yourself and you try to talk to the other people in the car. But still, your eyelids droop, and still you catch yourself drifting out of consciousness, barely aware of what you are doing. Even though we know rationally the consequences of napping while in charge of a speeding automobile are deadly for ourselves and for others, the imperatives of the body command us; and we tend to respond.

Part of being human is this ongoing struggle with the weakness of our flesh. We cannot escape the needs of our physical natures, or pretend that somehow our rational capacity will always override our appetites. Our intentions may be noble or profound; but somehow the weakness of our flesh tends to result in compromises that disappoint us or worse. Not that the need for sleep is sinful any more than our desires for food or sex or water or reality TV are as fundamental human appetites.

In this serieshave been trying to understand who we are as human beings theologically speaking. But we have taken an unusual tack, admittedly; seeing Christ as the human being par excellence, we have honed in on the moment of crisis in his life, the point at which his humanness seemed to collide most directly with his mission: the scene in the garden of Gethsemane. First we spoke of the horror of Jesus in this story, his terrible confrontation with the meaning of his own mission. This man was true human being, tested to the limit, knowing himself the frailty of a bodily existence, with its tears and tremors. And then we saw how this true human responded to this extreme situation in prayer and obedience. Obedience to the Father is proper for humankind, we learn; and prayer to God is likewise the reaction of the real man to the extremity of a situation like this.

But we have still only considered the story in two of its three dimensions.

The perspective we have missed so far is the perspective of the disciples who were with Jesus in the garden and who witnessed his agony. Or who would have, if they could have stayed awake. For the disciples, it had been an alarming evening to say the least: Jesus had predicted to them that one of their number would betray him, to which they all answered “surely, not I?” (14:19-20). But Jesus had gone on to say:

“You will all fall away…for it is written: ‘I will strike the shepherd and the sheep will be scattered.” (14:27)

And then he had predicted that Peter, even Peter! would deny him three times that very night. “But Peter insisted emphatically “Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you.” And all the others said the same.” (14:31) They had all the best intentions in the world as they entered the Garden of the olive-oil press, or Gethsemane.

And entering the garden, Jesus tells them to “sit here, while I pray”. Jesus seeks for a quieter spot and so takes along with him Peter, James and John, the trio he had selected as his chief witnesses: they had witnessed the raising of Jairus’ daughter; they had witnessed the transfiguration and heard the voice of God; and with Andrew they had heard Jesus talk of the signs of the end of the age, in chapter 13: it was they who had heard Jesus deliver his eschatological imperatives, (13:35ff) “Therefore keep watch because you do not know when the owner of the house will come back - whether in the evening or at midnight or when the rooster crows or at dawn. If he comes suddenly, do not let him find you sleeping. What I say to you, I say to everyone: “Watch!” This trio had also had their moments of pride: Peter’s rebuke of Jesus at Caesarea, and James and John’s request for the best seats in the eschatological dinner table.

And now to them comes the instruction “Remain here and keep awake”, or “keep watch” (14:34), as Jesus moves a little further on and falls on his face in desperate prayer to his Father. Why are they to watch? What are they to watch for? Are they to be sentries to alert Jesus to the approach of his capturers? Perhaps, on this literal level that makes sense: but the command so strongly echoes the commands of chapter 13 to watch for the coming of the Son of Man that we are meant to hear this as a testing for the disciples of their capacity to this other “watching” too.

And it is a test that they fail badly, isn’t it? Jesus returning to his disciples, found them sleeping. “Simon” says Jesus “are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour?” Evidently not - it had been a busy day and so Peter and the others had nodded off, unable to stop themselves though they heard the direct command of Jesus to stay awake and watch. Not a lot of watching was going on at all.

And so Jesus delivers this lesson: “Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak” (14:38). The echoes of the Lord’s Prayer in this passage are fascinating: Jesus prays “Abba, Father”, and that his will be done; and now, they are to pray not come to the time of testing. Of course, the time of testing is just round the corner. But here is a lesson in discipleship: stay awake, and pray. Be alert to the possibility of NOT doing what God wills, but what you will instead; of choosing the weakness of your flesh over the intentions of your spirit, so to speak. Jesus knows that the only way to meet this terrible trial is to keep awake and call on God.

“Could you not keep watch for one hour?” No he could not; and neither could the others. Again and again he was to find them sleeping: “because their eyes were heavy”; and from embarrassment and shame, caught like rabbits in the headlights of their own disobedience, they did not know what to say to him. Entering the garden with all the devotion to service of their Lord, they fall asleep at the very moment they ought to be most alert and calling on God to deliver them.

And so it is no surprise, with disciples such as these, that we find Jesus deserted, betrayed and denied. Remarkably, Peter denies him three times, pretending dishonestly that he has no first-hand knowledge of Jesus, for fear perhaps of sharing the same fate as Jesus. So much for taking up your cross and following Jesus.

Of course Judas’ betrayal is as one of Jesus closest circle: his is not a denial of Jesus but an acknowledgement of him by a kiss.

And the disciples as group dishonoured themselves in the crucial moment by fleeing from the armed mob that had come to capture him. This included even the mysterious streaker of 14:51, who fled naked: perhaps, people have suggested, this is the author, too ashamed to add his own name to his disgrace. The disciples lose their nerve: they fall into an unruly mob. In contrast, Jesus faces his trial and death with calm composure, having expressed his fears to God in prayer.

"This desertion means that in this moment Jesus is utterly alone. It is not self-evident that he should be alone at this point. He had called his disciples to be his apostles, the foundation of his community in the world. He had made his cause theirs. He himself would be there in their midst, as he says in Matthew. It was perfectly possible that the disciples might have been crucified along with him. But, though the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. The flight of disciples and the denial of Peter show just how weak it is. Though he asked them to watch and pray with him, they could not do it; and just at the crucial moment they dozed. While the saviour wept, the Church slept! Though the Christian community could say, yes, we were there, in the Garden of tears, alongside the saviour, it could never say its behaviour at that moment was honourable or that it contributed to the work of Jesus in even a supporting role at this point. No: Jesus is utterly alone in his prayer in the garden and his going to the cross." (K. Barth)


This is an important rebuke to any sense of ecclesiastical triumphalism, any sense in which churches might think of themselves as contributing to the work of Christ. Of late we have seen the impressive grandeur of a particular church on display in the pageantry of the late Pope’s funeral and the selection of his successor. And according to one commentator favourable to Benedict XVI, “the church is in good hands”. The church is certainly not in good hands if it is in any hands but those of Jesus its Lord. How Benedict’s supposed predecessor behave when it came to the crunch? But we too are frequently guilty of this pretension: that by our activity and relentless pragmatism we may somehow think we share Jesus’ burden, or repeat his work. The danger of success in church-building may be that we forget that the church was forged in a terrible failure of its own nerve: and that only the saviour went forward at the vital moment. In our current environment of planning and planting and building and leading and vision-statement creating we must take great care not to think we ever supplant or contribute to what Jesus did for us once for all. This is blasphemy of the highest order, but it is a real temptation for us in the culture we inhabit.

And so it was Jesus who watched and prayed in their place. They left him in frightful loneliness, asleep when it most mattered: and he did it for us, willing to obey God, though he full knew the horror of what was to come. As one writer puts it, “if there is anything which brings out clearly this simple “for us” as the content of the Gospel, then it is this aspect of the event in Gethsemane, in which the act of God in Jesus Christ had absolutely nothing to correspond to it in the existence of those who believe in him. They could not watch with him even one hour. He alone watched and prayed in their place.”

And so: Stay Awake! Keep Watch! Pray lest you fall into temptation! Following Jesus is about being on your guard and, because the flesh is weak, praying for God’s help. We ought not to be found dozing at the wheel in our lives of faith, but rather found alert and prepared. We need to recognise our body’s weaknesses and our dependence on God for mastery of them. Obedience to God, which is what liberates human beings to be themselves, is a hard road to follow, and full of pot-holes. And yet someone has gone there for us.

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

Jerry Springer the Opera and Taking Offence

Christians and other religious people seem to be known for their willingness to take offence. That's what religious people are, by and large: people who get offended about cartoons in newspapers on behalf of their divinities.

Recently in the UK there has been a stage show produced called Jerry Springer the Opera. It is a vile piece and not really that good - I saw some of it when it was shown on the BBC. It has a gay Jesus among other things, and some incredibly bad language. It has some satirical component to it I suppose, but it isn't that funny and it isn't that clever. Of course, with a piece like this which religious people are offended about, the liberal commentators blather on about what a great work of art it is, and how important it is that it be shown etc. The issue of censorship is bandied about as if it is the greatest cause in the universe etc. Of course, the possibility of SELF-censorship on the grounds of offending a large number of people and whether that might be a good thing to freely choose to do is never discussed, because we only discuss these things in terms of LAW (it is worse in the UK even than OZ in this area).

But is the right Christian response to get outraged and to protest? Certainly that is the right Muslim response, it seems... But Christians are not those who assert their rights in this way. Surely we don't want to participate in the protest/victimhood discourse that is so harmful to our community? Surely we can speak about the hurt and the (more to the point) the terrible danger of blasphemy without using the same gestures that people use to get a public hearing these days? I think it actually damages the cause of the gospel when we pose as another protest group in society that is making noise for its own space...

Honourable Death?

You might be - must be - familiar with this terrible image, if not because you have seen then because you have imagined, or dreamt it. A man in an office one morning, faced with the alternative of dying at the hands of the terrorists or dying at his own hand, chooses to take his own life. He jumps. This photo has been read as a symbol of the ultimate act of defiance against terror: they may take our lives, but they may never take our freedom. It is death with honour, in other words.

The ancient world knew this kind of rhetoric as it applied to death. For the Romans, victory was important. But if you couldn't have victory, then death with honour was just as glorious. So noble suicide was a way of rescuing dignity from defeat. It was an act of will when none seemed available: like choosing to jump rather than be burned. Lucan tells the story of the noble-souled Volteius and his men, who committed mass suicide rather than face death at the hands of their enemies who surrounded them. This kind of death meant that they would live on in glorious memory rather than be forgotten.

I think this ancient honour ethic of death is at work in the contemporary world. The 'euthanasia' debate appeals to the common feeling that illness and suffering that we can't control demean us as human beings. To at least take this final step out of our own volition removes us from the grasp of the cancer (for example).

The early Christian martyrologies also use the language of honour. They are full of militaristic imagery: they become soldiers of Christ, fighting a battle against the enemy, and so on. And the voluntaristic aspect is not entirely absent: it is important to show that the martyr chooses to die for Christ. But there is a difference: many of the Fathers wrote against the practice of Christians actively seeking martyrdom (which evidently was a problem as it is today) and nowhere was suicide given as an option nor practiced, and certainly not celebrated as glorious.

What is the difference? Well, I think the WILL issue is key. That is, the martyr does exercise her will, but she does so in obedience to the will of God. The great Bishop and Martyr Polycarp said ‘Blessed and noble are all martyrdoms that happen according to the will of God. For we should act with discretion leaving the power over all events to God.’ This is the vital difference... The honour that the martyr gets is not in an exercise of what free will remains, but in joining her will to the will of God, and so praising and honouring God himself. Further of course the difference is that, whereas the Romans had only statues to memorialise the honourable death, Christians looked forward to resurrection bodies - glorious and honourable bodies, radiant with the glory of God.

A great martyr once said: “I shall be a convincing Christian only when the world sees me no more” (Ignatius of Antioch). Contrast this with the pagan longing for honour and fame...

mike carlton

Well, back from holidays: Cornwall is wonderful!

Here's something that has been sitting on my chest for a while.

Sydney journalist and talk-back radio host Mike Carlton has for a couple of years lampooned the Jensens in his Sydney Morning Herald column on a Saturday. His satire is based on Anthony Trollope's Barchester Towers and takes the form of a mock parish newsletter. It would be amusing if we were not the target! I have wondered long and hard how to respond. Carlton is impervious to letters, of course and refuses to meet up to discuss it. Somehow, humanising your targets takes the fun out of tearing them down in public, doesn't it?

The premise of the entire lampoon is the charge of nepotism that Herald journalist Kelly Burke aired some time ago. The source of the charge was Rev John Cornish, the former head of Anglicans Together. He grumpily commented in this way on the appointment of my uncle as Dean of St Andrew's Cathedral and then my mother as a member of a women's ministry committee and my appointment to Moore College. I rang up John Cornish and asked him what evidence he had about my appointment to suggest that it was nepotistic. Of course, he had none, but that did not mean that he issued any kind of public apology - nor has he since. My mother's position is not a job at all, but membership of a committee on which several other women sit, and she receives no payment. My uncle - who is widely regarded as one of the more successful rectors in Sydney in the 80s and 90s to say the least - was not the first person asked to be the Dean, but in any case would have deserved consideration on merit alone. (Cornish's gripe was with his churchmanship). In any case, no-one who knew anything about it saw the Dean's job as anything but an extremely difficult task with little thanks. Anyhow, it doesn't matter now: Cornish's slur has gained a life of its own, and appears everywhere in its distorted form as fact. I hope he is happy.

This is what is galling about Carlton's method. He is an 'opinion' writer. His business is not to report but to comment on the news. He evidently has not the time for his own research or fact checking. All he does is read the SMH and go from there. And that's the problem! As anyone with first hand experience knows, the SMH is notorious for publishing inaccuracies and perpetuating myth. Carlton's fatuous comments are then built on this. It is ignorance by convenience because the facts would get in the way of his satire. He refuses to speak with any of us face to face because it would spoil the fun.

A recent example: the Herald published a distorted, incomplete and one-sided account of an upcoming defamation suit against an Anglican rector, and linked it bizarrely to the women's ordination debate. Because it was a lawsuit, it was impossible to respond to the inaccuracies at all. And yet Carlton has the temerity to use this as material for his latest squib, further cementing in the public's mind the orginal distortions perpetrated by the paper.

I have to say that it hurts to read it. I don't say that we ought to be spared criticism but it is hard when it is based on such baloney. It is hard when you meet people whose view of me and my family has been coloured by this. And it is hard when Carlton is in such a position of power and a far larger platform for expressing his views than we have. Where is the right of reply?

What comforts me? Well, Carlton's attacks on the Howard government (of which I am no fan) seem to be wildly out of touch with most Australians. He is one of those baby boomer journalists who think they invented sliced bread and that their opinions are self-evidently true - and yet can't see how out of touch they are with most people. I also have to remember that the journalist's ravings are like the wind: here today but wrapping paper tomorrow. And also, I remember that a few barbs from the likes of Carlton are nothing compared to what Christians face in the Sudan right now.

giddens and self-identity

I have been reading a terrific book called "Modernity and Self-identity" by Anthony Giddens.

He is very good at describing how we cast ourselves as selves in the contemporary world. Modernity's fundamental attitude towards knowledge is radical scepticism and doubt...which means that when it comes to 'making the self' we have to do it alone..'reflexively'. But we do it amidst a bewildering array of options and possibilities. That is a fact of post-traditional life. No wonder we are anxious...

Trust is basic to modernity, because we have given over knowledge in so many areas to experts. We need to trust them in order to operate: that the train driver knows what he is doing, that the vitamins we take won't give us cancer, that omega 3 oils are good for us, etc. Which is why when expert knowledge is proven mistaken or corrupt we are thrown into such anxiety... it is also true that some of this expert knowledge is getting us into trouble, because we can't integrate it into a whole. So, we may take a pill that solves one problem, only to find it gives us another.

Modernity, says Giddens, is a 'risk culture'. He means that the concept of risk is fundamental to the way we organise the social world. We assess the future by means of calculating risk (rather than entrusting ourselves to prayer, for example). But at the same time, modernity has introduced new, global risks... apocalyptic risks, you might say. Paradoxically, moderns still talk of fate and destiny...

So: 'self-identity becomes a reflexively organised endeavour. The reflexive project of the self...consists in the sustaining of coherent, yet continuously revised, biographical narratives '. We see oursleves as 'writing'/'performing' on life's stage. This is where 'lifestyle' comes in: it is our choice of life-story as far as we have a choice. It is also interesting that the intimate relationship - the 'pure relationship', not formed from anything other than choice - has become so crucial to the way we project our lives.

This affects the body as well... the body as an outward form of our self is subject to our construction and control, or at least our attempts to do so. He notes along with this that our culture has a powerful sense of shame attached to bodies especially, and has largely lost our sense of guilt.

Giddens also notes that the reflexive project of the self generates programmes of actualisation and mastery, though these lack moral meaning.... 'authenticity becomes both a pre-eminent value and a framework for self-actualisation, but represents a morally stunted process' (p. 9).

Wow: there is so much dense thought here and so much of relevance for my project and for Christian thinkers generally. I think martyrs are interesting here because of the way in which they incorporate death into a life-narrative: and also because they have a specific attitude to the future which supercedes calculation of risk...

(NB: I will be away in Cornwall for two weeks: blessed Passiontide and Easter to everyone).

The Psalms and the martyrs

Today I read Psalms 1-72 in one sitting (meant to do the whole lot, but ... tomorrow maybe!).

The Psalms, I suspected, give voice to a perspective that the martyr inhabits.
Impressions? Well I think that suspicion was right. In taking up the Psalms we are immediately thrown into a world characterised by conflict, confusion, doubt, enmity, violence. That's just the external world! On the inside, while there are some clean-handed Psalms in which the poet comes to God with a clear conscience, there is also a sense of self-doubt too. The Psalmist lives in a hostile world, where even his own self conspires against him...

And part of the whole point of the Psalms, coming as they do in the middle of history is a sense in which God's response remains to be seen. His character is known: especially his love for justice and his all-knowing perspective. So the Psalmist seeks refuge in God again and again and again. God is the rock, the shield, the fortress. But: what will this mean in reality? What will God do? How will it come to pass? Even the short cut to the christological answer here leaves more to be said. How will God bring his purposes to bear on the world of confusion? How will he shield us from the worst?

Initially I felt that there is an ugliness to his demands for a divine vengeance on his enemies. Here is anger, hatred, frustration, bewilderment, a wishing for the damnation of the enemy. However, there is a sense in which this part of a proper patience - entrusting action to God who judges rightly. Which also goes hand in hand with the strong theme of repentance and pleading for mercy - for if you call down God's justice on others, a moment's self-scrutiny will surely make you realise what a dangerous strategy this is.

A postmodern martyr?

Well I have to report that I dutifully attended the service at St Mary the Virgin to commorate the martyrdom of Thomas Cranmer 450 years ago.

It was a 1662 Lord's Supper, and I think they even toned down the bowing and scrapping that usually goes on. Still, the influence of the Oxford movement was much in evidence...
Rowan Williams preached the sermon. It was astonishing really. I was glad that a particular friend of mine was not in earshot: he would have hurled a stool. I certainly came close. What we got was a 21st century Cranmer in postmodern agnostic dress: a man who had become aware that human words (like.... John's Gospel was the example pulled out for us) can never exhaust the divine word. "The word of God is not bound" was the text he preached from. This was the explanation for Cranmer's use of repetition in his liturgy - that is, the inability to ever perfectly capture the divine word in human expression.

So what did Cranmer find to die for? In the end this was the question i felt was not really resolved by His Grace. Where was the truth that one finally might decide to offer oneself up for burning for?
Then we marched up to the cross in Broad St and heard from Foxe's book of martyrs read by Roger Beckwith, while the tourists stared blankly and took photos because I am sure they thought something must have been happening.

hey did you see this?

http://www.sydneyanglicans.net/mission/missionthinking/blogging_will_take_the_world_by_storm

liberal political philosopher Rawls....

John Rawls writes provocatively, ‘[F]or the purposes of public life, Saul of Tarsus and Paul the Apostle are the same person. Conversion is irrelevant to our public, or institutional, identity’.

This is a revealing comment: Rawls’ liberalism in effect asks citizens to exhibit a fissure in their identity. This is repeated mantra-like by media boffins everywhere - here in the UK and at home in OZ. (Mike Carlton I am thinking of you). Though Rawls recognises the anthropological/psychological problem here, he offers no satisfactory resolution from that perspective.


The public sphere is not the zone of neutrality he assumes. Quite clearly, Rawls allows a preferred position for certain kinds of truth and not for others in determining what goods society is to pursue. And yet the religious person might rightly protest that without consideration of God at this very point, the kinds of goods that belief in God might entail are deliberately excluded from consideration – and that these beliefs are not easily privatised.

What do you think?

Re-thinking the term “propositional revelation” or, What Broughton Knox Really Said.

The use of particular terminology in any given field is meant to clarify rather than obscure. Terms are only useful as far as they communicate accurately the concepts they signify. When, owing to shifts in culture or context, terminology becomes confusing, it should be abandoned or replaced. I don’t think any theologian would dispute that this is especially true in theological discourse.

I have noticed for some time now a confusion with the term “propositional revelation”, a term strongly associated with DB Knox (who defended it in a 1960 RTR article) and in common use amongst Sydney Anglicans. I wish to argue that this term badly distorts the doctrine of scripture that Sydney Anglicans actually uphold in practice – such that our critics and some of our students have entirely misunderstood what was meant by the original use of the term. It is time for us to revisit our use of this terminology, and I shall argue, abandon it. It is no longer communicating even what Dr Knox mean by it, as an examination of his 1960 article will show.

The word “propositional” has, of course, strong overtones of logical positivism. The logical positivists were a mid-twentieth century philosophical school associated with the early Wittgenstein, AJ Ayer and Karl Popper; and in very brief summary, they were interested to uncover from language the basic propositions and concepts, stripping away the formal and affective shell in which the nut of meaning was carried. Language, for all that it might be conveyed in poetic or narrative form, was reducible down to the simple propositions contained within it. What was needed was a systematic reduction of human knowledge to logical and scientific foundations: its basic propositions, in other words. With the passing of time, the logical positivists have faded from view and their approach discredited (rightly or wrongly), such that the application of the term “positivism” has the ring of the perjorative about it.

When applied to the idea of scriptural revelation, then, the term “propositional revelation” is understood by some to mean that the narrative or poetic or epistolary form of scripture is irrelevant to the actual meaning that it contains. These matters of genre or structure are merely the wrapping of the content of revelation which needs to be stripped away. In this understanding, “propositions” indicate something like “axioms”, or bare statements of literal fact.

We see this understanding of “propositional revelation” in Archbishop Peter Carnley’s recent book; and in Rev Humphrey Southern’s (appalling - over 20 plain errors of fact!) article in Theology 107/836. As he understands – from his interviews with Sydney Anglican leaders - Sydney theology
…starts with a small handful of propositions that are entirely axiomatic and shape with inevitable logic the whole of what follows. Fundamental to this theological method is the understanding that truth – theological truth as much as scientific – can only be expressed in terms of intellectual propositions. Neither narrative nor metaphor nor allegory can convey truth, though they can illustrate it or illuminate it. (p.120)
As Southern sees it, this leads to a distorted and unbalanced reading of scripture:
…The method also involves strict selectivity in how it allocates authority to Scripture. It is not merely that it affords greater authority to some passages over others, or some biblical writers over others, because of preference: it is the selectivity that says the parables of Jesus, because they are narrative and metaporical or allegorical, are inherently less capable of informing doctrine than propositions that may (however tendentiously) be drawn from some Pauline writings. (p.122)

This sadly reductionistic and emaciated understanding of scripture was nowhere taught to me in my studies at Moore College and is not now; nor do I see it (often) in practice in the pulpits of our churches. However, one increasing danger of the use of the term is that not only our critics but also our students – especially those of a scientific or pragmatic bent – will adopt it, thinking this is what the Sydney doctrine of revelation means for interpreting scripture. Anecdotal evidence suggests that this is at least occasionally the case.

However, reading the 1960 article of DB Knox, it is obvious that this reductionistic meaning of the term is not what he meant. The article, written in Dr Knox’s clipped, almost terse, style, addresses then-fashionable idea that revelation is an event, and that the scripture merely witness verbally to the revealing event. The Scriptures, according the view Knox is contrasting with his own, are not the word of God but are reflections on the deeds of God in which he reveals himself. Not so, asserts Knox; revelation is propositional: that is, to say, to do with words and the concepts they express. He writes:
The denial of “propositional revelation” is the denial that God reveals himself to men through the medium of words, that is to say, through meaningful statements and concepts expressed in words, for such is the only sense that can be given to the word “propositional” in this phrase. (The Collected Works of DB Knox 1.308).
Words written meaningfully are, of course, propositions. (CW of DBK 1.309)

“Propositional” Knox defines broadly. In order to explain what he means by “propositional revelation”, Knox does not apply a kind of reductive exegesis, distilling unambiguous statements from all kinds of texts: rather he points to the texts themselves including the form in which they appear as propositional, because they are meaningfully verbal. For example:
One of the most important revelations through vision is Daniel’s vision of the Son of Man in Daniel 7. Both the vision itself, and the vital interpretation of it, cannot be described otherwise than as “propositional revelation.” (CW of DBK 1.311)

Knox did not want to tie the idea of inspiration too closely to the exact words on the page in the manner of the Qu’ran. Somehow, the concepts of scripture are translatable from one language into another, and yet still remain revelational. But Knox did not mean that the narrative or poetic form of the text was therefore merely a shell to be discarded in favour of the kernel of truth contain within it. My (I believe realised!) fear is that, though that is not what Knox or his followers mean by “propositional revelation”, it is what is being understood by it.
Knox’s article is admittedly modest, and it is more than forty years old. It addressed a particular controversy in theological discourse. A full-blown monograph on the Doctrine of Revelation now exists, written by PF Jensen. It continues the use of the term “propositional revelation”, but clearly does not mean by it what the critics (and some followers) assume it means. As he explains on p.87ff, “Christian revelation is basically verbal”, in that it conveys both relationship and information. In no way is this idea intended to surpass the affective or aesthetic dimension in the texts of scripture, as is borne out in the rest of the book.

So: do I have an alternative terminology to suggest? I am attracted to “verbal revelation”. However, the criticism of this suggestion is that it is not the words themselves but what they say that is the locus of the divine speech, so that the words of God may indeed be translated from one medium, form or language into another. I would respond that these translated forms – whether sermon, commentary or ESV – are only secondarily or derivatively the word of God. Something will always be lost in translation.

Perhaps there doesn’t need to be a replacement term: perhaps what this discussion reveals is that a simple word has obscured something that actually needs many words to explain accurately. In that instance, it is all the more urgent that we find out and then say what we mean by “the Bible is the word of God”.

Imitating Christ again

Imitation of others is inescapable; though it puts a question mark against our human ability to self-describe our own individuality. The tendency in public discourse to simultaneously construct and deconstruct exemplars ('I want to be like Mike') is evidence of the way in which imitation has become a problematic mode of the ethical discourse - I mean the cult of celebrity! (Do we like Paris Hilton or not?) The casting of social outsiders as human ideals seems likewise evidence of a deep confusion about human virtue.

As we have seen, the Pauline imitatio Christi (mediated via an imitatio Pauli) offers a very different account of how imitation might work. Of course, the object of imitation (Jesus Christ) is, for Paul, unsurpassable, even un-imitatable. But he becomes the empowering source for those who are ‘in him’ by means of his death. The cross becomes the symbolic and actual centre of Paul’s call to imitate Christ – it provides both the means and the form for such a human life. Imitation of Christ is not then about finding an identity, but rather about enacting it. However, as evidenced by what I have identified as the need for phronesis – which Paul himself displays in his mediation of Christ’s example - the imitation of Christ does not reduce all identities to the one same identity, but rather liberates the individual to be herself.

The content of this imitative practice consists, not in acts of self-assertion (as in the secular account), nor in a retreat into contemplation (as in the mystical tradition), but rather in a willingness to bear with a variety of negative possibilities for the sake of the other and the edification of the church community in an attitude of patient endurance. The imitation of Christ (as Paul reads it) turns the believer toward the other believer, for his or her sake, whatever the cost. It is, in the true sense, the passionate life.

Doctrine: a rationale?

Why do we need to do doctrine? What does it add, except for confusion?
In my personal experience Doctrine, or Theology, as a subject has had rather a bad rap in evangelical circles. Few people at college put it as their favourite subject (though I could be wrong); and the majority of time we spend in study is usually allocated to Biblical Studies; we rarely preach on doctrinal issues. There is an understandable reluctance to move what seems to be one step away from the clear text of the Bible itself.
Why is this the case? I have three suggestions:

§ The problem of systems
We may rightly be wary of letting a constructed theological system or tradition override the text. We have all seen Biblical texts squeezed out of shape in order to make them fit a theological presupposition. Roman Catholic dogmas about Mary’s perpetual virginity are one example we may cite, where the most likely meaning of the gospels is that Jesus had brothers; yet the Roman Catholic system, with a prior commitment to Mary’s perpetual virginity will not allow this reading. [I, for one, think that Limited Atonement is exactly this kind of teaching.]

§ the plain meaning of the text
Theology might be seen as a way of subduing or domesticating the text of Scripture - of putting it in its place under or alongside a more important source of doctrine, such as Reason, Tradition or Experience. Or it may be that one text, or theological idea is allowed to condition all the others. In current church debates about women’s ministry for example, the principle of gospel equality is held to override texts that ascribe different roles.

§ A commitment to an empirical method
Further, there is rightly enough a commitment to the epistemological empiricism of our Anglo-Saxon heritage. Simply put, we tend to see that the answer to any theological question can be found by listing the biblical data, perhaps leavened with some historical background. On the other hand, without explicit Biblical data, we become suspicious that we are engaging in speculation.
Personally, I think that Biblical scholars have been part of the problem here, with the greatest of respect. They drag their heels when it comes to theology - from both the conservative and the liberal end. [What are you doing, guys and girls?] We need to release the bible from its captivity to biblical scholars, actually...

so: why we should "do" doctrine:

i. because we all have a “theology” whether we like it or not - so better an informed and reflective one than not.
There is no reading of the Bible that does not already rest on theological assumptions. Doctrine enables us to test these assumptions honestly. It is frankly dishonest to claim that we can do without theological reflection. “Just reading the Bible” is a myth!

ii. because it is an evangelical necessity: the ancient gospel is being preached in new situations and so requires fresh and faithful re-articulation in every generation.
In particular, the demands of our time are enormous and require responsible and creative work.

iii. because it helps to inoculate the church against false teaching.
Doctrine is our “defence against the dark arts.” After all, the Jehovah’s Witnesses claim the principle of “Scripture alone”. We need an understanding of doctrine in order to tell what is truly Christian.

iv. because it is a pastoral necessity
Doctrine enables us to address the teaching of scripture about the reality of God to the questions, the trials and the sins of our flock (and of course to our own lives).

Compiling THE LIST:

If a student had a year to read just theological works, what would you tell them to read?

Criteria (necessarily artificial of course!):

Genre: “the treatise”, rather than imaginative or mystical or devotional works or commentary.
Orthodoxy: broadly defined by creeds
Perspective: 21st Century Protestant (evangelical) - so a Western bias probably...
‘Classic’ Author: some authors demand inclusion (a la epistles of Paul in the NT)
‘Classic’ Work: some works demand inclusion (a la Hebrews!).
'Classic-to-be': the books of the last 20-30 years that are must-reads in the sense that they will be read in years to come!

ERAS:
PATRISTIC

MEDIEVAL

REFORMATION (16th-17th C.)

18th - 19th C.


20th C.


CONTEMPORARY

Is the church a family?

Frequently we say that the best metaphor to describe the church is 'family'. That is, I think, we are saying that the private/public distinction which we observe in the rest of the world doesn't hold here. When I go to church I am still at home, if you like. Israel is kinda the model for this because they were a nation but all related genetically- ie they could say (really) that they were a giant household.

Anyhow, the question is: how do you apply this family idea? I think there is obviously good warrant in the Bible for it: calling each other "brethren", the adoption of sons etc. In which case, what of my biological family? What place do they have in the scheme of things then?

This matters especially when it comes to ministry. Are ministers mothers and fathers of their congregation? And if so, what is the scriptural/theological backing for this?

The analogy has been especially used when it comes to gender difference to explain why it is that we can vote for a female prime minister or work for a female boss and yet not have a female chief minister or preacher: that is, the church is a family, and so husband is to wife so male minister is to female (is that the logic?)...

Anyhow come on you who read and never comment: what do you think?

1 Peter 1:13

The NRSV’s translation of 1 Peter 1:13 as ‘[T]herefore prepare your minds for action’ in my view strikes entirely the wrong exegetical and theological note with its emphasis on action. Literally, the verse reads ‘Therefore gird up the loins of your mind’. The girding of the loins signifies preparedness; but the reference to the mind suggests that something other than action is what the person is to be prepared for. What the rest of the verse (and indeed the rest of the epistle) commands is rather a posture of patient and hopeful waiting for the final revelation of their salvation. Whatever actions are commanded in the letter as such, they are ordered to this more passive stance. They are invited to a "passive action": submitting, accepting, enduring, waiting, answering. The particular theme of holiness in the letter points towards a disciplined, purificatory activity in the same preparatory key (see 1:13-21)...

"Passive action": is that enough to characterise the Christian life? (Reinhard Hutter calls it pathos...)

Responsibility!

I have been reading in Bonhoeffer's Ethics. What we have is really a series of unpublished papers written under the pressure of the years just before his arrest when he was involved in the plot against Hitler.

Bonhoeffer argues that responsible action is that which is most in accordance with reality. That reality is ‘the reality of the God who became human’. This action, however, is neither an endorsement of the status quo nor a blessing of revolution. It begins with the action of God in Christ ‘reconciling the world to himself’ (2 Cor 5:18).

Responsible action is grounded and circumscribed in Jesus Christ. Bonhoeffer is clear that this is not merely an ideology which carries all before it. ‘The task is not to turn the world upside down but in a given place to do what, from the perspective of reality, is necessary objectively and to really carry it out’ – that is, to do what is possible within the human domain. God becoming human means that responsible actions likewise have to occur within that domain. The ultimate evaluation of these actions is only for God. Responsible action ‘must completely surrender to God both the judgment on this action and its consequences’.

Bonhoeffer turns to the Sermon on the Mount, where he finds a powerful picture of suffering action:

"The Sermon on the Mount confronts those who are compelled to act within history with the event of the reconciliation of the world with God in Jesus Christ, thus placing them into genuine Christian responsibility."

The Sermon on the Mount is not a manifesto of withdrawal from the historical-political sphere, contrary to the way in which it has been read for much of Christian history. Historical-political action and Christian action have been seen as opposites – statehood without self-assertion or force is thought impossible. ‘Turning the other cheek’ or ‘love your enemies’ are not plans for kings to rule by, as ordinarily conceived. Bonhoeffer also points out that even the most cynical uses of power in the west ‘always need a mask of Christian concepts in order to succeed’.

Again the response is christologically framed: the action of God in taking human flesh and inserting himself into the world of real human beings, in its very particularity shows that he is concerned for real human beings in the concreteness of their existence and not merely for the idea of them. The Sermon on the Mount is the voice of the incarnate love of God calling people to love one another and to a renunciation of everything that gets in the way of that possibility. This must include action in the sphere of the political, because God’s love for the world is not partitioned. To act in accordance with Christ is to recognize that ‘the world is loved, judged and reconciled in Jesus Christ by God’, which is the true reality of things.

Responsibility’ (Verantwornung) is a key notion for Bonhoeffer, and includes the sense of ‘answering’ not perhaps captured in the English word. Bonhoeffer expounds responsibility in terms of Stellevertretung, or ‘vicarious representative action’. Jesus was the model of this type of action in becoming human, in dying as crucified and in the resurrection; and ‘all of life through him is destined to be vicarious representative action’ - to act as a representative of his people, in their stead and for their good. However, Bonhoeffer differentiates Stellevertretung from a self-appointed representation by claiming that only the selfless person is able to act responsibly – as parent, as pastor, as citizen.

more on friends and ... others...

It might be protested that the references to friendship as such in the scriptures are few, especially in the NT. The ecclesio-relational metaphors that are most prominent are organic or filial ones – the Vine, the Body, the Brotherhood. This certainly helps protect the church from becoming a community of people I like, or of people like me: in that friends are typically freely chosen for friendship, whereas ecclesial relationships are established on an entirely different basis – namely by the choice of God.

On the other hand, the church is not a biological entity either, in the sense that it is not composed only of people who have a particular genetic or racial identity in common. The NRSV’s decision to render the Greek 'adelfoi' as ‘friends’ rather than ‘brethren’ would completely change the grammar of ecclesial relationships (if accepted). What is perhaps most overlooked in this discussion is that material in the NT which is actually most relevant – the actual ecclesial experience of Paul and the others that we glimpse in the greetings and farewells of the epistles (e.g. Phil 4:1; Romans 16). Here we see that there is apparently a genuine and heartfelt experience of ‘friendship’, touchingly and lovingly recorded in these incidentals. These are those who Paul addresses 'agapetai', 'dearly loved ones' (2 Cor 12:19). But this of course is given to us alongside the experience of a painful enmity, too, from within the ecclesial sphere. The apostle does not always count his enmity as outside the church and his experience of friendship as inside. Rather, he actually encounters both in the present reality of church. There is a reminder in this that Judas was one of the Twelve; and that opposition to and treachery against Jesus came from within the small band of apostles who were with him from the very start.

Friendship - how to conceive of it Christianly?

Related to a previous post: something i wrote on friendship.

Jesus speaks of the love of one ‘laying down his life for his friends’ (Jn 15:13): that is the greatest love. It is love that he exemplifies; but it is the kind of love that will also be at the heart of discipleship. His public life was a life lived amongst his friends over and against even his own family (Luke 8:17-19). Friendship with him was a matter of performing his words (Jn 15:14); which elevates the status of disciple from servant to friend. However, the fickleness of human friendship was of course something Jesus himself experienced. Not only did he count among his friends Judas, who betrayed him; but at the crucial moment of testing, his disciples fled and left him alone. He went to cross solo; watched only from distance. Unsurprisingly, then, part of his teaching to his friends was that they were risking the possibility of this affliction themselves. In Luke 21, he prophesies their betrayal by family and friends (21:16-17). ‘You will be hated by all because of my name.’ The experience of martyrdom is clearly on view here. Archbishop Thomas the disciple does not count the experience of friendship with the King as a matter of expedience – even though it is now over. However, Christian discipleship is promised by Jesus to have a destabilizing effect on these earthly relationships, which may even result in violent rejection. Perhaps laying down one’s life for one’s friend may mean dying at his hand.

But the connection of love with friendship by Jesus is the key here. The divine love of Jesus for real human beings represents a turning toward human beings in friendship despite and even through their violent enmity towards him. In death, Jesus alone stands in the place of his fellow human beings, bearing their implacable hatred towards God on his shoulders. And yet, the point at which he suffers betrayal, rejection, torture and death becomes the point of greatest divine love for human beings and human love for God. (See Romans 5:1-11). In turn, this great realized and actual love of God for human beings and of one human being for God becomes the great example of love for the disciples of Christ (John 15:13-15; 1 John 4:1ff; see also the language of sacrifice in Rom 12:1-2). That such a love will involve concrete, actual bodily sacrifice is unmistakable in the language of the NT. This love is shot through with pain – possibly the pain of unreciprococity. This means for the Archbishop that he cannot abandon the King altogether, though there may be violent consequences. Though Thomas has been offered the chance to shut the door on Henry by the Third Tempter, this is not ultimately for him a Christian possibility. Rather, he calls out ‘Open the door!’ (II.??); and, with this, calls down on himself his own murder.

Mission and theology

“What would happen if theology took the mission of the church seriously?

In his (in my opinion very poor) book Recovering the Scandal of the Cross Joel Green asks what I think is very good question: what would happen if theology took the mission of the church seriously?

It’s a good question because it inverts our expectations. We ordinarily imagine that mission ought to take theology seriously: if only we get our thinking about mission right, we say, then we will mission more effectively. We believe I guess in a priority of theory over praxis. The problem with this view is ineffectiveness: revivals are not usually begun in the academy, you may have noticed. There is a tendency for theory to be closed to the questions people are actually asking.

On the other hand, I guess there are some of you who can already sense the artificiality of this: you have already been out there presenting the gospel and living it, and seeing lives changed and people won for Christ. Having to come and sit and think about it seems quite futile: it’s already going on! The problem with this view, I suggest respectfully, is pragmatism. Pragmatism means that we become like advertisers hawking products: we will do anything for a sale, including distort the message out of shape, perhaps casting aside or hiding uncomfortable parts of the scriptural teaching in order to fit in with the culture of context.

This is why Green’s question is a good one: because theology needs to realize the urgency of mission! Theology must not be indulgent or merely speculative. And on the hand, those engaged in mission have the weighty responsibility of speaking and acting in and with truth. Mission must remain faithful to its source in scripture or it will be unable to address cultures - it will only reflect them. If theology took the mission seriously, not only could theology be forced to rediscover its own deep scriptural resources, but also mission could be reinvigorated by the work done in the thinking about it.

When I don't like people

Ok, I know blogs can get this awful confessional tone sometimes. But here goes!

I think at present my most difficult struggle in the Christian life is with other Christians I just don't like personally. Don't worry, there aren't that many of you! The trouble with being a person who works and lives among Christians all the time is that you are bound to encounter these troublesome individuals. Somehow it feels easier to not 'click' with a non-Christian person, doesn't it? Personally, I found my years at theological college (as a student) very difficult spiritually for this reason. There were people there who I just didn't like that much.

I am amazed at the pettiness and jealousy that I so easily feel when I hear of others' success sometimes; or the inward smile at their failures. Usually, it is somehow that they are a threat; or perhaps there is the perception of a personal slight. There is a person who slighted me once in a private email some time ago now - and forgiving that person has been very hard, partly because of the triviality of the incident (I am sure they did it inadvertently). This is how trivial it is: they took a patronising tone with me.

Is there a type of person that I just don't like? I know I find ridiculous and strident dogmatism very hard to bear (believe it or not). Sometimes, if I am honest, a person I don't like has a flaw that I fear in myself: arrogance, or pomposity perhaps. I am always tempted to play down the other person in conversation with others.

How should we deal wisely with this? I think not liking everybody is ok. But we may be called upon to work together in partnership for the gospel - and what then? How do you get to a place where not liking someone doesn't spill over into terrible inner bitterness - or even turns into regard, even perhaps affection?

I have to say that there are some Christians - saintly ones in my view - who never have a bad word to say about anyone. They seem naturally to be able to cope with people's difference in a very God-like way... How did they get there?

Narrative...

OK, go with me here.

I wrote this in an attempt to get a methodological section going the other day. The question I would like to discuss (if this makes no sense) is: "is narrative the best way to approach theology"?
Or, perhaps:

"Narrative has the capacity to be generative of meaning rather than reducible to a kernel of truth."

What I wrote:

"What we have in narrative is a binding together of word and event: the event is described and given coherence by the application of the shape and categories of narrative. Narrative applies a causal and teleological form to events as we experience them; though this is not altogether arbitrary. The sequentiality of events invites the search for causal links between them. This is something we recognize even in our own bodies: as they change over time, collecting scars and wrinkles, we experience in ourselves the results and effects of our experiences. Our memories, also, tend to make sense of our past by narrating it to us (as we have seen). This is not to say that our narrating of the events of our experience is the final truth about them; or, that every account that we give of events we have experienced is absolutely comprehensive. It is the tracing of a path through a forest as best we can: though we do no see every tree in the forest, and though at times the going is rough, and we lose our bearings, we still are able to make our way. Though there is difficulty, there is not incoherence, necessarily.

The advantage of an emphasis on narrative is the ability that narratives have to present, simply and irreducibly, a complex account of reality. This again accords to human experience and adds to the explanatory power and intrigue of narrative. Narrative has the capacity to be generative of meaning rather than reducible to a kernel of truth. Joseph Conrad’s minor narrator in Heart of Darkness says of the great story-teller Marlow: “…to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze…” We need not, perhaps, be as pessimistic as to speak of a “haze”; but still, this is a good description of how meaning clings to narrative and is generated by it. Readers do not read them well if they attempt to strip away the narrative husk to reveal the meaning lying dormant within."

Patriotism

can a Christian be patriotic?

I am a proud Aussie: however, my recent study has given my cause to rethink this nationalistic pride.

Is nationalism and patriotism really something that the followers of Jesus have any truck with?
Isn't patriotism one of the uglier things we see around?

Example: why should you buy Australian or British given that the citizens of other countries are my neighbours also?

sacraments

Karen wrote asking about the sacraments: so some thoughts!

Part of the heritage of living in a society where the Protestant-Catholic divide used to be more prominent in our consciousness than it now is is an extreme jitteriness about the sacraments. In evangelical Anglican churches, we have been so afraid of appearing Catholic, or of appearing to say that the sacraments actually do something, that we have denuded the sacraments of any significance in our church life entirely. It was also part of a reductionistic and rationalistic turn in Sydney Anglican theology (in my opinion) of which Broughton Knox was the father.

This was an unfortunate and unnecessary overreaction which has robbed a generation of hearing the power of the Word of God preached in this way. The sacraments are powerful precisely because they are the enacted word of God - and the word of God is powerful indeed! It is a shame, because by focussing on controversy, we became afraid of doing something wrong and so missed out on something that is so very good. Of course you don't have to be baptised, if it is understood as a work that achieves your salvation. But you do have to do it as a command of the Lord Jesus. The logic here is the same as saying "you don't need to have sex to be married - sex is only the symbolic physical enactment of your marriage, and we are beyond it and also, people often mistake the symbolic physical enactment for the real thing so we should avoid confusion by making sure we never even appear to have sex."

I think there is an important principle BEHIND the issue for evangelicals however. Do we do only that which is ordained in the Bible? Or, given that the Bible does not speak about many matters, do we listen to and give heed to tradition in its stead? For example, the Bible tells us not very much about how the Lord's Supper was celebrated. But since the earliest times (and I mean the very earliest times) it has been celebrated in a particular form. Isn't that worth something? I am not saying that it has an absolute authority, but surely it allows that this was the way in which early Christians understood this matter and so we would not be wrong to do the same.

The Third Temptation

In Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, Thomas is visited by four mysterious "tempters". Each has a different path to offer him.
The first offers to him the path of sensuality and the good life.
The second points out to Thomas the possibilities of political power that lay before him in returning to the king’s side – even the good he may do by means of this power. After all, as he puts it: ‘Power is present. Holiness hereafter.’

The third Tempter, though similarly a tempter to power, conversely offers him the chance of an allegiance of church authority with the barons, in the name of the people and true patriotism, in open defiance of the king.

It is this third temptation that interests me today.

It is a nice alternative to the violent death of the martyr, isn't it? It is the possibility of a neat power-sharing arrangement. And it is possible to rationalise it, too, because the church can in this temptation (apparently) remain the church and be itself but do so in coalition with earthly powers in a revolution. Think what good could be achieved by this mighty conjoining of the two! Think what new possibilities emerge from the uniting of the temporal and the spiritual!

Thomas of course renounces this path on his way to martyr's death. Which leads to a question: How exactly is it that martyrdom is found in renouncing a patriotic and possibily democratic sharing of power? Why is the martyr's path different to this one?

Thomas' answer is a good one:

If the Archbishop cannot trust the Throne,
He has good cause to trust none but God alone.

In other words, though the monarch may be corrupt and monarchy as a system of power undesireable, there is no alternative type of human political system to which a Christian may give absolute trust. Democracy, for example, for all its virtues, is not to be trusted any more than monarchy is; if you can't trust Sadam, how can you trust those who work for his undoing? (we might say). (an interesting question to put to Dietrich Bonhoeffer perhaps?) I think sometimes that US rhetoric about democracy posits democracy as an absolute and rational good, negelecting the nature of practices of government as embedded historically in a people-group or nation. That is to say, you can't make Iraq a democracy by declaring it so: it has no tradition of democracy.

The martyr witnesses to the power and trustworthiness of God alone. He or she does not court open rebellion against the ruling authority, or seek to engineer regime-change in the idealistic hope that the alternative government will be any better. The martyr is not swayed by nationalist fervour.

That is not to say that martyrdom does not bring about regime-change, or radically alter the shape of governments. The Constantinian revolution - perhaps the most remarkable transformation of a political landscape history has ever seen - was the great victory of the army of martyrs, who fought against the Emperor while remaining loyal to him as God's ordained ruler. This they did by dying in the arenas. They publically witnessed to a greater power than the absolute power of Rome itself - can you imagine it? - and in doing so exposed the facade of Rome's power.

inner/outer

Well, and I thought the anonymity issue would spark off some real HEAT...

I watch a lot of bad tv. It is an addiction I am trying to break. HOWEVER, one observation I make of a lot of what I call "makeover shows" is that they assume a particular relationship between an inner self and an outer self.

What inevitable happens is that they get you a new outer self - wardrobe, weightloss, plastic surgery, makeover, organise your house, whatever - and then make all these claims about the inner self having changed. "I am a totally new person" - because I have had a haircut.

Now, at first I laughed at this. How silly. Of course the inner self is the same self - changing the outer is merely window-dressing, merely surface level change that doesn't effect the "real" me.

But then, I thought, "actually, there is something true about this. The outer self is not a lesser self or merely a means by which we experience the world. It IS ourself in the world. So change it, and there are at least inner effects...."

or something like that...

Anonymity

Well here's an issue:

It strikes me that the web affords you the possibility of acting in an entirely anonymous way in all sorts of areas. I have had several experiences of people on message boards speaking anonymously in a way that is extremely offensive and would be unacceptable if they were a face and/or a name. Check out "ship of fools" if you want to see what I mean.

It feels kinda wrong to me. I just think that you should be accountable for your words as well as your actions. And online, you aren't a character in a story - you are a real actor, no matter how virtual your identity. Your words and deeds still attach to you in some way (I believe). There isn't a suspension of the ethical in the virtual realm - or is there?

There are of course people who use pseudonyms more like nicknames, and their identities are easily traceable if anyone should care.

So, what ethical parameters could there be for using anonymity? If any?

(a thought: virtual interaction has the same moral temptation as overseas travel - if you go somewhere where no-one knows you, then you can behave in a way that those who know you wouldn't recognise as true to you as they know you... it feels like a place without consequences.)

Pragmatism

Here's a ministry issue.

It's particularly relevant to the diocese of Sydney, where I am from, but also to evangelicalism around the world.

It seems that the attitude of "whatever works" (to promote the gospel of course) is prevalent in our churches. That is, we have a principled end, but are entirely pragmatic about the means to get there.

So, whatever structural or political means are necessary to achieve the ends we will do. We will concede everything to our culture in order to get them into church: marketing the church and even Jesus like a product, making Christianity fit with the lifestyle of our suburb, and so on.

It takes different forms wherever you go. Sydney Anglicans for example will treat the political process of the denomination as a means to an end and do whatever it takes no matter how tough it seems, because of the ends in view.

TS Eliot says:

This last temptation is the greatest treason
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.

I think we tend to do the opposite: The wrong deed for the right reason...

In my view, pragmatism is a vile creeping poison. But what do others think?

The Art of Blogging

Ok, I have just realised some things about blogging.

Firstly, you have to keep your entries SHORT in order that people can have a quick look and get something. Fair enough!

Second, you have to be regular in adding to your blog, or regular users give up looking.

Third, you have to keep monitoring and engaging with discussions.

Have I got it?

Murder in the Cathedral

Hey any help with this little speech by Thomas in Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral?

"They know and do not know, what it is to act or suffer.
They know and do not know, that action is suffering
And suffering action. Neither does the agent suffer
Nor the patient act. But both are fixed
In an eternal action, an eternal patience
To which all must consent that it may be willed
And which all must suffer that they may will it,
That the pattern may subsist, for the pattern is the action
And the suffering, that the wheel may turn and still
Be forever still".

In Thomas Becket’s sermon on martyrdom in T.S. Eliot’s drama Murder in the Cathedral the audience hears these words:

Consider also one thing of which you have probably never thought. Not only do we at the feast of Christmas celebrate the martyrdom of His first martyr, the blessed Stephen. Is it an accident, do you think, that the day of the first martyr follows immediately the day of the Birth of Christ? By no means. Just as we rejoice and mourn at once, in the Birth and Passion of Our Lord; so also, in a smaller figure, we both rejoice and mourn in the death of martyrs. We mourn, for the sins of the world that has martyred them; we rejoice, that another soul is numbered among the Saints in Heaven, for the glory of God and for the salvation of men.[1]

Martyrdom takes place paradoxically as a moment of delight and of mourning. Archbishop Thomas makes plain the double-edge of the sign of martyrdom – that it reveals both a demonic repudiation of God and a glorious acceptance of him in the one event. Thomas reveals in his sermon that behind the play’s presentation of historical events contrived by human agents lies the counter-narrative of Christ, that the feast of Christmas celebrates. The providential design of God is always in consideration when it comes to martyrdom:

A Christian martyrdom is never an accident, for Saints are not made by accident…A martyrdom is always the design of God, for His love of men, to warn them and to lead them, to bring them back to His ways. It is never the design of man; for the true martyr is he who has become the instrument of God, who has lost his will in the will of God, and who no longer desires anything for himself, not even the glory of being a martyr.[2]

Martyrdom is ultimately an act of God and not of the machinations of human plotters, nor even of the martyr him- or her-self. At least, the martyr acts in so far as he freely conjoins his will to the divine will – not in order that he might be glorified as a saint, but in order that the will of God be done, as Thomas has said earlier “that the wheel may turn and still/ Be forever still.”[3]

Thomas knows just what it is that he has renounced in accepting the path of martyrdom, which makes the sermon a moment of quiet resolution in the face of what is to come. He is visited in the first act by four tempters.[4] The first offers to him the path of sensuality and the good life. The second points out to Thomas the possibilities of political power that lay before him in returning to the king’s side – even the good he may do by means of this power. After all, as he puts it: “Power is present. Holiness hereafter.”[5] The third tempter, though similarly a tempter to power, conversely offers him the chance of an allegiance of church authority with the barons in open defiance of the king. Lastly, and with most subtlety, comes the fourth tempter, who encourages him to “think of glory after death”, for “Saint and Martyr rule from the tomb”.[6] If he seeks the way of martyrdom he will not only bear the crown of glory but be able to enjoy the spectacle of his enemies “in timeless torment…beyond expiation.”[7] This is most troubling for the protagonist and hardest to renounce: it is most difficult to disentangle his own will-to-glory from the rightness of the path he is about to take. As he says:

The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.[8]

This turning of his motive towards his own self-interest would corrupt his martyrdom. Thomas recognizes that it can scarce be avoided.

And yet, knowing the complications and the risk of perdition, Thomas offers in his sermon his own resolve to submit only to the will of God. He renounces the pragmatism and hedonism of the tempters, and the thinking of those who “argue by results…to settle if an act be good or bad”;[9] in sight of the swords of his killers he gives his life “To the Law of God above the Law of Man”, in confidence that:

We have only to conquer
Now, by suffering. This is the easier victory.
Now is the triumph of the Cross, now
Open the door! [10]

Thomas neither acts nor even suffers for his own ends. He takes his decision “out of time”.[11] It is, in other words, an eschatological decision: while it is open to question and scrutiny as to his motives and to the relative impact of the act in time, what really matters is whether his act stands (or falls) in eternity. As a true martyr he displays a self-abegnation that is a true expression of his faith in Christ.

The play itself invites the process of a judgment “in time” as with no small irony the four assassins offer their rationalizations for their actions, in plain ignoble prose. They explicitly make appeal to the “fair play” of the English audience, who feel themselves privileged as judges over the action they have just witnessed. Thomas was a provocateur; he had a fanatic’s death-wish; he was complicit in the politics of the day; and so on. Eliot admits to the table the quite credible counter-witness of the knights; and they appear to have the last say. However, the play closes not on this note but with the song of the Chorus celebrating the entry of Thomas into glory. And at this point another kind of invitation is issued: an invitation to thankfulness and repentance:

Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man,
Of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire… [12]

The audience is pointed to their own complicity in the shedding of blood through their tolerance of injustice and apathetic acceptance of the status quo; and invited to contemplate the example of Thomas in his submission to the will, and the love, of God.

Eliot’s re-narrates the murder of Thomas as a martyrdom for the twentieth century testifying against both cynical political pragmatism, and an ultimately self-regarding religious fanaticism. The passion of Thomas is conjoined to the passion of Christ, as in the early Christian Acts of the Martyrs; his suffering echoes Christ’s suffering and is made meaningful in those terms. However, an ambiguity remains - exactly in the way Eliot himself envisages it. On the historical plane, the nature of Thomas’ death remain subject to an element of concealment. Are not the knights quite plausibly arguing against the reading of Thomas’ death as a martyrdom? Isn’t the verdict of the chorus, simply posited as it is at the end of the drama as a kind of divine judgment (in the manner of Sophoclean tragedy) a presumption of a divine perspective on these events that isn’t really available (except in the theatre)?

[1] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, p. 56
[2] Ibid., p. 57
[3] Ibid., p. 32
[4] Allusions abound in the scene to the Temptation of Christ by Satan. The downfall of Thomas is being narrated in imitation of Christ’s death.
[5] The words of the Second Tempter. Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, p. 37
[6] Ibid., p. 47
[7] Ibid., p. 48
[8] Ibid., p. 52
[9] Ibid., p. 79
[10] Ibid.
[11] Ibid.
[12] Ibid., p. 91

John Milbank’s Theology and Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason

The work of John Milbank is a daring attempt to demolish secular social theory from a Christian perspective. This audacious move is a characteristic of the ‘Radical Orthodoxy’ movement, whose other chief protagonists are Graham Ward and Catherine Pickstock. Milbank proclaims nothing less than to prove that the ‘governing assumptions’ of theories like secular western liberalism are ‘bound up with the governing assumptions of orthodox Christian positions’. In fact, it is not necessary to try and relate theology and social theory to one another, for, as Fergus Kerr summarises, ‘theology is already social theory, and social theory is already theology’. What Milbank attempts is to expose the theology (and anti-theology) implicit in the so-called secular disciplines like sociology. Conversely, and with much deference to Augustine, he extrapolates the social theory inherent in theology.

Milbank’s critique of political liberalism shares much in common with those of Foucault and Lyotard. Indeed it is self-consciously postmodern: Milbank explicitly adopts the Foucauldian tactic of an historicizing, ‘genealogical’ inquiry in order to expose the network of power struggles and claims to dominance at the root of liberal thinking. He claims that the discourses of liberalism, from which the secular is first constructed, read the world in terms of an ‘ontology of violence’ – ‘a reading of the world which assumes the priority of force and tells how this force is best managed and confined by counter force’. Violence is assumed to be basic; as a result, political theory is developed assuming that violence has to be forcefully surmounted. Following Foucault, Milbank asserts that any truth claims are in fact a means to assert the dominance of the inevitably clashing centres of power in society. Kant’s liberalism, for example, makes claims about freedom that are really only gestures in a wrestle for power. The liberal move – the ‘Kantian delay’ – only temporarily staves off the nihilism of Nietzche.

Milbank’s scepticism removes for him the possibility of theology building on the foundations of some secular discipline:
Theology has frequently sought to borrow from elsewhere a fundamental account of society or history, and then to see what theological insights will cohere with it. But it has been shown that no such fundamental account, in the sense of something neutral, rational and universal, is really available. It is theology itself that will have to provide its own account of the final causes at work in human history, on the basis of its own particular, and historically specific faith.
Consequently, Christianity does not recognise this ontology of violence but rather thinks of the prime reality as a ‘harmonic peace’: Milbank at this point introduces the triune God as ‘transcendental peace through differential relation’. The meta-narrative of Christianity – its ‘counter-story’ – is at least no less credible than the meta-narratives of violence by which modern social theories (including and especially liberalism) describe themselves, since all alike are unfounded in the traditional sense. The existence of a primal violence is challenged by a counter-history, which is established by the coming of Christ into history; a counter-ethics, in which love becomes the core of virtue; and a counter-ontology, in which true peaceful co-existence is won from violence by the practice of forgiveness. Christianity, for Milbank, is unique in that it
…does not allow violence any real ontological purchase, but relates it instead to a free subject who asserts a will that is truly independent of God and of others, and thereby a will to the inhibition and distortion of reality.

Echoing Augustine, Milbank posits the Church as the political anti-type or counter-society. In the Church there is an ‘ontological priority of peace over conflict’ : there, ‘difference’ is the foundation not for violence but for harmonious peace. Here is one of Milbank’s great difficulties; for the Church as a historical entity has not fulfilled this ‘vision of paradisal[sic] community’. As he rather wistfully admits:
Insofar as the church has failed, and has even become a hellish anti-Church, it has confined Christianity, like everything else, with the cycle of the ceaseless exhaustion and return of violence.
Nevertheless, it is the Christian vision of ontological peace that provides the only alternative to absolute nihilism.

Milbank’s critique of liberalism is dazzling. He is able to show how secular liberalism, like other theories of society, is not secular at all but in fact involves necessarily theological or anti-theological moves. He is able to show how liberal thinking has its own mythos or meta-narrative, despite its pretensions to an abstract universalism; and how it has not finally eluded the gravitational pull of nihilism’s black hole. His introduction of the Christian meta-narrative in response rightly points to the distinctive Christian emphasis on relationality generated by the triune God as an attractive conceptual alternative.

Nevertheless, Milbank’s thesis is problematic for a number of reasons. First, his self-conscious appeal to postmodern thinking enables him to make a devastating critique of secular reason; his own evasion of the critique is less than convincing. He adopts Foucault’s notion of genealogy, by which the power claims implicit in the political discourses he examines are brought to light and exposed as relying on an ‘ontology of violence’. And yet he also claims that his Christian ‘ontology of peace’ escapes this Foucauldian critique. An Icarus flying too near a postmodern sun, he relies on Foucault to prove that Foucault is ultimately wrong.

Secondly, Milbank’s strategy rests on a questionable ecclesiology, which is far too sanguine about the ‘church militant’. His is an over-realised ecclesiology, blurring the traditional distinction between the church visible and the church invisible, focussing on the concrete historical institutions of the universal Church at the expense of its local congregational instances. More recent ‘Radical Orthodox’ writings have tended to make the Eucharist the means by which the ‘ontology of peace’ is realised, following an almost medieval sacramental theology. Christopher J. Insole goes so far as to accuse Milbank of a tendency to theocracy. And yet Milbank seems genuinely baffled by the refusal of the Church to be itself within history. Within the Scriptures themselves, the churches were as much a site of struggle as of peace (the Council of Jerusalem in Acts 15, to take but one example, or the Corinthian church). Peace with God was declared in the gospel, but by no means automatically or easily realised in ecclesial relationships. God’s once-for-all act of reconciliation on the cross is not continued or repeated in the acts of the church this side of Christ’s return.

Thirdly, it seems pertinent to ask, along with Wannenwetsch, if the only way to defeat the violent ontologies of secular reason is by positing an alternative ontology. Milbank has difficulty, having so successfully deconstructed the ontology of political thought, in convincingly constructing something of the same species. The proclamation of the gospel of peace, which founds the church, is not a counter- ontology, but a promise. Further, the NT describes the cross of Christ as achieving peace through a victory against the powers of sin and evil – depicted in terms of a violent exclusion (see Rev 19-22 for just one example).

This third complaint leads to a fourth, which is that while Milbank offers a virtuoso reading of vast tracts of political philosophy, liberation theology and postmodernism, his method is insufficiently grounded in basic Scriptural exegesis. He offers almost no reflection on Israel’s political life; nor does he offer extensive readings of the relevant NT material – all of which ought to condition his explanation of the Church as alternative polis. Strangely, though he claims to be offering Christianity as an alternative meta-narrative, he nowhere offers his retelling of that story at any depth nor an engagement with the authoritative texts of the tradition he is advocating.

An article I wrote on apologetics

http://www.sydneyanglicans.net/indepth/16_verbs_for_a_21st_century_apologetics/

The 39 Articles

We live in an age which doesn’t really like ideology very much. Systems of doctrine and great schemes of knowledge have caused plenty of trouble in our world. Demanding that there is a right way to think seems to be a way to bully others. The great “isms” of the 20th century – Marxism, Stalinism, Fascism, Nazism – left the globe awash in blood; the religions of the world are famed for their links to violent outrages. And for most right-thinking people in the West enough is enough: enough with the doctrines that claim to have an answer for everything, that say they can make a complex world neat and tidy by imposing a grid of ideas and forcing everybody to fit. It was almost ninety years ago that the Irish poet W.B. Yeats wrote

The best lack all conviction,
While the worst are filled with passionate intensity.

His words have a contemporary ring: wouldn’t it be better to “lack all conviction” and just get on with everybody? Hasn’t “passionate intensity” wreaked enough havoc, caused enough megadeath? Aren’t convictions inherently dangerous? Aren’t convictions “prisons”, as Nietzsche thought? (Anti Christ p. 184)
Furthermore, we live in a deeply skeptical age. Many people doubt that anyone can have confidence in things you can’t experience first hand. I was going to say that people doubt things you can’t experience with your senses, but it is true that there is quite a lot of “spirituality” about – that is, it is quite fashionable to speak of yourself as “a spiritual person” who is in some way in contact with the divine or the higher being or something like it. To speak of having personal religious experiences is quite common. I can be sure at least about what I feel. But to speak confidently of things that seem so outside of oneself – to say that the one God is three persons, for example – is surely impossible. To make statements about what you believe seems to be just the wishful thinking of another age.

However, much as we might imagine that it is the path to a safer world, it is impossible to live without convictions. Believing - that some things are true and that some other things are not, and that some things are good and that some other things are less good – is a part of what it is to be human. Even the person who loves peace and whatever it takes to achieve it, so that they can get on with their life as they wish to live it, is saying something about what they believe to be most important, and is staking a commitment to it. Sometimes these beliefs may be carefully worked out and thought through; sometimes they may be merely what everyone else thinks; and sometimes they may be “gut reactions”, things we are aware of the level of our instincts. But these are all at some level “convictions” about how things are and how they ought to be. So, the question is not “do I have convictions” but rather “what am I convicted about”?

Christians are people who have a particular set of convictions. Primarily, they are convicted that in Jesus of Nazareth, a human person like one of us, God the creator took on human flesh, died for sins and rose again; and that today among us we may know him by his Spirit.[1] Now, this isn’t a dry-as-dust set of propositions put to them in some kind of philosophy tutorial: it means for them that they had encountered the very source of life itself in Jesus. It transforms their lives. For the earliest Christians, this explained why they were worshipping this Jesus - a man - as the only true God – something that had been unthinkable before. These “convictions” were not a matter of ticking the box on some survey; they were a life-transforming reality, something that many of them would be happy to die for, as it turned out.

This small group of convictions obviously needs a bit of mulling over, and explaining. And there are any number of questions that you could put to them. And so, since the time of the early churches, Christians have attempted to put some flesh on the bones, so to speak: to clarify and interpret and explain them, to say what they weren’t saying sometimes as much as what they were. And so, they produced at various times great statements of the faith in order to say as clearly as possible, “these are the things which we are convinced are true (and here is what we know isn’t)”. One of these was the great creed known as the Nicene Creed, developed over the course of the 4th century AD. In it, the churches asserted that the Jesus they worshipped was both fully man and fully God.

This is an interaction with another statement of faith: a set of Christian convictions produced by leaders of the Church of England as their statement of belief in the 16th century – The Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion. The Church of England – known today as the Anglican, or Episcopal Church in many parts of the world – had its beginnings not with high-minded theological convictions but with the needs of international politics. In 1534, Henry VIII broke away from the Catholic church and the authority of the Pope and made himself supreme governor of the Church in England – in the first place because he needed a divorce from his Spanish wife in order to marry his mistress Anne Boleyn.

And yet there were matters of genuine theological conviction in play – it was more than a just a matter of a king’s love life. The movement we know now as the Reformation had begun to sweep Europe in the 1520s under the influence of people such as Martin Luther in Germany and Ulrich Zwingli in Switzerland. Its influence had certainly been felt in England: so much so that King Henry had written a piece staunchly defending the Pope’s position against Luther! In brief, the Reformation made a two-pronged attack on the version of Christianity that the Roman Catholic church was at that time presenting.

The first substantial issue was a matter of authority. The champions of the Reformation saw themselves as returning to the Bible as the supreme authority in the Christian faith. Only Scripture was ultimately authoritative: not the Church itself or its Pope or its traditions. These needed to be under the Bible, and shaped by it. And so translating and distributing the Bible was a major task that the Reformers and their supporters undertook at this time.

The second substantial issue was answering the question of how someone might be saved (what theologians call soteriology). All were agreed that the death of Jesus for sin was a necessary component of human salvation – but how did the whole scheme fit together? In the medieval period, various theories had been suggested as to how this came about. How much was human effort, and how much was God’s work? For example, one theory demanded that a person had to do whatever was within them to please God; recognizing this, God would graciously accomplish the rest in Christ. By their intense study of the Bible, the Reformers had discovered that no human effort was required for salvation at all – not the least because no human effort could achieve it. Rather, a person is justified by faith in the work of Christ on the cross only, and not at all by their own efforts to please God.[2] Doing good things was only the outworking of what God had done, not part of the process of being saved in the first place.

These two themes, as we shall see, underlie the attempt to provide a summary of the Christian faith that we find in these articles; for through Archbishop Thomas Cranmer and others Reformation ideas – particularly those of Luther, and later John Calvin - became a feature of the Reformation in England. In many ways the Thirty-Nine articles are a statement of faith for their own time. They reflect the controversies of their day, not ours. For example, there is an extended statement on the Lord’s Supper – which was a real bone of contention between the Reformation and the Roman Catholic church. They are certainly not a perfect list. They seem to leave out what to us may seem like important things – they say hardly anything about the return of Christ, or about the Creation of the world, for example. And they overemphasize perhaps unimportant things – a whole article is given over to Jesus’ descent into hell, and another to the swearing of oaths. At points they reflect the necessary evil of compromise rather than present a single pure vision of what is true. The grubby fingers of the committee process is certainly in evidence.

So: are they worth studying today? Today very different issues confront all Christian believers and Anglicans among them. We ask, what is the right way for Christians to behave sexually? How can we square our faith with the scientific knowledge on which we so depend? What is the best way to order our churches and what should our services look like? How should we relate to the political world in which we live? I would argue that the convictions outlined here are most certainly worth revisiting in our times. These articles are not an embarrassing skeleton in the Anglican closet but rather the result of a careful listening to the Bible and its teaching. They are an attempt to express what God says to his people in the Bible. In them, the Church of England declares itself subject to God’s Word in Scripture, and not free to do anything else but listen to what the Bible says and respond in obedience. Those who framed them were well aware that times would change, and that there would be different customs and cultures in which Christians would have to live out their faith. They themselves had lived through turbulent and difficult times, when beliefs were in a tremendous flux and when there was enormous pressure on individuals to change their beliefs to suit the times.

Our times are no less tricky. The churches that identify with the Anglican tradition are no less in a crisis of self-identity today. People who call themselves “Anglican” seem to spend an enormous amount of energy disputing what that exactly means and over who has the right to call themselves really “Anglican”.[3] The Thirty-Nine Articles - along with the 1662 Book of Common Prayer - are to this day a touchstone for what being an Anglican might be.

But more than this: these articles are reminder that for all Christians convictions do matter. They remind us that even though stating what you believe is not easy, that it is a task incumbent on Christians of every time and place. They are not a dull list of abstract statements, but the implications of thinking through a living faith in Jesus Christ, God’s Son. Agreeing to them is not at all the same as having a saving faith in Christ Jesus; but they help to protect and frame and shape the preaching of that same Jesus Christ by some of those who would follow him.

[1] There are a couple of early summaries of Christian belief in the Bible itself. 1 Cor 15
[2] This is a really brief summary of the Reformation which is one of the most interesting periods of history that anyone can study.
[3] I frequently hear people use the word “Anglican” to mean a more formal style of church service, as in “that church is more Anglican than this (usually more laid-back) one is”.

Martyrdom - something to die for?

The Greek word marturion of course means "witness" or "testimony". Already in the NT we see the possibility of this idea being linked to the shedding of blood - a testimony unto death. Jesus himself of course did exactly this. The gospel accounts - especially John - make much of the sham trial at which Jesus was convicted as a kind of ironic antitype of the real eschatological trial at which he was mightily vindicated. The truth about Jesus' "kingdom of God" and all his teaching about his Father and himself and the state of the world under sin were all revealed by his death and resurrection.

The life of the follower of Jesus is thus always already a life lived in preparation of the possibility of such a trial. The hatred of the world for Jesus is shared by his followers. They already lay down their lives, and take up their crosses and follow him. They die to the world... Baptism is a symbol of this offering of the old self over to death which is what every Christian does as a testimony to the truth of Jesus Christ. Every Christian, we might say, is already a martyr. That there are some who suffer to the point of pain and death is a glorious sign for us of the reality of this.

Martyrdom is a radically unsettling idea for the secular individual. The world characterised by avoidance of pain and the pursuit of pleasure, even in its most honourable forms, has little place for the possibility of martyrdoms. The old rhetoric of martyrdom applied to the war-dead now seems rather hollow given that these lives were given to dubious causes and by questionable means. A life in which the possibility of martyrdom has been accepted is not a life that appears to be lived to its greatest possibility. It is perhaps freely determined, but it is given away too cheaply; it has too little regard for the ties of family and friends; it is too committed to a notion of 'truth' which has fallen into disrepair. It is too unassertive and too tragic. It tries to make meaningful that which we have decided already is meaningless - suffering. The martyr is committed to another way of understanding the world - a "superior realm of signification" (Castelli) - an understanding which is not merely an idea for the martyr, but in the act of offering of the body to its own destruction becomes a material reality. At this moment, the testimony of the martyr to the other-worldly reality intersects with the material world and displaces the complancy of the materialist. It makes the lovers of comfort uncomfortable.

Martyrdom is not a cult of death, for the Christian martyr loves life. The death of the martyr is not a resignation to fate, but truly has a tragic, mournful aspect: for it points to the value of life. You cannot consider laying down one’s life for your friends a sacrifice of any significance if you hold life cheap. Charles Taylor notes that there is a “powerful sense of loss” at the heart of Christian martyrdom, because life is hallowed by it in its fullness. Jesus came to give abundant life (John 10:10), after all – an intensification of life. This is important – the structure of resurrection belief is an affirmation of the goodness of the created order, pointing not its eradication by the coming new order but its transformation. Liberation theologian Boff writes: “The resurrection of the martyr Jesus Christ has, among others, this theological significance: who loses his life in this way receives it in fullness. To the martyr is reserved full participation in the meaning of life, that is, enthronement in its immortal kingdom.”

Martyrdom exposes the death of Adam for the hollow sham that it is. The martyr who dies the death of Christ by faith shows that death has lost its sting. He or she does not embrace oblivion or rush headlong into nothingness; rather, it is an entry into an endless end (Karl Rahner).

The martyr is an imitator of Christ par excellence. The early martyrologies dramatized martyrdoms as repetitions of the passion of Christ.
Of Sanctus, the martyr of Lyons, it is written by Eusebius: ‘And his body was a witness of his sufferings, being one complete wound and bruise, drawn out of shape, and altogether unlike a human form. Christ, suffering in him, manifested his glory, delivering him from his adversary, and making him an example for the others, showing that nothing is fearful where the love of the Father is, and nothing painful where there is the glory of Christ.’

Of Blandina: ‘Blandina was suspended on a stake, and exposed to be devoured by the wild beasts who should attack her. And because she appeared as if hanging on a cross, and because of her earnest prayers, she inspired the combatants with great zeal. For they looked on her in her conflict, and beheld with their outward eyes, in the form of their sister, him who was crucified for them, that he might persuade those who believe on him, that every one who suffers for the glory of Christ has fellowship always with the living God.’

The gesture of the suicide bomber is not at all the same, though an attempt to use the same word is made. The self-destruction of the suicide bomber is a radical denial of the goodness of life. By his or her gesture, he or she says like the martyr “I testify to another reality, superior to this one.” However, this other reality is not of the nature of an affirmation of this one, but its denial. By choosing death, he says to the enemy: “you have made my life not worth living: let me return the favour”. He cannot find any corrupt judicial process, or false testimony, or unjust law to take his life, so he does the job himself. He aims to produce fear; and by and large succeeds, because secularism has no good alternative. His gesture does not call for those outside his tribe to be included in it, but rather points to the ongoing exclusion of most people from it. His death does not expose state-sanctioned violence for what it is; but rather perpetuates it. Where the true martyr may actually absorb spilt blood and by the beauty of his or her gesture reveal to a culture the futility of its persecutions, the suicide bomber only invites a conversation in blood. He proclaims his own victimization and makes a victim of himself at his own hand, which

Martyrdom is a political gesture. It is a witness to citizenship in another kingdom, to service of another Lord. The earliest martyrs instantly recognized – or were forced to recognize – that theirs was a choice between two forms of worship, two forms of citizenship. When the aged Polycarp was commanded to sacrifice to the genius of Caesar and to revile Christ, he replied to his persecutor:
Fourscore and six years have I been His servant, and He hath done me no wrong. How then can I blaspheme my King who saved me?
For Polycarp there was no choice: the two Kings were rivals. Only one was worthy of his allegiance. Polycarp’s “he hath done me no wrong” seems a little subdued, admittedly. But, has Caesar saved him? His reasoning is the simple logic of the servant.

The early martyr narratives emphasis the possibility of escape for each martyr – just as Jesus was at all times in the gospel narratives shown as going to the cross freely, though he could have escaped. The voluntary act of choosing for martyrdom shows that Caesar’s coercive power has not succeeded. The martyr is a revolutionary in that way, for the political power that would exercise itself through killing the body is shown to be no power at all.

But while martyrdom unsettles the secular self, the rhetoric of martyrdom itself is not unproblematic. The Christian church has made martyrs as well. It is a fact of history that those who have martyred readily make martyrs of others, (apparently) unconscious of how self-defeating it is. The celebration of martyrs can appear to link sacrifice and violence inextricably. The glory of martyrdom requires a culture that punishes heterodoxy violently; and it reflects a culture that makes violent death meaningful.

The martyr is first of all a witness, then a performer of a dramatic action, which is in turn witnessed. It is a witness that compels further witness. It “requires an audience, retelling, interpretation, and world– and meaning-making activity. Suffering violence is in and of itself not enough” (Castelli, p. 33). Interestingly, baptism is a kind of proto-martyrdom, with the act of testimony to Christ and renunciation of the world, the flesh and the devil. The plunging into the water symbolises a death and then a rising to new life. In 1 Tim 6:12ff Paul explicitly compares the "good confession" of Jesus under Pilate with the confession of Timothy made at his baptism.