1 Corinthians

Asia Bibi and the British State: A Story of Courage and Cowardice

Certain events have the power to pierce the veil of banalities comprising modern culture. For some, it will be the revelation of gross corporate malfeasance. For others, it might be the death of yet another woman at the hands of an abusive partner. For me, the case of Asia Bibi, a Pakistani Christian woman recently acquitted of blasphemy in that country, has deflected every other news item vying for my attention. Perhaps it’s because of the manifest, even searing, injustice of Asia’s plight. Or perhaps it’s due to the fact that the story presents itself as one of those rare instances where moral virtue and the purest savagery are so starkly apportioned – an archetypal struggle, in other words, between the forces of good and evil. What’s more, having been irrevocably shaped by the deeper principles at work in Paul’s advice to the Corinthian church – i.e., that we who are in Christ are not disparate individuals, but members of one, united body (1 Cor 12:1, 27) – I am drawn to accounts detailing the persecution of fellow Christians. Whatever the reasons, the case of Asia Bibi (not to mention her husband and five children) has clung to my mind, refusing to let go.

***

Although the facts of this case have become increasingly well-known, a brief recapitulation is not altogether inappropriate. In 2009, Asia – then living in a small village called Katanwala – became embroiled in a dispute with some neighbours over a drink of water. They refused to accept the communal cup Asia had used, citing concerns that she, a non-Muslim, had “defiled” it. In what appears to be a vestigial practice under the pre-partition caste system, Asia’s neighbours argued that they should have been given priority. The dispute escalated as others joined the fray; Asia’s daughter went to fetch her father, but by the time they returned, Asia had been hauled away. Within days, a charge of blasphemy had been issued against her. Asia was convicted by a Pakistani court the following year, and spent the next eight years on death row. During her protracted ordeal, former minorities minister, Shahbaz Bhatti, and Punjab Governor, Salmaan Taseer, were assassinated in separate incidents after they spoke out against the country’s blasphemy laws. One Muslim cleric even offered R500,000 – a sizeable sum of money in Pakistan – to anyone who would kill Asia.

Despite the unremitting attempts by fanatics to enact their murderous ideology, Pakistan’s Supreme Court recently overturned the earlier ruling, citing a paucity of evidence that could substantiate a charge of blasphemy. In a moment of judicial sanity, then, both the original conviction and its accompanying penalty were effectively quashed (albeit on procedural, not principled, grounds). Whatever relief Asia may have felt, however, was fleeting; the verdict sparked waves of unrest, as angry protesters rejected the court’s decision and called vehemently for Asia’s death. This was enough for her lawyer to flee the country. Meanwhile, it appears that Asia and her family have gone into hiding, although it remains to be seen how long they can live without being exposed. The government of Pakistan, headed by former cricketer and lothario, Imran Khan, has struck a deal with one of the country’s main extremist pressure groups, consenting to a review of the court’s decision. Asia and her family are not permitted to leave the country, which has hampered efforts to find them sanctuary. It is no exaggeration to say that their lives are in grave and mortal danger. The desperation is almost palpable: even if the verdict of October 31st is upheld, there is every chance that these beleaguered Christians will fall victim to the barbarous throng now agitating for Asia’s murder. One need only catch a glimpse of such protestors, whether on television or in a newspaper, to realize that they are animated by a near-satanic enthusiasm for wanton violence.

Christian and other non-government advocacy groups have been doing what they can to provide aid and succour to the Bibi family. Needless to say, this has included attempts to arrange safe passage to a Western country that will provide them with permanent refuge. At the time of writing, however, their efforts have yielded very little; reports suggest that the family continues to dwell in a kind of legal twilight, where one’s existence takes on a vaporous, spectral quality. They have now slipped into a rather dangerous liminal zone, with the recent judicial verdict under renewed scrutiny, and an uncertain future confronting them. All the while, Asia, her husband, and their five children have bravely cleaved to the faith they have long confessed, suffering reproach because of their Lord. Their apparent refusal to renounce the name of Christ, even in the face of such undimmed hatred, should shame Western believers who all-too-easily settle for the spurious comforts with which modern culture beguiles and habituates. They are true disciples, having been hardened – purified – by a trial from which most of us would instinctively recoil. Asia and her family continue to persevere in the midst of such opposition, having imbibed the New Testament’s exhortation that believers fix their eyes on Jesus, who himself endured the shame of persecution in obedience to God (Heb 12:2-3).

The case of Asia Bibi hasn’t simply captured the attention of Christians, though. It has also resonated deeply with the non-religious, possessing as it does many of the features that naturally energise activists on all points of the political spectrum. Asia’s plight will excite those on the Left, who tend to sympathize with the asylum seeker and the often-tortuous ordeal he or she is forced to undergo. As for members of the Right, the case reinforces their general propensity towards reverence of Christianity (even if they do not subscribe to its tenets), and scepticism of Islam. It also neatly encapsulates the fundamental significance with which right-leaning observers tend to invest notions of individual liberty in thought and belief. At any rate, Asia’s ongoing trial – via the rancour of the mob, if not the courts – has had a unifying effect: all are agreed that she presents as a clear a case as one would want in a worthy, deserving claim for refuge. As conservative commentator, Douglas Murray, correctly notes, if ever there was a person who warranted asylum, then Asia Bibi certainly does. Only sheer, obstinate perversity could obscure this plain fact.

***

Unfortunately, sheer, obstinate perversity is exactly what at least one government has been practising in relation to Asia Bibi. Assessing the merits of her case, the UK government rather quickly decided that it would not grant her sanctuary. The reason? Asia apparently constituted a security risk. Such a conclusion seems unlikely, to say the least: how could a lone woman from a despised religious minority – one, moreover, whose founder preached and lived out an ethic of non-violence – constitute a threat to the security and integrity of the United Kingdom? Now that’s not entirely fair, and I hope one can detect the sardonic edge in what I have written. The UK government knows full-well that Asia Bibi isn’t a security risk per se. What worries officials, however, is the threat of civil disturbance from parts of the country’s Pakistani Muslim population if it were to offer Asia and her family asylum. It’s not that Asia herself is threatening to harm British citizens, or damage British government property; nor is she the bearer of an ideology designed to incite or promote violence. She merely happens to hold beliefs that some within the UK Muslim community deemed so abhorrent, they were apparently willing to engage in violent* demonstrations against her entry. In response, the government of the UK has thoroughly perverted the term “security concerns”, denuding it of all conventional meaning. It has then essentially applied that phrase – deployed now as a “weasel” term to avoid the demands of basic humanitarianism – to the innocent victim of the vilest kind of mass persecution. Meanwhile, the British co-religionists of those who are still braying for Asia’s death are all but ignored, so fearful are officials of offending their sensibilities. The shameful consequence is that a member of a persecuted minority group is being penalised for the unyielding intolerance of others.

This can only be described as an instance of supreme moral cowardice. One also can’t avoid the feeling that it marks yet another stage in the slow, sad dissolution of Western self-confidence. Acting in a thoroughly supine manner, the UK has effectively succumbed to Islamic extremists living within its own borders, allowing them to exercise an extortionary power over their decision-making processes. The government’s original error was in failing to administer a discriminating, finely-tuned immigration programme in the first place. Even a cursory glance at subsequent events clearly suggests that officials admitted many people whose commitment to the generative values of the West – values like religious tolerance, pluralism, the rights of women or minorities, and so on – was tenuous at best. But having committed the sin of imprudence, UK officials have now compounded it with the sin of moral weakness. Of course, they might well claim that in refusing asylum to Asia Bibi and her family, they have adopted a cautious, prudential approach to a delicate situation. They might also argue that denying sanctuary to an individual – even one who remains perched on the precipice of death – is justified, if that means avoiding the kind of rancorous civil discord that might occur as a consequence. One could be forgiven for thinking that the citation of security/prudential concerns now is somewhat too late; quite obviously, such concerns weren’t operative when UK government officials welcomed into the country thousands of adherents to a particularly virulent strain of Islamic supremacism. Moreover, there comes a point when caution or reserve becomes capitulation – one that the government of the United Kingdom has not only reached, but well and truly crossed.

A second, deeper question presents itself. One might ask precisely what, beyond basic civil order, the government thinks it’s preserving. After all, if a Western state allows any part of its governance to be determined by forces inimical to its own values and norms, then it has already ceded the moral high-ground. For the government of the United Kingdom to refuse entry to Asia Bibi and her family on the basis of what some members of the Pakistani Muslim community might do in response represents a hollowing out of Western norms. The UK government has singularly failed to defend those virtues that have made Britain (along with just about every Western country that exists) such a vibrant, open, and intellectually liberating place – one, moreover, that remains eminently attractive to migrants from all parts of the globe. In surrendering to the moral blackmail of Islamic extremists and their fellow-travellers, government officials have abandoned their fundamental mandate to maintain, not merely the physical boundaries that constitute the United Kingdom, but the unseen lineaments marking out a civilized society. True, they do not bear this burden alone; all British citizens are theoretically charged with the responsibility of enacting and transmitting that heritage. And it should be remembered that the fruits of Western culture aren’t ultimately rooted in the state. But as they control the levers of power – and with it, the entire panoply of laws and regulations that help safeguard that which has already been achieved – government officials can play a special role in either the maintenance or the dismantling of that culture. With this latest move, the UK government has signalled its unwillingness to defend the principles that birthed and nurtured it. Indeed, it has allowed fanaticism to supplant openness, and the dictates of religious bigotry to suppress a spirit of hospitality. If the government of the United Kingdom is so demoralized that it refuses to grant asylum to a single Christian woman – yielding instead to those whose antipathy towards Western values appears boundless – what, then, does it have left? What is it trying to defend, if not those principles and the particular way of life that stems from them? All told, its actions are as self-defeating as they are craven.

***

In the title of this essay, I referred to courage and cowardice. By now, it’s probably obvious that I was referring to Asia Bibi and the UK government, respectively. It almost seems platitudinous to say that Asia has demonstrated immense courage: first, by retaining her faith whilst on death row for eight years; and second, by continuing to confess that same faith, even when confronted with massed rallies calling for her execution. She embarrasses every Christian (including this one) who struggles to eke out a few, gospel-tinged words in conversation, when the only consequences they have to worry about are quizzical looks or polite rejection. But Asia also embarrasses governments like that of the United Kingdom. Those who denied her appeals for asylum have exposed the hollowness of their stated convictions. Yes, it’s true that this grim state of affairs has many fathers: an unfiltered migration system, say, or the growing “Islamification” of certain sections of British society.** None of that can, or should, be ignored. However, primary responsibility still lies with the country’s political elites, one which they have swiftly abdicated. With their protective services, expensive suits and anodyne words, such officials have proven incapable of emulating the kind of fortitude a poor, illiterate Christian woman has repeatedly summoned for the past eight years. The political class has, once again, abjectly failed to embody the values on which it purports to stand. Is it any wonder, then, that across the Western world its members are rapidly losing the trust of those they represent?

I do not want to end things on such a condemnatory note, however. Let us remember that at the heart of this drama lies a Christian and her family, all of whom are suffering for their faith. They urgently need our prayers, our advocacy, and our support. If this essay does nothing else but encourage even one person to act on behalf of Asia Bibi, then my ultimate goal will have been achieved.

*If anyone believes I am making an unwarranted assumption by labelling the predicted demonstrations as “violent”, just remember that the UK government has been so concerned about their occurrence they’ve refused to provide refuge to Asia Bibi and her family. I doubt that anyone seriously expected them to resemble the marches from Selma to Montgomery.

**This is not — I repeat, not — to say that all Muslims present a problem to a stable and peaceful society. Most are law-abiding citizens, interested primarily in forging a more prosperous life for themselves and their families. Furthermore, a number of prominent British Muslim leaders have called on their government to grant asylum to Asia Bibi. This is laudable and needs to be noted. Nevertheless, there appears to exist within the Islamic tradition intellectual and theological resources that foster, legitimise or otherwise sanction violent or intolerant practices. This, combined with the UK’s rather lax immigration system, seems to have led to a raft of issues — of which the present refusal to provide Asia and her family with refuge is just one.

UPDATE: Spiked editor, Brendan O’Neill, has an interesting column on the whole saga. As he and others have pointed out, it appears that it was Theresa May, acting on the advice of officials, who blocked Asia Bibi’s asylum application. O’Neill makes the obvious (though necessary) point that it truly is a scandal: not only did May abandon a persecuted woman to an uncertain fate, she also abandoned core principles underlying Western culture. O’Neill also observes — correctly, in my view — that even if admitting Asia into the country was likely to incite rioting (a sad eventuality that raises urgent questions regarding the composition of the UK’s immigration programme), this was no reason to block her application. After all, acting on principle sometimes entails risk (something I should have emphasised more clearly). If the government of the UK hasn’t actually forsaken its principles, then it’s giving a very good impression of having done just that.

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Worshiping the “God” of MTD: Modern Idolatry, Ancient Roots

This is a piece I wrote a couple of years ago for a certain magazine, but it was not published. So you, dear readers, may enjoy it now. 

A little over a decade ago, the sociologist of religion, Christian Smith, examined the lives of religious contemporary American teenagers, interviewing, among others, young Christians. What he discovered was very revealing.

According to Smith, most of those he spoke with held views about God and their relationship to him, which, whilst bearing a faint resemblance to the religion in which they had grown up, were, in many ways, dramatically different – owing more to contemporary cultural and spiritual norms than to ancient religious traditions. Smith argued that these beliefs formed a kind of spiritual ‘complex’, and was the de facto (and dominant) religion amongst teens in the United States. Smith christened this phenomenon, ‘Moralistic Therapeutic Deism’ (or MTD for short).

The concept of MTD needs some unpacking. Smith contended that religious teens held to several fixed points in their creed: God, generically defined, wants all people to “be good, nice and fair to each other,” with goodness here being defined in a vague sort of way; God also, governs the world at a distance, though he might not intervene all that frequently; when he does intervene, it is to help people solve problems that confront in their lives; the chief aim in life is to develop a positive self-image – something that God is supposed to guarantee; and that ‘good’ people will go to heaven. For the teens Smith interviewed, these elements were axiomatic, amounting to belief in a laissez-faire god, whose interventions are chiefly therapeutic, who asks people to practice a fairly banal kind of morality, and who guarantees – based upon adherence to that morality – a place of enjoyment in the hereafter.

What was really astounding was Smith’s discovery that most of his subjects had not developed their ideas independently; rather, they had imbibed them from the religious communities of which were a part. This led Smith to contend that they were simply reflections of a wider phenomenon, prevalent in mosques, synagogues and (importantly) churches. If that is so, then MTD encompasses many more people, not just those Smith interviewed.

* * *

Whilst the modern world – with its consumerism, deep individualism and transactional view of so much of life – is particularly conducive to the propagation of something like MTD, we should not make the mistake of thinking that some “golden age” of religion lies somewhere beyond the range of our own historical grasp. And, more to the point, neither Christians individually, nor the church corporately, has been immune to the phenomenon. I am reminded, for example, of the great popularity that the Prosperity “Gospel” has achieved in many putative Christian communities: trust in God, and all your (material) dreams will come true! A generation or two ago, families may have gone to church, not because they discerned a divine summons to be a part of a new, spiritual community, but because of cultural constraints. The real goal, it seems, was not obedience to God, the ground and centre of all that is, but cultural integration and local respectability. Similarly, when Christianity was the dominant civil religion in the West, developing contacts within a local church community could do wonders for an aspiring businessman. Again, God was seen an instrument, and religion merely functional – lacking, perhaps, truth and significance in itself, and reduced to a means towards a more fundamental (in this case, economic) end.

Such a phenomenon stretches back even further, all the way to the very dawning of Christianity. About two decades after Jesus’ death and resurrection, Paul had to wrestle with a raft of problems besetting the church in Corinth. Called to live out a life of holiness and obedience before the God that had liberated them, the Corinthian Christians had tried to fuse the Gospel with pagan ideas of religion and spirituality. Far from seeing the Gospel – and the God who stood behind it – as something to which they were called to yield, the Corinthians viewed it as something that could be used to get ahead. This is reflected, amongst other things, in what Paul says about personality cults (1 Cor 1:10-12, 3:1-9), sexual immorality (5:1-6), and self-aggrandizement through the exercise of spiritual gifts (Chs. 12-14). In all these ways, the Corinthians had fallen into the trap of treating God as secondary, as little more than an instrument that could be manipulated for other ends.

It is for these reasons that contemporary individualism can only ever function as one type of explanation for the phenomenon of MTD. Sure, it can well flourish in such an environment: a spiritual creed that emphatically places the individual at its centre certainly plays well to our present age. But if what I have said is true, then using God, or the divine, for oneself is not merely the preserve of the modern age; using God as an instrument – a kind of secondary tool – is something to which people in every age are prone. Perhaps, beneath the varied manifestations of superficial spirituality and counterfeit piety lies the primal reality of the humanity’s propensity towards idolatry – of reducing the transcendent God to a human fabrication, which can then be tamed and exploited. Paul, of course, knew this well, when he excoriated humanity for its tendency to exchange the glory of the immortal Creator for bits of his creation (Romans 1:20-23, 25). Even the Corinthians, living so soon after the events of Easter, had constructed for themselves an idol that bore only faint resemblance to the God of the Gospel that Paul preached. Whether it’s in its ancient or modern guise, idolatry succeeds in turning God – and the spirituality that flows from him – into a mere function of a person’s own psychological interests and desires.

* * *

How different this is from an authentically Christian view of God and ourselves. As I was thinking about MTD, three main differences stood out, which together have profound implications for the construction of a genuine Christian spirituality. First, MTD seems to reflect a very ego-centric view of spirituality and religion, and is to that extent well-suited to our present, individualistic age. This is seen particularly in the way it shapes a person’s ethical outlook. Whilst MTD makes room for fairness and niceties, it promotes a kind of ‘no-cost’ morality, which will only go so far as the needs and interests of the individual will allow. As Smith discovered even this system of morality was, for many of his subjects, another means of attaining subjective wellbeing: ‘do good, feel good’, in other words. Neither (divinely-mandated) goodness, nor the image-bearing objects of that goodness, are ends in themselves; on the view of MTD, they are instruments for the more self-centred goal of bolstering personal self-esteem.

Christian ethics is much more radical than that, for two main reasons. On the one hand, it is founded upon the figure of Jesus himself, who gave us a model of sacrificial service before God and others. Where MTD uses the self as the yardstick of what is right and good, for Christian spirituality, it is the character and life of Jesus that grounds all ethics. Similarly, where MTD is focused primarily upon the individual, Christianity is focused, in large part, upon others. Many of Jesus’ parables have this flavour about them. He talks, for example, of the “wise and faithful” person as characterised by a willingness, in deference to God, to serve others with what he or she has (e.g., Luke 12:42ff).

It’s hard, too, not to think of what Paul says when he writes to the church in Philippi. The believers there should adopt an attitude like that of Jesus himself, who “made himself nothing”, “taking the…nature of a servant”, and “humbling himself…to death…on a cross” on behalf of others (Philippians 2:5-8). This represents a far more comprehensive, far more sweeping, approach to the ethical – indeed, the righteous – life. It is a life that revolves, not around the needs of self, but around the needs of others, even if that means sacrificing what is cherished or treasured. True Christian spirituality asks a person to order his or her life around an enduring commitment to the needs of others. Indeed, Paul’s exhortation in Philippians points to the dramatic nature of this commitment, as the Christian seeks to emulate Christ: it must lead to an imitative willingness to put aside any claims one might have, whether those claims relate to one’s status, possessions, comforts – even, according to the passage, one’s own life.

On the other hand, the kind of ethical change that authentic Christian spirituality demands – indeed, enables – moves far beyond the essentially affirmative formula of MTD. Given that MTD rests on the individual’s moral estimations for its ethical centre, it can never be truly transformative. Jesus’ well-known exhortation that one must be “born again” in order to “see” God (John 3:3) points subtly in this direction: the present, transient world can never provide the resources for a genuinely spiritual life; one must “begin again”, as it were, with the life of the Christian representing such a break from the past that it can be described as a new birth. In this, we must remember the centrality of the figure of Christ: he functions, not only as the paradigm for authentic Christian living, but as the foundation making it possible in the first place. Christian orthodoxy calls for a complete re-ordering of a person’s life, ethically and spiritually, as a person’s old nature is left behind, and a new nature is adopted (Col 3:5, 10). And this can only come about because of the pioneering work of Jesus himself. It is, of course, through him that one may undergo that change, as one is taken from the realm of sin and death and corruption, and placed under the aegis of him who sets the pattern for true, image-bearing living. MTD, by contrast, makes no room for the fundamental renovation of a person’s nature, nor can it; it can only encourage superficial change at best.

The second main difference I discerned is deeply related to the first. The ego-centric nature of MTD implies that God is also treated as a means to an end. God is reduced to a kind of “cosmic butler” (Smith), there largely to satisfy our wants and resolve our problems. God is ‘consumed’, so to speak, providing a product – in this case, spiritual harmony and psychological peace – to people whose main concern is to derive from religion whatever they can to help them along in life. Again, it’s difficult to overstate the difference here from a genuine Christian view of God. If true religion calls for service to others as a clear demonstration of piety, then it also sees obedience to God – from which flows the call to give of oneself to one’s fellows – as the greatest good. What the Gospel does is upend our relationship to the transcendent. God is not a “cosmic butler”, but the Lord of the cosmos; Christ, as the one who uniquely reveals this God, is the master; his claim over our lives – leading inevitably to the summons to self-giving love – is total and comprehensive. Moreover, he is not some kind of instrument, or the means to a more fundamental end, precisely because he is, in himself, the ultimate end and fulfilment of all things. He is utterly transcendent — sovereign over everything — whilst also constituting the existential ground of all that is. As Paul put it, when he preached to the pagans of Athens, “in him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Christian spirituality remains adrift unless it is tethered to an acknowledgement of God as the One upon whom everything exists, and from whom all life flows. He is the beginning and the end, the source and the summit, of all existence. Trying to use God to reach something that one sees as the ultimate goal (as MTD implicitly does) is like a person who, having lost a torch in the middle of the day, decides to use the brilliance of the sun to search for it – hoping then they will be able to find that little source of light, and use it for the illumination they so desperately seek.

At any rate, the deism of MTD ironically undercuts whatever comfort one might seek from this kind of god. He is a distant deity: neither greatly concerned with the world’s affairs (save for wanting to guarantee psychological stability in certain people), nor driven to do anything, fundamentally, about it. He is the absentee-landlord of eighteenth-century deism, with a little bit of Oprah-inspired therapeutic wisdom thrown in for good measure. This brings me to the third main difference between the creed of MTD and authentic Christian belief. Whilst the God of Christian theology and tradition is transcendent, he is most certainly not distant. For it is in his transcendence – his freedom from all constraints, both material and metaphysical – that he is able, at the same time, to be intimately involved in the affairs of his creation. Reading through, say, John’s Gospel, shows us the twin truths of God’s supremacy and closeness, upon which a robust Christian spirituality may be built. He is, on the one hand, the Creator of all things, who through his Word has fashioned and animated this world (John 1:1-3). But he is also the heavenly Father, who condescends to those who are his, welcoming them into the intimate fellowship of the Trinitarian community (John 14:23; 17:26). What follows is an abiding, deep-rooted joy, based upon the enduring presence of the Creator himself. It is, in other words, the goal and focal point of true spirituality. With its offers of superficial succour, tied as they are to the vagaries of a person’s psychological state, the God of MTD represents a parody of what union with the divine is meant to look like.

* * *

MTD, then, is simply the latest in a litany of creeds and spiritual ‘packages’ offering the mirage of piety and religious devotion. At any rate, if we were to follow its underlying logic, we’d be left with a domesticated deity, denuded of his sovereign majesty. Any claim he might want to make upon us would be empty, since we would ultimately be at the centre of our spiritual lives. Such a relationship appears to be a far cry from what both Scripture and Christian tradition have affirmed about the Creator: he who brought the worlds into being with his command, who declared that he is the self-existent “I AM”, and who confronted Job in the storm. The temptation towards idolatry which confronts every age is something that also confronts the church as it seeks to represent God faithfully and genuinely.

The challenge for us, I suppose, is to humbly yield to the God who has created us, and upon whom we utterly depend. We must allow ourselves to be shaped by this God, who calls us – summons us – to be his. We cannot afford to fall into the trap of trying to look beyond him for whatever he can provide for us. He is, as I said, the ultimate foundation of everything else, such that there is no ‘beyond’. That way lies the false gods of human imagination, as do all efforts to ‘massage’ our image of the divine according to whatever cultural trends may presently be in vogue. The God Christians are called to follow cannot be tamed by human designs, or be made to fit into convenient packages, for the very reason that he is the One within whose plans and purposes we are called to fit. Such an acknowledgment is part of the very fabric of authentic Christian spirituality. Being a Christian, and pursuing a life of discipleship, requires the willingness to enter into a narrative that is not of one’s own making, one that has been opened up by the epochal work of Christ: a “world” that establishes the boundaries of truth and reality, morality and holiness. It can be difficult and demanding, in that we are not the ultimate legitimators of what constitutes the good. However, with that acknowledgement comes the opportunity to reflect and embody the ultimate Ground of all goodness – to live and act according to our (divinely-intended) natures.

To embody a fully-orbed life of Christian faith, we cannot fall into the trap of ‘consuming’ religion in order simply to satisfy some kind of spiritual dimension. As we approach God – as we approach the crucified and resurrected Christ – we are confronted with One who upends our assumptions about our relation to the divine, and subverts all of the idols that we may have constructed. For God is the One over every dimension, public and private, which compose the rather messy projects we call our lives. When we adopt this kind of posture, and clothe ourselves in this kind of thinking, we will find that those longings for fulfilment, transcendence, completeness and calm – all worthwhile and legitimate in themselves – are paradoxically met. It is a life of death and resurrection, of radical transformation, where one’s old existence is swallowed up by newness of life (cf. 1 Cor 15:53-54). It is something that contemporary constructions of spirituality, reflecting as they do the strictures and finitude of the present world, could never hope to emulate.

The Manifold Significance of the Resurrection (Part 3.2) – New Creation and the Individual

A dense and layered truth rests in a person’s hands when he or she scrutinises the resurrection. It is for this reason that I have required several posts in order to delve into it and explicate its “manifold significance” (to borrow from my title). Following my exploration of the interweaving connections between resurrection, justification and sanctification, my last post on this topic was an examination of the victory of Christ as a paradigm for a new order, indeed, a new creation. That, as I have said, takes place on a multiplicity of levels. Having looked at the model and first step of new creation, it is now time to turn my attention to what it means for individuals. Using the creational motif that I have employed previously (and which the Bible itself uses as an overarching theological theme to help elucidate the redemptive work of God), I shall attempt to offer a glimpse of the ultimate goal of justified, sanctified Christian life, of which the resurrection is the pattern. The New Testament is replete with references to resurrection, new life and the consummation of salvation as they pertain to individuals. And, although a comprehensive look at what the NT says on the matter is impossible, no account of resurrection as the fresh creation of believers can be considered faithful to its witness without a cursory glance (and hopefully more) at the statements that compose it. The NT, both explicitly and implicitly, makes the astonishing suggestion that those who have been united to Christ will participate in his resurrection. It has not simply secured our initial justification; nor has it merely provided us with new, spiritual life in the present. Rather, it takes up both those stages of a Christian’s salvation, and completes them in his or her total reception of new life. It is something Scripture depicts as a recapitulation of the original creation of humanity; and yet, it passes well beyond the first fashioning of God’s image-bearers to a kind of existence that is beyond death, chaos and decay. I want to make all this plain, but in order to do that, I must also challenge popular notions of Christian hope: not so that long-cherished beliefs are destroyed, but so that the actual truth of a person’s resurrection – according to the riches of Christian theology – may become clear. I shall say more in due time.

But first, traversing over old terrain is, perhaps, necessary. As I noted in earlier essays on this topic, a person is neither justified nor sanctified if Jesus is still in the grave. In like manner, no one has escaped death if Jesus himself – the true man and humanity’s representative – did not triumph over it. The notion of new creation is but a forlorn hope without it. As the Apostle Paul emphatically states in 1 Corinthians: “…if Christ is not raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins…If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men” (1 Cor. 15: 17, 19). But if Jesus has been raised from the dead (and I believe he has), then this life is not the end. The present creation will pass away, but only so a new creation can take its place. And those of us who are “in Christ” and united to him will receive the blessed gift of new, incorruptible life. To put it another way: death could not maintain mastery over Christ, for the Creator and source of all life could never be held by it. In like manner, all who belong to Christ will share in that same release, precisely because they share in his paradigmatic act. Such is the strength of this fact that Jesus himself could call believers “…sons of the resurrection” (Luke 20:36).

We must examine more closely the connection between Christ’s resurrection and the new life accorded to those who are united to him. Romans 6:1-9, which I surveyed previously, is a good place to start. After dispensing with the hypothetical argument made against his case for salvation through the grace of God, Paul speaks of believers having been baptised into Christ’s death (v.3). If that be the case, Paul effectively asks, then a person has been separated from sin; it no longer has mastery over them. Just like Jesus, we who are “in” him (that is, united to him spiritually) are raised to “new life” – something Paul emphasises in verse 4. That new life has been secured by Christ’s death and resurrection; we cannot isolate them. It is because of the triumph of the one man, Jesus (which I examined in the previous essay on this topic), that any one of us can be said to have new life. Death to sin is, by itself, meaningless. In commenting on this passage, I. Howard Marshall puts it this way:

“…the baptized could be said have died to their old life in which they were under captivity to sin…But this would be no freedom if the believers were simply dead rather than passing through death into a new sphere of existence” (New Testament Theology: Many Witnesses, One Gospel, p.317).

That “new sphere of existence” is patterned on the inaugurating work of Jesus. He died his death to sin, but because he has been raised from the dead, never to die again, death cannot have mastery over him (Rom.6:9). We who are united to him in his death are thus united to him in his life.

To be sure, this certainty is a future expectation (though it emphatically commences in the present). Still, the point is that it will happen. What has already begun in the life of a follower of Jesus will be completed, consummated – radically fulfilled – by the same Spirit that brooded over the waters as he preserved God’s original creation (Gen. 1:2; cf. 8:11). What was subject to decay and death will be immersed, if you like, in immortality. What was perishable will become imperishable. What was vulnerable to the fatal effects of sin will be impervious to them. One day, a believer’s body will leave behind the fetters of mortality for good, and death will be “swallowed up in victory” (1 Corinthians 15:50-54). Incidentally, it is here that a connection between individual new creation, justification and sanctification becomes apparent. Having already spoken of resurrection’s importance to these stages of the Christian life, I will not detain readers with a detailed recapitulation. Suffice it to say, if justification is God’s judicial act of counting someone righteous, what could better reflect the consummation of that initial decision than one’s final resurrection, one’s new creation? In the Gospel of John, marked as it is by a creational-redemptive framework, Jesus himself touched upon this. Using the forensic language often linked to justification, he said that those who have “done good” will enjoy resurrection and life at the end (see John 5:29). Similarly, if sanctification is the progressive unfolding of righteousness in a believer – and, with it, the progressive erasure of sin – then the consequences thereof (ie. death) will eventually be vanquished. The notion of resurrection forms the ground and the goal of sanctification, and, therefore, new creation.

At this point, the reality of the larger narrative of new creation, and its relevance to the individual, has simply been implied. But, as these passages suggest, the paradigm of Christ’s life cannot be understood apart from the notion that his resurrection was the first step in God’s efforts to re-make his world – to redeem it from death, and to inaugurate, in effect, a new creative order. The fate of individuals sits snugly within that project. Nevertheless, we do not have to travel far in order to see how explicit the idea is at certain points, particularly in light of the prominence of the original creation as a theological motif for many of the NT writers. One might easily point to John 3, which famously has Jesus exhorting Nicodemus to be “born again”. The phrase itself evokes images of new life, in keeping with John’s overall theological scheme. But we may also look to places such as 1 Corinthians 15, Hebrews 2:5-9, or even 2 Corinthians 5:17 – a verse which uses the precise phrase “new creation” – to see how the concept has woven its way into the structure of apostolic thinking. To take just one example: 1 Corinthians 15, to which I have already alluded. Before Paul embarks on an extended discussion on the necessity of the resurrection of believers, he sharply contrasts two, paradigmatic men. On the one hand, lies the first Adam; on the other, the second Adam, Jesus (1 Cor. 15:45-49). The former, Paul says, was of the earth – mortal, finite, vulnerable to corruption. The latter, however, was of heaven – immortal, infinite, free from spot or blemish. The point is that the apostle deliberately invokes Adam as a motif, in order to draw a contrast between two “creations”, or “reigns”. The first man was the head of a humanity prone to sin and death, as the Bible’s opening book points out (cf. Gen. 1-3). The latter man was, and is, the representative of a humanity that will enjoy his likeness (cf. v.49).

Talk of new life, even resurrection, is all well and good. However, it is important to speak about what kind of life this will be, for even the notion of resurrection can be misunderstood. When the authors of the NT speak of new life, they do so with a degree of specificity. It is not the case that Paul and others were envisioning some vague kind of existence beyond the material world. To do so would have negated the goodness of God’s creative work, and undermined the thematic power of the original, material world. Ancient Greeks believed in the immortality of the soul; popular, present-day renditions of the afterlife imagine disembodied spirits enjoying some manner of heavenly joy in the hereafter. But if we look to the Apostle to the Gentiles for a moment, we find him speaking deliberately of resurrection. As N.T. Wright has commented, the term was only ever used to denote “re-embodiment, not…disembodied bliss”. Indeed, in Rom. 6:5, which we have already surveyed, Paul states that those of us who have been united to Christ in his death will certainly be united to him in his “resurrection”. Erroneous imaginings of ultimate Christian hope notwithstanding, resurrection was seen as a bodily, material phenomenon. It was certainly a new mode of existence, to be sure. But that newness was viewed as emphatically physical. Christ’s triumph over death only makes sense because his resurrection was bodily in nature. In the same way, those of us who have escaped the old life, held in bondage to sin and death, will take on new bodies. New life will be transmuted, but it will definitely remain physical. By the same token, if new life remains physical, then it will definitely be transmuted. As Leon Morris has said:

“The Christians thought of the body as being raised. But also transformed so as to be a suitable vehicle for the very different life of the age to come” (New Bible Dictionary, Third Edition, p.1010. Emphasis mine).

If the resurrection of Jesus – being bodily in nature – is the ground for the new creation of the individual, then it seems that our redemption will follow his representative act. As I have noted, he is the pattern. He is the “firstborn from amongst the dead” (Colossians 1:18). And if that be the case, then our resurrection will be like his; “we shall be like him”, as it were (1 John 3:2). Paul’s letter to the Romans is once again instructive.  In chapter 8, we find the apostle talking about life in the Spirit. In the present, the Spirit changes and transforms a believer’s spiritual and moral life. In the future, though, all of one’s life will be transformed, including his or her body. It will be a complete and total change. We might look at 8:11, for example. Once more, Paul suggests that the new life of a Christian is patterned on the resurrection life of Christ. The Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead will certainly “give life to” one’s “mortal body”. Nothing in this verse implies an escape from the body. In fact, it suggests quite the opposite: an enlivening addition to the present “body of death” (Rom. 7:24). It may constitute a radical transformation, but one that does not abandon the material realm. We should not think that it would be otherwise. And, with Paul’s multiple allusions to freedom, redemption, and creation itself (cf. Rom. 8:19-25), it is clear that for the apostle, a believer’s ultimate hope rests in a renewed creation – that of God’s world, redeemed from the bondage of death, and of those who will receive bodies fit to dwell within it.

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The drama of God’s redemptive activity, being played out on the stage of history and creation, is also being played out in the life of every believer. New creation will occur, not just on a cosmic scale, but on an individual one, too. What will happen universally is happening now, in the present, in the lives of believers. The triumph of the resurrection means that the old creation is passing away. All this is through Jesus Christ, who was the primary agent of both creation and new creation (see John 1:1-3). His own resurrection was the climax of his redemptive agency, and constitutes the model for believers. Those of us who have embraced that triumph will participate in his triumph, and, as members of both the old creation and the new, we have the unique privilege of seeing that sanctifying transformation happen in our midst. Christ’s resurrection body served as the first sign of new creation. Our own bodies, having already been enveloped by the Spirit, are also signs that the old has gone, and the new has come. We may still be vessels of broken clay, living in an ambiguous period between the announcement of God’s reign, and its final coming. Nonetheless, if new creation is a reality, then it is a reality that begins as a seed within each believing individual. That seed – that new birth, if you like – anticipates the wider renewal that will embrace a groaning world, as it waits on tiptoe for the children of God to be revealed. That, however, is the subject for a future post.

The Manifold Significance of the Resurrection (Part 3.1) – One Man’s Triumph as the Pattern of New Creation

The resurrection (along with the cross) stands at the very centre of history. Others may argue that some other event – the invention of writing, say, or the onset of the industrial revolution – represents the decisive turning point in the story of humanity and the world. But, if the gospel is true (and I believe that it is), then the resurrection was more than one man’s divinely-ordained and divinely-empowered victory over his own, personal demise. It most certainly was not an isolated phenomenon. Rather, the raising of Christ represented the very first step in new creation. Indeed, it was the point at which the Creator God showed a rebellious and corrupt creation that he had, in principle, re-claimed it. Rather than abandoning his world to death, God commenced the final, decisive phase of his project to re-create what he had originally made, flooding it with life. At a multiplicity of levels – personal, corporate and cosmic – God set about fashioning something entirely new. Through the raising of his Son, the Creator became Redeemer, proving climactically that his redemptive work had broken into the present deathly course of a sin-stained world. So begins my foray into the last image of the resurrection’s significance. Having already explored its connection to justification and sanctification, it is time now to turn to underlying principle, the end goal – the telos – of that glorious process, and how it began in Christ, “…the firstborn from among the dead” (Colossians 1:18).

It would be difficult to overstate the epochal magnitude of this event. Before Jesus’ resurrection, the seemingly inviolable law of death, decay and corruption shadowed everything bound by the finitude of time. After it had occurred, the world, for all its ongoing chaos and frustration, had changed. The empty tomb (along with Calvary) divides the history of God’s creation into two distinct ages, something that the writers of the NT – not least of which is Paul – declare. But nothing would have happened if, after Jesus’ death, he remained in the tomb. We have already seen that, for Paul, the death of Christ is meaningless without the accompaniment of the resurrection (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:17-18). For if the death of Christ was the decisive response to sin, then the resurrection was the paradigmatic triumph over death. It was the resurrection – the new, incorruptible, bodily life in which Jesus was clothed – that represented the first step of God’s new world, breaking into the present. To put it differently, the raising of Jesus from the dead was the beginning of another genesis; the new life into which he entered three days after he died was a moment of both inauguration and anticipation, looking forward to cosmic and creational renewal. Like the mighty acts that God initiated at the time of creation, fashioning from nothing and bringing forth order from chaos (see Genesis 1:1-2), the raising of Christ was an act of unbounded creativity, of life in the midst of death. And, just like the original creation, the empty tomb was the beginning of something completely new.

My interest in juxtaposing Christ’s resurrection with God’s first creative acts is not an act of arbitrary poetics, forced onto an unwilling text. Much of the NT speaks in these terms, especially the Gospels. Of the four accounts of Jesus’ words and deeds, none is as explicit in pairing creation and new creation as John’s. From the very beginning (a word that is apposite here), the fourth evangelist has in mind creation, as it is lyrically described in the Bible’s very first book. John 1:1, for example, starts with, “In the beginning was the Word…” – a clear nod, for a first-century Jewish audience, to the first verse in Genesis. As one proceeds through the book, one becomes increasingly aware that John is using the Genesis account of the world’s origins to frame his reflections on the theological significance of Christ’s own work. It builds up into a theological theme that presents us with a picture of Christ standing above time and history; over both initial creation and re-creation, yet radically involved in both eras. When God began his great, creative works, the Word – that is, Christ – was (eternally) present as an equal partner in that project (John 1:1; cf. Gen. 1:1-3, 6, 9ff). Even more important is the fact that in the opening verse, John is hinting to his audience that just as the Word was present at, and involved in, the first creation, so too is he involved – not just marginally, but as the primary agent – in new creation.

The Word, then, is both generative and redemptive, and it was his incarnation that saw God’s plan to inaugurate another, yet more bountiful, creation reach a climactic phase. John reiterates and expands upon this central truth throughout the entire Gospel. Indeed, it is there in John’s prologue, throwing light across the evangelist’s opening gambit; it emerges periodically from beneath his narrative, as the story of Christ wends it way – slowly but inexorably – towards the events of Easter; the raising of Lazarus serves as a particularly overt symbol of it; and, of course, the theme of new creation effortlessly gives shape to the raising of God’s Holy One in John 20. There, “early on the first day of the week,” Christ was raised from the dead (see 20:1). Emerging from the shadows, something strangely new had occurred. Given the evangelist’s emphasis on the notion of God’s efforts to reclaim his world and launch a completely fresh creation, mention of the resurrection of Jesus in this manner is no accident. Rather, through this seemingly innocuous detail, John is subtly – yet unambiguously – declaring the start of a new creation “week”, just like the week that saw the generation and establishment of God’s original creation (see Gen. 1:5,8,13ff). The darkness of the old world was giving way to a light, shining: the light of Christ’s resurrection, which pointed, and still points, to the promise of God to restore his world.

Paul is also interested in the theme of new creation as he explains the raising of Jesus. He has a very robust theology of creation, and uses it to provide a rich canvass to explore and expound the significance of Christ’s resurrection. In 1 Corinthians 15, for example, the apostle is explicit, as he was in Romans, in drawing out the contrast between the first man and the last man – between the original Adam and the second “Adam”, Christ. Both stand at the head of two “races”, two separate humanities, as it were. Those who have participated in the sin of the first Adam will die; those who participate in the second “Adam” “will be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22; cf. vv.45-49). Paul deliberately uses, echoes and alludes to the Genesis narrative of creation and fall in order to parallel the paradigmatic significance of Christ, in contrast to the first man. However, it is vital to remember that this contrast occurs within the context of Paul’s exposition of the resurrection. In other words, Paul – like John – is motivated by a hermeneutic of new creation; he, too, sees the raising of Christ in terms of the commencement of God’s efforts to reclaim, remake and redeem his world. The curse of death, as poetically described in Genesis 3, was broken by the triumph of Jesus. This, too, is surely in view as Paul contrasts the heads of these two ages. Of course, “the end” had not yet arrived, and Paul had no trouble highlighting this (v.24). Even so, through the resurrection of his Son, God had inaugurated the coming of his redemptive reign, the undoing of the tragedy of the Fall, and the concomitant destruction of death.

The rest of the NT authors are immersed in the redemptive, re-creative and epochal significance of Christ’s resurrection. Their writings and reflections are grounded in the fact of this unprecedented act. So much of the early church’s preaching, as evidenced in Acts (see Acts 2, especially) was shaped and informed by this radically changed situation. Peter, the chief preacher in those early chapters of Acts, knew that Christ was now Lord over the world, and that this had been proved by his triumph over death. The writer to the Hebrews wrote about the dominion of Christ, applying OT references to the idealized dominion of man over creation to the One who had suffered and been glorified (Heb. 2:5-9, citing Psalm 8). Though resurrection is not mentioned in this passage, it is surely presupposed in what turns out to be a sophisticated reflection on the fulfilment of humanity’s vocative purpose in Jesus Christ – again, with the theme of creation forming a backdrop to present discussions. Moreover (and at the risk excessive anticipation), Christian hope is grounded in the tangibility of the unshackling of Jesus from that final foe. All this was part of God’s sovereign plan. It was not as if the cross was the accidental death of a would-be Messiah, with his resurrection representing God’s attempt to undo the damage. No – this was always God’s plan, for as Peter declared, “…it was impossible for death to keep its hold on him” (Acts 2:24).

To those who have become inured to the seemingly insurmountable mechanics of the present world, and the apparent finality of its laws, the resurrection is a challenge. It overturns our assumptions about the ways of this world, and breaks into the daily patterns of death and decay. Moreover, it is evidence that creation is not simply subject to its own, meandering evolution; God has been, and is, at work to transform it. The resurrection of Christ was, and is, proof that something from the outside, something that is not a product of this present corruption, has been at work to redeem, to heal, and to enliven. Thus, the secularist is challenged. So, too, the escapist, for Christ’s resurrection – whilst something unprecedented and gloriously new – was an emphatically physical event. When the writers of the NT wrote about the raising of Jesus (and resurrection generally), they were referring to a bodily occurrence. If Jesus is the paradigm for those who are his; and if his resurrection was bodily in nature; and if that transformed body was the first sign that God’s new world had begun; and if that new world was, and is, here, within his creation; then all attempts to paint the consummation of history and ultimate Christian hope as an escape from material existence are profoundly mistaken. I shall say more later; for now, it is sufficient to say that the resurrection of Christ is, in Tom Wright’s words, an emphatic “affirmation” of God’s world (renewed and restored, to be sure) – not, as some might think, the validation of a heavenly abode, liberated from body and creation alike.

I fear that I have already said too much. But if I have, it is only because I seek to bring those who have read this post (and the others like it) towards a deeper understanding of the raising of Christ. Even so, we have not reached the end of the journey, for the paradigmatic act of Christ’s resurrection was exactly that – paradigmatic. In concluding this series, I shall take a look at how the new creative order ushered in by the risen Jesus affects believing individuals, God’s people and his world. That, however, will have to wait.