Christian

Christian Theology and Democratic Politics: Part Two

My investigation of the links between Christian theology and democratic politics continues. It follows my exploration into the Bible’s emphasis upon the rule of law, and the contribution this emphasis has made to modern legal concepts in democratic states.

The law’s normative status over a community of people is one strand which links democratic political cultures and the Judeo-Christian ethic which has shaped them. But in exploring this link, I have also anticipated another crucial connection – namely, the idea that leaders are the servants of those they lead. The conclusions adduced in the first essay of this series suggest that within a biblical frame of reference, even pre-eminence in human rulership was relativised. Indeed, even if ancient Israel was no democracy (a point that was true of all its neighbours), we should not be distracted from this fundamental point.

The rule of law and the notion of leaders as servants are linked in a consequential way. The law’s supremacy is intended, in part, to constrain the power of any one individual or group. In this context, any such governor is still subservient to legal strictures maintaining an independent normativity. Even if he has amassed a great deal of power, he is nonetheless charged with the responsibility of upholding the law and maintaining the order and integrity of the community he rules. That represents a kind of minimalist version of the concept of the leader-as-servant. A fully-fledged account of democratic government would hold that leaders’ authority is grounded in the consent of a particular people. Of course, how that is parsed is often a matter of debate, but for modern liberal democracies, the usual mechanism is universal suffrage and regular elections.

This represents a unique arrangement in the history of human cultural and political evolution. For most of that period, the relationship between the governed and governors was one of utter asymmetry, with the former living in subjection to the latter. What democratic states seem to do is dramatically upend the relationship between those who govern and those who are governed. On this view, governors do not “lord” it over citizens; nor is their authority grounded in themselves. It is not intrinsic, but extrinsic. As an ideal, they are there to labour on behalf of the citizenry – for its betterment and security, and at its behest – and it is upon this that the legitimacy of governors rests. Democratic leaders are, in theory, restrained and relativized. On the one hand, they are restrained, because they are bound by the legal framework within which they operate. They cannot act with untrammelled power, because they are servants of both the people who have given their consent to be so governed, and because they themselves are susceptible to legal sanctions if they overstep the boundaries of their authority. On the other hand, leaders in a democracy are relativized, because they are not the ultimate ground of that authority. Again, the citizenry and the rule of law (which provides for consensual government) together ensure that this is the case.

As noted, those who steer the ship of state, at least in a democratic setting, are charged with the responsibility of providing for the betterment of others – not as an adjunct to their role as governors, but as the very essence of what they do. Indeed, the reason elected officials exist is so that (in the absence of radically participatory politics) the interests and wishes of the people may be carried out on their behalf. It is what one might idealistically designate other-regarding, as opposed to self-regarding, power. Democratic leaders are by definition servants of those they lead; they are agents and instruments of the public will. This partly explains the notion of accountable government: if those who lead are meant to do so for the benefit of the citizens of a particular political community, it is but a short step to argue that they ought to be answerable to the ones in whose name they claim to govern. Again, none of this springs forth spontaneously; equally, it cannot be sustained by the intrinsic virtue or good will of its practitioners. A whole web of checks and balances ensures that orientation towards service of the citizenry, and the fundamental conception of democratic governance, are upheld. By contrast, in many traditional dictatorships, leaders exercise power, and are free to do so, largely for their own benefit (regardless of the nature of that benefit). To be sure, they may pay lip service to the idea that the needs and interests of the citizens need to be attended to – if only to make the accumulation and preservation of power that much easier. According to democratic principles (if not democratic reality), ministers and elected officials exist chiefly for the sake of those who have chosen them; they are meant to serve.

Of course, these are ideal types; actual leaders invariably fail to neatly conform to them. Moreover, the reality frequently fails to match such lofty ideals: modern, Western politicians sometimes appear to be just as susceptible to venality and corruption as authoritarian ones; and democratic politicians can be very adept at using “pork-barrel politics” to cling to power, in a manner that is reminiscent of the crudest kind of populist strongman. Still, this should not distract us from the larger point, or the fundamental principles we use to judge such failings in the first place.

Servant Leadership in the Old Testament

One may discern the seed of such an idea in (amongst other places) the OT. If the (divine) law was “king”, then any human ruler, no matter how powerful, was obliged to defer to something greater than himself. He was, in some sense, a servant. He was not called to live for his own aggrandizement; rather, he was selected for the sake of the community, providing a focal point of obedience and devotion to Torah. At the same time, the king was appointed to his position by God. An OT theology of kingship presents Yahweh as the ultimate sovereign, from whose authority any Israelite ruler derived his own. Of course, one might assert that this simply upholds a theory of the divine right of kings. But, aside from the fact that arguing for royal absolutism on the basis of divine providence appears to be a medieval development, the counter-argument does not reckon with the way both Testaments portray rulership generally. In tandem with its insistence regarding the supremacy of law, the OT contains a germinal understanding of the leader-as-servant. We have seen how royal disobedience led to the activation of divine curses, narrated particularly in Kings and Chronicles – clear demonstration of the king’s relative, and indeed relativised, status. This is complemented by the fact that he was not viewed as the final ground of his own position of pre-eminence. The book of 1 Samuel presents this clearly: Saul, who had been chosen as king, becomes a “stench” to Yahweh due to his recalcitrant disobedience, whilst David’s parallel rise – and ultimate acclamation – as Yahweh’s true representative is depicted as the unfolding, not of human machinations, but of the sovereign designs of Israel’s god. On one level, the narrative presents David as the unique recipient of divine favour. However, on another level, it represents a subtle reminder that the king himself stood on authority that was in the hands of another. He was a leader, yes; but he was, in the final analysis, an instrument, used by Yahweh with the intention of mediating his just and wise order – inscripturated in Torah – to the community.

The New Testament and the Flowering of an Idea

Having been germinated in the soil of the OT, the idea of servant leadership blossoms in the NT. The basic resources for a democratic understanding of governance – one which reverses the relationship between those in power, and those over whom power is exercised – are to be found there. We may begin with one of the clearest “political” texts in the NT, Romans 13:1-7. It is a notorious passage. Commentators over the centuries have often interpreted Paul’s statements here in purely reverential terms: having traversed other topics in Romans 1-12, they aver, he now deals explicitly with questions of the believer’s relationship to governing authorities, and does so by counselling quietism and acquiescence. Countless interpreters, not to mention politicians, have dragooned this passage into service, as they have sought to substantiate the untrammelled, unquestioned power of the state. In more recent times (and in an example of religion frustrating the advance of emancipation and egalitarianism), the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa deployed Romans 13:1ff to argue for acquiescence towards the political structures sustaining that country’s apartheid system.

All this, however, fundamentally misunderstands Paul’s point. True, a prima facie reading supports a so-called “conservative” interpretation, such that the apostle is heard to be saying that it would simply be better for a basically oppressive system of government to remain in place, than for Christians to be seen as subversive. Indeed, he seems to simply enjoin submission, with nary a word (apparently) on whether or not the authorities to which one ought to submit are legitimate. However, probing its contents more deeply yields a very different conclusion. To this end, a few points may be considered. Whilst it encourages some degree of deference to the governing authorities, Romans 13:1ff is quite deliberate in the language its uses to describe them. This is particularly clear if we gather up vv.1-2, 4-6, which speak of the nature (as opposed to the activity) of governing authorities. In those passages, Paul quite clearly states that (1) those who govern have been instituted by God, and (2) they are God’s “servants”. What this means is that although the apostle encourages the Roman believers to eschew rebellion and subversion, he nonetheless betrays a relativized view of government and human political institutions, consistent with a Jewish view of God as the world’s sole sovereign. Caesar, according to imperial ideology, owed allegiance to no one, save perhaps for the pantheon of Greco-Roman gods (who could probably expect nothing more than superficial reverence). The emperor stood at the apex of a totalising system, which acknowledged no other authority, no other rival who might qualify or check his untrammelled power. Paul, on the other hand, argues that every governing authority, from Caesar on down, has been instituted by God (v.1b-c). The power and legitimacy they bore was rooted in an external authority. For all their pomp, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Nero, et. al., were but instruments, whose positions, according to Paul, depended entirely on the largesse of the world’s true King. If not for him, we might hear the apostle saying, they would be nothing. The apostle exhorts submission to governors, certainly; but lying behind this counsel is the basic assumption that they in turn were subject to God. Underlying – indeed, overshadowing – their authority was an authority transcendent and unmatched (metaphysically speaking). Far from re-enforcing a totalitarian system, Paul significantly qualifies it.

That qualification is reflected in the apostle’s conviction that governors are “servants” of God (vv. 5-6), charged with the responsibility of bringing order to the political community. Not only have they been bequeathed authority (such that it is derived and relativized); neither the emperor, nor his legion of proconsuls, magistrates and provincial governors, were to wield power for its own sake. For Paul, they were merely agential figures, whose positions were only legitimate to the extent they discharged their duties as guarantors of justice and order (v.4b). The apostle is quite emphatic on this point, though it would be easy to miss, given popular (and facile) readings of the overall tenor of the passage. Twice he labels the governing authorities “servants”; once, he calls them “agents” – language that most certainly undermines pretensions towards universal sovereignty, particularly as that comes to expression in the figure of the emperor. On this view, power is circumscribed, for those holding it do so as instruments of the final sovereign. In Paul’s mind, governors occupy a demoted (though nonetheless important) position, such that their raisons d’etre rest on service to a purpose higher than the accumulation of power for its own sake.

Of course, it would be folly to suggest that in the wider Greco-Roman world, governors lacked any sense of what it meant to provide for those they governed, or that they had no obligations towards citizens and subjects (though this obviously excludes the massive population of slaves within the Roman Empire). What I think is distinctive about the NT portrait of leadership and power is the way it drastically re-draws the vocation – the benefits of which are so completely externalised that true authority is defined as, and manifested in, service to others. This is particularly so as it is embodied in the NT’s portrayal of the ministry and life of Jesus himself. Even in the absence of direct historical links, it is still possible to discern certain parallels between, and echoes of, a Christological ethos and later principles associated with democratic governance. Some of the key texts in this regard are Mark 10:40-45; John 13:1-5; and Philippians 2:5-11.

Mark 10:40-45: Of the three passages I have selected, Mark 10:40-45 draws perhaps the clearest distinction between worldly, secular expressions of power, and the kind of power Jesus counselled and exemplified. In that passage, James and John approach Jesus, and ask him to give them high places of honour on either side “in [his] glory” (v.37). Clearly, they want to be exalted alongside Jesus, to attain positions of primacy and acclamation. But the other disciples are little better, becoming indignant with the brothers’ request – not because they believe it to be wrong, but because they are angry their own opportunity for honour has apparently been robbed (v.41). Verses 42-45, however, form the crux of Jesus’ statement on power and authority. He explicitly contrasts the way in which earthly rulers wield their power, “lording” it as they do over their subjects, and the model he presents (cf. v.45). Indeed, he is categorical and his disavowal of secular convention, calling upon the disciples to eschew the haughtiness of secular rulers in favour of a servant’s approach to leadership. More than that, he states that if any of them aspire to such positions, they must adopt the posture of a slave (v.44).

Slavery in the Roman Empire was a mixed bag; some slaves were able to do quite well for themselves, accumulating property and even acquiring slaves of their own. Others, however, were treated shamefully, stripped of everything, and utterly dehumanised by the reigning economic system. For Jesus, the significance of this kind of language lies in its basic connotations: whether a slave enjoyed a relatively comfortable existence, or suffered under the crushing weight of constant oppression, his life was ultimately not his own; it was limited, corralled – inextricably bound to the expectations and whims of his owner. The slave was not his own person; he was, in many respects, an appendage of the paterfamilias. And yet, remarkably, it was this very image Jesus chose to use when describing the nature of true leadership. For him, the authentic expression of power could be summed up as a kind of servitude, as those who followed his example were enjoined to give up all rights as they sought to lead. He commanded them to yield everything in service to others, thereby upending conventional notions of power, and subverting long-established hierarchies between the governed and those who govern them. Jesus used himself as the exemplar of this attitude, offering up his own crucifixion as its climactic embodiment. Mark 10:45 has long been seen as a classic expression of the significance of the atonement. It is certainly that, of course, but as Anglican New Testament scholar N.T. Wright has said, this passage houses a political theology inside its atonement theology – namely, a critique of the shape and nature of contemporaneous articulations of authority via Jesus’ own explication of the meaning of his death. In place of worldly analogues, Jesus substituted a picture of leadership that was deeply, radically, centred upon the welfare of others (“…give his life as a ransom…”). On this view, the leader’s life was, in effect, “enslaved” – bound to the duty he had to the community he oversaw. The accumulation of power was not for the purposes of self-aggrandizement, but for self-emptying.

John 13:1-5: The Marcan Jesus’ presentation of himself as the epitome of servant leadership leads naturally into John 13:1-5. That episode is justly famous for featuring his rather surprising act of foot-washing in the upper room, only hours before his arrest, trial and execution. In John’s hands, Jesus’ determination to wash the feet of his disciples proleptically symbolizes the cross. Now, for the Fourth Evangelist, Jesus’ crucifixion is, amongst other things, an act of service, issuing in great benefit for others. We may deduce this from the deliberate link he makes between Jesus’ foot-washing and his later death. Christ’s references to cleansing plainly function on more than one level, where the concrete reality of feet being washed with water points to the greater reality of cleansing from sin by virtue of Jesus’ self-oblation. But of course, the responsibility for foot-washing lay with servants, who waited on the guests of a feast. Such a menial task would not have been conducted by the guests themselves, for it was utterly beneath them. However, what Jesus commanded didactically in Mark 10, he here offers up in visual, parabolic form. Moreover, he pairs his example with an exhortation to the disciples to do likewise (13:14-15), thus setting out the importance of his own life as an ethical paradigm for those who would claim to follow him.

What is important for our purposes, however, are the specific links between the passage and the notion of servant leadership. These have already been clearly intimated by the very fact of Jesus’ adoption of a servant’s posture. But the prelude to the act is a revealing comment from the author himself, which provides both a theologically rich portrait of Jesus’ identity, and a startling reinforcement of the radically unconventional expression of power and authority attributed to him. Verse 3 has the evangelist tell us that Jesus “knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God, and was returning to God”. This is crucial; the very next verse continues by saying, “so he [Jesus] got up…” in order to wash the disciples’ feet. The seemingly insignificant word “so” signals the consequential relationship between Jesus’ knowledge of his complete sovereignty (delegated, to be sure), and the subsequent act of humble service which he performed. For the Fourth Evangelist, the foot-washing was not an obstacle to Jesus’ comprehensive authority; it was a clear, if paradoxical, expression of that theological truth. Similarly, Jesus did not stoop to the level of a servant despite being the incarnation of the Father’s very wisdom (cf. John 1:1-2); rather, he did so precisely because of it. The message seems clear: true power is not expressed through tyrannical coercion, but through the complete abnegation of self and status. Via his surprising act, the Jesus of the Fourth Gospel taught the disciples that leadership in the redeemed community could not wielded in the same manner as earthly expressions, for it meant the complete reversal of expectations and convention.

Philippians 2:5-11: Philippians 2:5-11 seems to point in much the same direction as the foot-washing episode in John 13. As such, the passage also has important implications for a NT understanding of authority and power. In this chapter, Paul exhorts the church at Philippi to adopt the same mind and attitude as that of Christ Jesus (v.5). He then launches into a wonderful soliloquy about the various stages of Christ’s humiliation (completed with his exaltation): first, in taking on human flesh; and second, by walking the road to Calvary, and suffering a shameful execution in the manner of a criminal (vv.6-8). Verses 6-7 are particularly important, for they offer the reader a window into Paul’s paradoxical view of the identity and revelation of the world’s true sovereign. To be sure, there has been much debate as to how this pair of verses should be construed: did Jesus “make himself nothing” despite enjoying “equality with God”; or did he, rather, condescend because he participated in the divine identity? In other words, was Christ’s (two-stage) sacrifice a move away from the proper expression of divinity, or the culmination thereof?    

In his stimulating work, Inhabiting the Cruciform God, Michael J. Gorman argues that both interpretations are valid, and for that reason, proposes a synthetic treatment of the passage. He contends that they are really two sides of the same coin, and that Paul is working with both a “counterintuitive” stream and a “cruciform” stream as he rehearses the revelation God in the downward trajectory of Christ’s life. The apostle implicitly points to the paradoxical character of Christ’s incarnation, jarring as it did with conventional understandings of power and divine identity. For a king, emperor or god to stoop to the level of servanthood in this way – not to mention submitting to the dishonour of so humiliating an execution – was almost completely unthinkable. It was a category mistake of the highest order. The novelty of Paul’s depiction of godhood was to say that, contrary to expectation, the kind of self-abnegation seen in Christ’s humiliation was in fact a key moment in the disclosure of the identity of the divine. In sharp contradistinction to the prevailing norms of Greco-Roman culture, what the tenor and conclusion Jesus’ earthly life showed was not a tragic negation of power, but its true expression. We see here the present passage’s conceptual and theological connections with Mark 10 and John 13: the paradoxical – even polemical – depiction of what genuine authority actually looks like. Jesus’ descent into slavery was, according to Paul, the strange, yet climactic, unveiling of God’s character.

Moreover, as Gorman and others have plausibly argued, Philippians 2:6-11 contains a number of cultural echoes that strongly suggest a critique of imperial power, and all the pomp and arrogance associated with it. By implicitly pitting Caesar against Jesus, Paul is arguing that the “form of God” – which Augustus and others arrogated for themselves through military prowess and claims of universal lordship – was actually made visible in the voluntary servanthood of the man from Galilee. In that act, Paul seems to be saying, God in Christ turned imperial notions of power and leadership on their heads. The ethical import of the passage is properly contextualized by the opening verses of chapter 2, where Paul exhorts the Philippians to look out for the “interests of others”, and to tend to each other from positions of humility and deference. Philippians 2:6-11 caps the apostle’s exhortation by providing the church with the paradigm of humble, self-effacing service, of power wielded on behalf of, and for the benefit of, others.

Together, these three passages offer the reader a relatively clear picture of one key aspect of Christology. More to the point, they help crystallize the NT’s conception of leadership. In fundamental ways – seen implicitly in Philippians 2:6-11 and rather explicitly in Mark 10:40-45 – the resultant picture of Jesus constitutes a categorical rejection of the prevailing expressions and examples of power. It not only functions as a critique of empire and imperial arrogance, but also undermines all self-regarding and self-aggrandizing claims to power. The passages I have surveyed here all promote the idea – radical at the time – of servant leadership, where the hierarchy between governed and governor, leader and led, is dramatically blunted. That the subject of these passages is also seen as the very embodiment of God – the world’s true creator and sovereign – only adds to the significance of their complementary portraits of power. What they capture is the notion that leadership functions primarily as a form of service to the community over which one governs. On this view, positions of power do not exist for the ones who possess them; rather, a NT theology (and Christology) of leadership requires the bearers of such status to toil, labour – indeed, expend themselves – for the betterment of those they lead.

How does all this translate into the way power and leadership is conceived in modern democratic states? The relationship, like that between a biblical commitment to the law’s transcendence and evolving principles concerning the rule of law, is certainly not a direct one. And I don’t want to overplay my hand: Jesus was, according to the NT, the agent of God’s coming kingdom. He himself is depicted as God’s vice-regent, who rules the cosmos. This, of course, is not very “democratic”, if by that we mean a Lincolnian government “of the people” or “by the people”.

On the other hand, what I have examined is consistent with government “for the people”, the third leg in Lincoln’s democratic triumvirate. The idea of power and authority which came to expression in the figure of Jesus resonates at a deeper level with principles governing the exercise of political power in modern Western democracies. Moreover, given the deep cultural and philosophical shafts Judeo-Christian ethics have sunk into the bedrock of those communities, we should expect various features within those countries to bear traces – however faint – of that legacy. I think the example and ethos of Jesus is one such legacy. His embodiment of servant leadership upended the conventional and assumed power structures that prevailed in the Greco-Roman world. Similarly, Jesus articulated a new definition of power, one characterised by self-abnegation and self-expenditure in an effort to meet the needs of others. It’s difficult to overstate the massive, indeed tectonic, shift in the relationship between the governed and their governors that was generated by the singular influence of Jesus. Later developments concerning accountable government (which I have already touched on) are genetically related to the idea – exemplified so crisply in Jesus’ example – that power and authority are corralled by service, and ought to be measured against that standard.

None of this occurred in isolation, of course; other intellectual streams were powerfully important in the evolution of democratic leadership. Moreover, the mere example of Jesus could not become an influential source for the later flourishing of democratic culture apart from its preservation, transmission and adaptation in later Christian communities. It was here that the ethic of Jesus was “practised”, and where its social and communal utility could be tested. The early church, as seen in Acts, is seen as a radically egalitarian society (e.g., Acts 2:42-46; 4:32, 34-37), and the legitimate heir to the message and teachings of Christ. Later Christian history provides examples of participatory and communal living, presaging (by some centuries, to be sure) subsequent values associated with, and undergirding, democratic politics.

For instance, theologian and anti-apartheid activist John de Grucy has noted that fourth-century monasticism provides strong evidence for the presence of a proto-democratic culture in some streams of early Christianity. Monastic figures such as Basil of Caesarea (and later, Benedict of Nursia) formed equalitarian communities that sought to counter the highly-stratified worlds in which they existed. Class distinctions between aristocracy and the poor were erased (or at least dramatically muted), whilst members of the clergy from wealthier families, deliberately invoking the figure of Jesus, would take vows of poverty – the better to serve and identify with those they led. Political philosopher, Larry Siedentop, says this development heralded a remarkable transformation in the was authority was conceived. Under the aegis of people like Basil, monastic leaders were obliged to act humbly, meekly. Siedentop argues that this version of authority — existing as it did in a culture awash with hubristic notions of power — was “unprecedented”. The early centuries of the church witness to a formative matrix, which provided key cultural and structural resources for the development of democratic politics, and which can be traced back to the example and teachings of its founder. That matrix was to prove decisive for both later Christian communities and the societies in which they existed. As but one example, we may note the way sections of the Radical Reformation self-consciously sought to emulate the social egalitarianism that Jesus espoused and practised.

All this lies in the future, and I shall return to some of these points in later essays. For now, it is important to consider the historically and culturally mediated connections between crucial biblical themes related to leadership and government, especially as they are crystallized in the NT’s portrait of Christ, and the conceptualisation of leadership in contemporary democratic states.

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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.

 *          *          *

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.

Weekend Musings

This article is quite unlike the ones that have been posted of late. It does not concern issues out there in the public sphere; nor is it a rigorous analysis of the topic in question. Instead, it represents a couple of insights that I gleaned from Scripture last weekend, and as such, this post will undoubtedly exhibit a more informal character.

Both insights I gleaned whilst reading the Gospel according to John. I have been studying this book for some time, and have been repeatedly struck by its remarkable theological density. However, during the course of studying Chapter 15, two particular points – both of which are essential elements of a vibrant Christian life – leapt off the page and hit me squarely between the eyes. However, before I delve into those truths, I should set the scene. The fifteenth chapter of John’s Gospel is largely about two things: the love that ought to exist within the fellowship of believers; and the inevitability of hatred and hostility that will meet believers as they seek to minister to the world. What’s more, it comes in the midst of a very private and intimate gathering between Jesus and his disciples, and everything he says in this passage is for them. He begins by likening his relationship with them to a vine and its branches (v.1). He then proceeds to counsel his disciples to remain in him in order to bear fruit (v.4), before commanding them to follow his commands – chief of which is the command to love one another (vv. 9-12, 17). Finally, he warns them of the inevitability of opposition to the message they carry and embody – a message that saw Jesus himself persecuted and despised, but only so that they would be prepared. Within what I have just written lies the two truths that have given me pause for thought and have led me to reflect on my walk as a disciple of Christ.

The first truth relates to the metaphor Jesus uses at the commencement of the chapter. His use of the “vine-branches” image (with God as the gardener) is an apt description of the deep interconnectedness of the church: those who are united to Christ receive their power from him, and it is necessary to remain in him (ie. endure in union with him) in order to, as he put it, “bear fruit”. That much is true, and I (usually) have no trouble abiding by, and celebrating, this great image. Paul’s image of the body (1 Corinthians 12:12-31), which is a complementary way of understanding the interrelationship between Christ and believers, also comes to mind. We are many, but together – joined with Christ and held together by the Spirit – we are one. Putting aside any temptation to break out into song at this point (remember the cheesy ballad, “We are one, but we are many”?), both images convey the deep intimacy that exists between Christ and his church, transcending time, space, geography, culture and language. It is a mystical union that brings us into the closest of relationships. So far so good. But what I failed to appreciate (even if I did formally recognize) was that the image John presents to us – that of the vine and the branches – not only implies intimacy or connectedness between Christ and believers; it also implies intimacy and connectedness between believers themselves. A branch is automatically connected to all the other branches of the vine if it is connected to the vine itself. Similarly, a part of the body – the foot, say – is implicitly connected to all the other parts by virtue of the fact that it is a member of the body.

And so it is with us. Not so profound, you might say. That may well be true, but how many of us live in such a way that betrays our own purported spiritual independence? This is significant, since I have detected such a tendency in myself, and that is why Jesus’ words struck me so deeply. For too long, I have attempted to grow spiritually – to bear fruit, you might say – without the aid of the body. Sure, I have been a part of the body. I am a faithful member of a local church. I have taken part in all kinds of ministry there over the years. But I have never truly allowed myself to be fully and freely shaped by that community; to be sharpened by other disciples, as iron sharpens iron. I have always kept a distance, believing myself to be of such spiritual stature that I could get on in life without the enriching aid of a vibrant spiritual community. But recent events have taught me otherwise, and the frustrating inconsistency of my spiritual walk of late has slowly brought me round to the idea that the body of Christ – his church – is a necessary context within which authentic Christian spirituality may flourish.

The image presented in John’s Gospel confirmed that; in order to bear fruit, one must remain in Jesus, but his love and his presence are made manifest in the lives of other believers, to whom one is also connected. Only then, when we take full stock of that truth, will a constantly vibrant and enlivening life of discipleship become a reality. That is something that I need to learn, living as I am with a kind of  rugged individualism. The fact is, I cannot exist without the community of God, and nor was I ever meant to. I might think that it is a sign of spiritual maturity to strike out on one’s own without the ministry and support and spiritual nourishment of other Christians, but this passage has made me realize that I am simply engaging in a self-defeating exercise. Remaining in Christ and remaining in the body cannot be separated; to cut oneself from the latter is to (eventually, but inevitably) cut oneself off from the former. At that point, the failure of one’s efforts to maintain a spiritually vital life apart from the embodiment of God’s presence in his church becomes a fait accompli and no fruit will be forthcoming. I wouldn’t say that I’m in danger of that – far from it – but my spiritual growth demands the humble embrace of the ministry of others.

Paul’s image is also instructive, and it spoke to me as well. The picture of the body he uses is interesting, since in order for a particular member (again, we can use the foot) to function as it was meant to function, it needs to be connected to the body. A foot is not truly a foot if it has been severed from the body; conversely, it has be attached to the rest of the body – connected to tendons, ligaments, bone, etc. – in order to fulfil its function as an aid to walking. In a similar manner, I can only fulfil my function within the body of Christ – thereby becoming what I was created to be – when I live in deep interdependence with others. The presence of a spiritually stimulating environment, apart from the natural benefits I might accrue, brings me into contact with the embodied Christ. We are social animals, and have been created as such. Moreover, we – I – have been redeemed into a community, in which true identity is found. Any attempts to grow in isolation (and I should know, since I have been doing that for some time) constitute, as I have said, a self-defeating project.

The second truth that influenced me concerns Jesus’ later words about the reality and inevitability of opposition to the gospel. He counsels his followers to prepare themselves for such opposition, as he himself did (v.18). Not all will receive what they have to say, and they will face the prospect – sometimes constantly – of lethal hostility. All this is on account of the name of Jesus (v.21). That in itself is an important point, since those of us living in the west like to try and maintain some kind of civility, and to imagine that discussions and conversations are conducted with mutual respect and peaceful understanding. But this is hardly the case elsewhere, for Christians from many parts of the world face horrors that we scarcely give credence to – all for the sake of Christ. But what really impacted me was the fact that I was guilty of not taking this warning seriously enough. I kept it at arms length, implicitly confining it to the pages of an historical document whose cultural and chronological distance from my own situation had been exacerbated by my own tendency to reduce it to the object of theological and intellectual games. As I read this passage, I realized that Jesus was speaking to my own situation, and to the reality and inevitability of opposition to the gospel in my own environment. And it struck me that for some time, I had not always allowed the text of Scripture – God’s Word – to speak to me. This passage opened me up to the stark truth that I had kept a distance between myself and all of Scripture. Reading Jesus’ words about opposition and hostility to the gospel, whilst trying to avoid such a situation in my own life, suggested to me that my efforts to understand the Bible did not always mean that I was listening. I may have developed a true understanding of the meaning of the passages I read; but did I allow them to speak to me? Was I allowing the Creator and Redeemer God to transcend time and space, and bring forth the significance of his Word for me? Unfortunately, I could not always answer in the affirmative.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with studying the Bible in order to glean the theological meaning of the text. There is nothing wrong with expending intellectual energy discovering the intended meaning of a passage, its immediate and biblical context, and its theological and ethical implications. These are necessary elements of good, honest Bible study. But if it does not set one’s heart on fire; if it fails to actually speak to the one who is reading it; if it does not transform and shape and mould someone into the likeness of Christ, leading to faithful discipleship; then it has not truly been read or understood. This is something that had, for me at least, receded. Those words, spoken by Jesus and recorded by John, were not meant simply for the former’s immediate circle of followers, but for all Christians down through the ages. And those words – like all the words of Scripture – ought to carry with them a Spirit-filled power that crosses the chasm of time and culture to change us in our own situations (diverse as they are) today. That is something that I learned, and it is a lesson worth repeating.

These truths – the essential nature of the Christian community and the immediacy of the Word – may be known instinctively by some of you, and I celebrate that. I am a little slow to learn at times, I must admit. But it just goes to show that if you open your ears for just a moment, God will speak. You just have to make sure you’re actually listening.

On Floods and Faith – Suffering, Evil and the Existence of God (Part Two)

In this particular post, I want to continue my exploration of the question of evil, suffering and God. A rebuttal of atheistic critiques is all well and good, but that in no way automatically validates a theistic position; what is also needed is a positive account of how God’s reality can be reconciled with the manifold suffering and evil that we witness in this world. For some, the question is not so great, since they may have embraced nothing more than some variation of deism (the notion that if there is a god, then he is nothing more than a “prime mover” or a “first cause”). Others may believe something else about the divine, including the notion that God may well in fact be evil and corrupt. If that is so, then the apparent tension between evil and God’s existent is, as it were, non-existent.

That may be the case for some, but the author of this blog is deeply committed to the god of Christianity. As such, I am not talking about a god who at one stage brought this world into being but now has nothing to do with it (deism). Neither am I talking about a god who is to be identified with the material world (pantheism). Instead, throughout this post, I will be implicitly referring to the god who is deeply involved in his creation, who willed it into being, who governs it, and who is still passionately interested in it. This god is good and loving, grieved by suffering and moved by evil. But if these claims about God be true, then how can he permit evil and suffering? Indeed, how can the presence of these tragic and (sometimes) destructive forces be reconciled with what Christians maintain about the One they worship and follow? Recent events – floods in Queensland and Brazil, deadly earthquakes in New Zealand and Japan, the manifest corruption of governments in the Middle East – sharpens the question somewhat, and once more forces us to ask: just how can the persistence of so much suffering (and those events are just the tip of the iceberg) sit alongside the historic Christian claim of a good, loving and powerful god?

Before I go on, I must admit to the inadequacy of words for some who have experienced tragedy. Whether you have lost a loved one, been battling with depression, or been the hapless victim of nature’s fury, my defence of God’s existence in the face of such hardships may seem somewhat uncouth. I am of course aware that the question of suffering is not, in the final analysis, a philosophical problem to be solved; it is instead a sometimes-monstrous experience with which people wrestle on a daily basis. I cannot stress that enough, for it is not something that can be understood by writing a blog about it in the comfort of one’s living room, or inquired of in a university lecture hall. No; it can only be truly understood if it is first lived. That is why my essay may prove to be of shallow consolation to those who have experienced first hand the evil of other men, or the destruction of a ravenous disease. Nonetheless, I do pray that this post uplifts and encourages those who have been hit by the effects of evil in this world. What is more, I should point out that these arguments do not automatically bring one to full-orbed Christian faith. They do, I believe, show us that belief in God can sit alongside the presence of evil in the world, and that there is even room for belief in the Christian god. There is indeed a great deal of overlap between the more general philosophical and theistic claims made here and the specific claims made in Christian theology, despite the fact that this particular series has not argued for the reality of God as he has been revealed in Scripture and Christian theology. What I present here does not take into account what the god of Christianity is actually doing about evil and suffering, and how Christian theology interprets these tragic phenomena. To use the language of faith, what I present here may reflect a generalized theology of creation, but it does not embrace a theology of redemption. That will have to wait.

The above caveats notwithstanding, it is important that a response is forthcoming. To begin with, we need to make a distinction between human evil (that is, suffering caused by the immoral or imperfect actions of other human beings) and natural evil (suffering caused by natural calamities, such as the ones I have mentioned in this, and my last, post). Of course, the distinction is not nearly as neat as it may first appear, and it is important to bear that point in mind. In any case, if we concentrate for a moment on human evil, we cannot explore the possible tension between its presence in this world and the claim that God exists, without taking into account the wider purposes of the Creator. Many (perhaps speculative) reasons could be offered, but in this post I will focus on just one. Specifically, I am thinking of God’s desire to not only create a world, but to also have a relationship with it, including of course those created in his image – human beings. This is a cardinal Christian truth, helping to explain the theological rationale behind the creation of humanity. God did not create us – or this world, for that matter – simply in order to study us, or to keep us at arms length whilst he admired us from a distance. No, he created humanity, in part so that he could have a relationship with it, to bestow his goodness upon it, and to give it the privilege of being in communion with him. But in order to develop a true relationship with his image-bearing creatures, he first had to endow them with what we might call free will. Only with free will is it possible to respond, freely and genuinely, to the intimate proposal for a relationship by another. Anything else would be a sham. And so it was, and is, with God and humanity. The endowment of free will was a necessary requirement for the creation of a group of people who would be able to come to God of their own accord; people who would be no more than automatons – prisoners of the efforts of a totalitarian god. Love and devotion can only come about through the freely chosen acts of the one expressing them, necessitating the presence of free will in humanity.

Of course, God took a risk when he brought humanity into existence. Free will can be used for good, but can quite easily be used for its opposite, evil. If this were not the case, it would not truly be free will. Similarly, if humanity was not free to choose to spurn God’s offer of a relationship, then neither was it free to accept that same offer. This applies to our relationships with each other as much as it does to our relationship (potential or actual) with God. For God not only created humanity to act morally towards himself; he also created humanity with a view to them acting morally towards one another. Moral responsibility – reflected in, and manifested by, our ethical treatment of other people – is a necessary corollary to one’s relationship with God. To claim the latter without committing the former renders both non-existent. But just as one’s relationship with God must be freely chosen, if it is to be a true relationship (and not just a fait accompli), so our moral acts towards one another can only be truly moral (in the sense that such morality becomes an deeply interwoven part of our identity) if they are, to some extent at least, truly and freely chosen. For instance, if one is forced to commit a moral act, we may say that the act itself is moral. However, the person committing it is not; he is simply adhering to a predetermined path, the nature of which does not impinge upon him. Humans have been created to be moral agents, freely choosing to pursue the good. And that necessitates the possibility of choosing the alternative, of rejecting the moral choice. That is one basis for authentic moral responsibility, rather than the product of divine pre-programming.

What we see around us, then, are the effects of the abuse of free will and the rejection of moral behaviour: murder, slander, corruption, exploitation, selfishness, greed. These are the inevitable consequences of the corruption of free will, which is itself the unavoidable concomitant of the creation of a group of beings that would be able to freely choose and freely love their Creator. This wider goal explains, in part at least, the persistence of evil in the world. The value God has placed on the free will of humanity is such that, even if is abused, as it has countless times throughout history, God does not necessarily remove it. In order to preserve part of the “essence” of humanity and its ability to freely come to the One who created it, the parallel preservation of free will, despite its corruption, is important.

Some may not like the above answer – that God apparently remains unmoved by the persistence of evil in this world. I shall respond to that objection in the next post in this series. Others may object that the presence of so much suffering does not make the preservation of free will worth it. To that, I would argue two things. On the one hand, I am quite sure that those who might be tempted to adopt this line of thinking would dispense of it once they could see its implications. If the history of the world has been consistently marked by human iniquity, then it has also been consistently marked by the struggle for human freedom. It is a prize to be upheld; not discarded because of the way it has been grievously abused. Of course, that is of no comfort to the one who has lost his spouse to the destructive behaviour of a drunk driver. In my effort to provide an explanation for the importance of human moral choice and free will, I do not wish to minimize such a tragedy. Nevertheless, I can only return to the answer I have supplied: that present free will is a necessary element in an authentic relationship with God, and an authentic moral existence. On the other hand, I would suggest that a freely chosen life with God – not to mention the choice to act morally towards others – is of such incomparable beauty that its reality cannot be jeopardised. If God is what traditional theism says he is – the great architect, who has not only created this world but continues to uphold and animate it – then some kind of relationship with him is a relationship with the foundation of life, truth and goodness. It takes us beyond our own finiteness, mortality and moral ineptitude since we have come into contact with a god who is beyond all three. What is more, according to a specific Christian theological account of the situation (which I will discuss in a future post), it is the very rejection of this reality that has led to the pervasive evil that we witness in the world. Once again, the creation of morally responsible, morally free individuals who possess the ability to choose the ultimate good – to choose God – could not proceed without the possibility that those individuals would end up choosing its opposite.

This important point may help to explain human evil, but it cannot necessarily be applied to the suffering caused by natural calamities, such as the ones we have witnessed in Australia and elsewhere recently. Climactic conditions and the earth’s convulsive movements cannot be explained via moral categories (at least, they cannot be held morally accountable for what occurs). There is (apparently) no intentionality, no moral responsibility – only causation. Of course, I have already made the point that the distinction between human evil and natural evil is blurred. An earthquake may shake buildings and structures, but the presence of a city on a known fault line, as well as the shoddy nature of building construction in the area, can lead to a high death toll. Similarly, floods may wreck havoc on a hapless village or town, but the creation of dams could have stopped such a tragic event from occurring. Moreover, one may suffer from a seemingly inexplicable form of cancer, but given the many risks posed by certain foods and environments, it is impossible to rule out human action in such an event. Thus, even when a natural disaster strikes, one cannot so easily discount the effects of human action, which may lead to or exacerbate human suffering.

Nevertheless, we face a problem, for in many cases, human activity cannot account for the destruction wrought by a natural calamity. God’s existence and human evil can be explained via the argument from free will, but how does one account for the presence of natural evil? Surely God has control over nature in a manner that is unlike his relationship to humanity? Indeed, this is the case, but not to the extent that one might first assume. I spoke earlier about the free will argument as an explanation for the presence of human evil in spite of the claim that there God who is loving and powerful. Much the same could be said of the natural world. Just as free will explains human evil – and its corollary, human suffering – so free process explains the sometimes destructive nature of, well, nature. At this point, I should acknowledge the influence of John Polkinghorne, the British physicist and priest, whose work in developing this concept has been significant. I don’t want to follow him too far down this road (he also apparently claims that the future is unknown to God, with which I disagree). However, the point is well made. Rather than controlling the world like a puppet-master pulling the strings of his lifeless minions, God has endowed the world with the ability to freely develop, much like he has endowed humanity with the capacity to freely choose. Creation is not static; it is instead dynamic. And although its development has sometimes been messy and chaotic, the metaphysical independence of the natural world (and by “metaphysical independence,” I am referring to the distinction between God and his creation) is preserved in this developmental freedom.

This does not mean that we follow the god of deism after all; just because God has given the natural world the ability to freely develop in its own way does not mean that he also does not have unfettered freedom to involve himself in its affairs. We should not think that because God has endowed his creation with this kind of dynamic quality, he is therefore bound to refrain from activity within it. I have already dealt with this point above, in my discussion of human evil. Suffice it to say, God has created a world with a freedom to develop in a distinctive manner, just as he has created humans with a moral freedom that enables them to choose good or reject it. Because of that freedom, the natural world sometimes heads in a direction that occasions pain and destruction, and that is deeply contrary to God’s purposes. That does not mean that the world is simply chaos; there is enough order and regularity to suggest otherwise. But there is also enough unpredictability and flexibility within the natural world to suggest that it is more than just an animated diorama. And with that flexibility comes the sometimes-painful reality that nature will cause human suffering.

Such is the complexity of this issue that I have not been able to touch upon all aspects of it. What’s more, I have obviously not touched upon the specific Christian claims regarding evil and suffering in any detail. Thus, this post does not take into account the relationship between human sin and the corruption of creation. Nor does it note the pernicious effects of sin on human beings themselves. Furthermore, many questions remain. For example, what role does God’s providence play in a discussion like this? I have argued that humans have free will, but how does that relate to God’s activity in the world? Human free will is not unfettered, but when – and how – does God actually intervene in the affairs of his creation? Why does he appear to stop evil in some cases, and not in others? Why might he rescue a drowning child, but not millions of people dying at the hands of corrupt governments? And even if free will does help explain the presence of human evil, why has God not put a stop to it already (given that Christians believe he will do so at some stage)? Why does God allow human free will to remain, even in cases where it means the suppression of another’s free will? It could be said that God simply giving ample opportunity for people to freely choose the good, even if they continue to indulge in immoral acts, but the tension still lingers. Also, when should suffering be construed as a consequence of divine judgment? This may have more to do with a Christian perspective on the question of evil, but it arises nonetheless whenever God is invoked. Finally, how does God remain sovereign over the natural world, whilst also giving it a freedom to develop in its own, sometimes-destructive, manner? These questions may never receive adequate answers (though in upcoming posts, I shall attempt to do so), for to know them properly is to know the mind of God. Hopefully, however, I have given some account of how a belief in God is not inconsistent with the presence of evil in this world.

 

  

On Floods and Faith (Part One)

Suffering is, unfortunately, a part of life. Whether it is the loss of a parent to cancer, or the break-up of a long marriage, people endure hardships with tragic consistency. Recent events this year have reinforced this truism, as the country has witnessed the desperate plight of many tens of thousands of people in the state of Queensland. Entire towns have, it seems, been swept away by the fury of nature. The ferocity of these floods has been breathtaking, as has the widespread destruction. As if that weren’t enough, the state has been battered by cyclonic storms that have devastated livelihoods with ease. These disasters are indeed reminders that suffering is an ever-present part of life, which for some undermines belief in God’s existence. It is to this issue that I want to speak, using the Queensland disasters as a springboard.

In later posts, I will provide a particular Christian interpretation of disaster and suffering, including what we have seen recently. Right now, however, I wish to interrogate the non-believer’s response to such suffering and hardship, perhaps creating intellectual room for a Christian perspective to take its place. Indeed, it is important to provide some sort of apologetic, albeit a partial one, since such a disaster may prove ripe for the spiritual sceptic (I should point out that when I speak of spiritual sceptics or non-believers, I am referring to people who are, at the very least, sceptical of God’s existence. I am not yet referring to non-Christians). Even in the face of such destruction and loss, the church does have something to say as it seeks to respond. That may be news to some, but the Christian story does supply meaning to an otherwise meaningless situation. Although non-believers may declare that the Queensland floods (or any other event, such as the Christchurch earthquake, that occasions pain and suffering) prove that God does not exist, or that the persistence of belief in God despite such a tragedy is absurd, I would ask people to consider the alternative for a moment.

Without God, these tragedies are nothing but the consequences of the blind, impersonal forces of nature. We may be able to offer immediate causes for what happened. We can, for example, talk about the heavy rains and the aberrant weather patterns that caused the floods in Queensland. We can talk about the persistent failure by state governments to build dams that would control and manage the flow of rivers in the region. We could even talk about the green ideology that has (perhaps) exerted some influence over the reluctance to build such structures. These are all viable reasons for what, in the instance of Queensland’s tragedy, occurred. And yet none of them can provide a deep – one might even say existential – reason for this or any other disaster. Like all natural calamities, the Queensland floods and storms have shown us that, in the final analysis, man is at the mercy of nature. What is more, whilst the non-believer might derive some sense of satisfaction from facing what they think is the cold, hard reality of the world, their perspective does little to offer meaning in the midst of human misery. To them, this simply happened; one can talk about why it happened, but that question cannot be pressed too far. At the end of the day, the atheist or non-believer can only admit that such things simply happen. Events are merely brute facts, without ultimate intelligibility. If the universe is the product of blind chance, then its various goings-on cannot thereby possess meaning. They simply are. According to the non-believer’s scheme, events (both good and ill) do nothing more than occur. They do not mean anything, for they happen within a purposeless universe that has come into being without reason.

This is all the atheist or non-believer can offer when a tragedy strikes. If they follow their philosophical presuppositions far enough, then they have to admit that disasters such as the ones we have witnessed recently do not bear meaning. The cosmos does not possess any overarching structure, or goal-oriented significance, whilst the occurrences contained therein cannot be explained in terms of anything greater – or deeper – than the brute fact of their existence. That has to be conceded. To be sure, this does not mean that the existence of God is thereby proved. But when the atheist or non-believer scoffs at the attempt to shore up belief in God during a time such as this, one has to ask whether the interpretation he (or she) offers is any more satisfactory. All they can say is that such a calamity has occurred; nothing more, nothing less (without over-anticipating what I want to say below, to even call an event a “calamity” would be stretching the interpretation of the event, since that implies an attempt to explain the inexplicable according to moral categories that have no place within a purposeless universe). Mere happenstance is all that remains.

Such reasoning flies in the face of the persistent human need to ascribe and construct meaning. Humans are driven by a need to interpret things according a certain purpose, to view events and happenings through an interpretive grid. This is no fleeting, transient whim; it is instead a deep-rooted yearning, leading us to bestow order upon chaos and to discover purpose for our lives and the world at large. The atheist’s assumption that the universe is “blind, pitiless and indifferent” (to paraphrase Richard Dawkins) jars horribly with this human need to find meaning. How does a purposeless universe give rise – without forethought or planning – to beings that are driven, enlivened and animated by purpose? That is a particularly vexatious question, and comes with even greater urgency when a disaster like the Queensland floods befalls a segment of humanity. The search for meaning at a time like this is particularly acute, and the atheist cannot offer anything substantial. He is forced to admit that there is no reason for what has happened, just as there is no reason for why anything happens. That can only darken the existential void in which people of calamity often find themselves.

At the same time, the non-believer cannot escape the other logical implications of his worldview. If there is no purpose to the cosmos; and if it is just the random movement of molecules and particles; then one cannot speak of good and evil, joy and suffering, in any meaningful sense. The reductionism of atheism – which necessarily embraces a materialist outlook on life – becomes obvious when its proponents assign cause to purely physical factors. The notion of transcendence is completely anathema to such a worldview. What this means is that any talk of morals, ethics, or events that either enrich or diminish life, is disingenuous from a materialist point of view. All is simply the random shifting of atoms. The death of a loved one – or, in this case, the devastation of floods and cyclones – cannot be ascribed any more meaning than one might ascribe to the particles under a microscope. Similarly, to speak of morals is specious, since the objective foundation upon which any robust conception of morality must rest does not exist. If the universe does not care, then why should we? Why should we care about the deaths of people swept away by a torrent of water? Why should we recoil in horror when we see the carnage wrought on a South Sudanese village by government-backed militia? These things, broken down to their constituent parts according to a materialist, atheistic worldview, are nothing more than the outward manifestations of inward physical occurrences. There is nothing beyond the biological, and the biological does not work according to a greater scheme – moral or otherwise. It simply is. So, if we take the Queensland floods as an example, the non-believing perspective cannot even discuss such a calamity using moral categories, since those moral categories cannot fit into the purely physicalist account of tragedy and suffering. The biological is ultimate, and moral discussion – which relies on some notion of objectivity or transcendent framework to maintain coherency – is without basis.

Again, I must remind people that all of this in no way automatically validates the Christian, or even merely theistic, worldview. But it does show up the atheistic view for what it is. Further – and this is closely aligned with my point just above – the non-believer’s case against God, which he bases upon the supposed contradiction between God’s goodness and the presence of evil, becomes incoherent once one follows that atheistic view through to its logical conclusion. How can one speak of the contradiction between the claimed goodness of God and the persistence of evil when one’s own worldview has no room for transcendent moral categories? Surely the worldview in question subverts the specific claims made against God whenever disaster or tragedy strikes, for one cannot squeeze out objective morality on the one hand and use it to score a philosophical (or atheological) point on the other. Of course, the atheist may claim that he does adhere to the notion of objective morality. But why? Why, if the cosmos that gave rise to humanity is actually blind and morally indifferent, should those very same beings be committed to such an outlook? I leave that question for readers to ponder.

None of this will be of comfort to people who have seen and experienced tragedy, pain, suffering and hardship. I don’t expect that to be the case. What will comfort them are wise pastoral counsel and the persistence of sacrificial love. However, my aim here is to engage with the various philosophical and ideological interpretations that use such events to deny God’s reality. I will continue to do so over the next few posts.

UPDATE

Recently, I took part in an online  discussion, where I used some of these arguments to critique the atheist’s position, including the rather unsatisfying account of morality (as I see it, anyway). Indeed, my argument there – that the biological reductionism and naturalistic conception of humanity that seems to be part-and-parcel of an atheistic worldview – was much the same as the one I have used here. Anyway, I was accused of attacking a straw man by offering this characterisation of atheists’ views on humanity. My inerlocutor told me that when it comes to humanity, morality and the rest, atheists’ views are as diverse as their fingerprints. That may be, but two things suggest that the strawman may have become a real one after all: the logical (and, I would say, inescapable) implications of a naturalistic conception of the world and humanity; and the fact that atheists have said exactly what I have said in my characterisation of humans as, at base, a collection of atomic particles. 

First, if one is going to commit oneself to a naturalistic worlview (which goes hand-in-hand with atheism) then it becomes exceedingly difficult to suggest that humanity is, in the final analysis, anything more than an amalgamation of physical parts. My interlocutor that day said he was much more than a “collection of atoms” (yes, I know, a rather pithy line on my part). He said that he was that, but that he was also a thinking, feeling individual with loves, desires, hopes and dreams. But if humans are to be reduced to their constituent parts – which means one’s atomic “kit” – then I am not sure how those parts can end up constituting, not just a physcial entity (eg. a human being), but one that is able to think, feel, love and apply meaning to his/her existence. I mean, how did my online discussion partner become the thinking, feeling empatheitc indvidual he believes himself to be? Mere physicality (which is what we are reduced to in a naturalistic view of the world) is not enough. Random mutation, natural selection and deep time alone could not have produced atomic structures that go beyond their physical paramaters in this way. In other words, if (according to naturalism), our “essence” is really no different to that of other, even non-sentient, physcial structures, I wonder how those physical structures could make the transition from things that merely “existed” to sentient beings that are able to confer upon the world meaning and significance. As much as atheists try to claim otherwise, I can’t see how one can escape this reductionist thinking, or the problems associated with it. 

The philosopher John F. Haught, in talking about critical intelliegence as a problem for naturalism, poses a question along similar lines (Is Nature Enough? Meaning and Truth in an Age of Science):

“…is the essentially mindless, purposeless, self-originating, self-enclosed universe of scientific naturalism large enough to house your own critical intelligence?”       

As far as I can see, this is an inescapable question for the atheist (and therefore, naturalist), based on the indissoluble connection between atheism and a naturalistic conception of humanity. We could take this further, and suggest that the very mindlessness posited by a naturalistic account of the universe (where all is the product of the essential purposelessness of natural selection) should make one quite suspicious of one’s own thinking. If one’s thoughts are the result of random atomic occurrences (and nothing more), should one place supreme confidence in one’s capacity to understand the world and interpret it coherently? The fact that we do, and are able to provide some account of the world that is commensurate with reality suggests that there is more going on in our minds than just the product of mindless evolutionary processes. Further, efforts to develop a moral account of human behaviour – indeed, a moral “grid”, if you like – seem to suggest that humans are more than the accidental products of an ultimately mindless, amoral universe. In any case, this reductionsim seems to be inherent within naturalism, and protests to the contrary will not do.

Second, a number of atheist academic, both past and present, have expressed their views on humanity in terms that are quite close to my own (admittedly pithy) characterisation. Here’s Betrand Russell, the now deceased British atheist, describing human beings:

“…the result of accidental collocations of atoms” (Russell, Why I am not a Christian).

Or Stephen Jay Gould:

“If the history of life teaches us any lesson, it is that human beings arose as…a kind of glorious cosmic accident resulting from the catenation of thousands of improbable events” (quote taken from John Blanchard’s Does God Believe in Atheists?).

Or what about Richard Dawkins, writing in his book, The Selfish Gene?:

“[Genes] swarm in huge colonies, safe inside gigantic lumbering robots…they are in you and me; they created us, body and mind; and their preservation is the ultimate rationale for our existence.”

As far as I can see, the “strawman,” of which my interlocutor spoke, is very much alive. 

This all has implications for moral reasoning. If the universe is essentially purposeless, and we are inextricably bound up with the universe and its ultimate nature, then on what shall we base an account of morality? More than that, why should we even speak about morality as if it had something to do with an objective standard of the good? And it’s not just believers in God who are aksing these questions. A recent article in The Guardian newspaper spoke about Peter Singer, the Australian atheist philosopher, and his struggles with providing a robust foundation for moral decisions. In it, he said that his previous confidence in utilitarian thinking has now been shaken, and he is more and more inclined towards a moral objectivity (Mark Vernon, “Without Beflief in Moral Truths, How Can We Care About Climate Change?”, May 25th, 2011). He’s no closer to God, but as the article says, “Only faith in a good God finally secures the conviction that living morally coincides with living well.” A bold claim, but I think that God provides a strong foundation for confidence in an objective moral ontology.

Religious Truth and Tolerance in Contemporary Society

In late November 2010, the British newspaper, The Economist, ran a story in its weekly opinion page for its American bureau. “Lexington”, as the pundit is known, wrote about the contemporary religious and social landscape in the Land of the Free (“One Nation, with Aunt Susan”, November 27th, 2010, p.46). Although the research he used as a springboard for his piece is an interesting addition to the study of religion in society, I want to focus on the article itself. In isolation, the piece is nothing unique: it represents the prevailing spiritual and theological wisdom in the contemporary west. But the fact that it is representative means that it is noteworthy, for it both reflects and reinforces our society’s understanding of religious truth, presenting a challenge to those who (like me) beg to differ. Since this blog is in turn attempting to challenge prevailing views where they depart from Christian truth, the article in question (and the issue that lies behind it) is fertile ground for discursive engagement.

The premise of Lexington’s piece is a recent sociological study conducted by Robert Putnam and David Campbell, who argued that religion is a unifying force in contemporary American society. As our pundit quotes, they argue that religion is like, “civic glue, uniting rather than dividing”. Although that unifying effect has strict limits (it seems that tolerance for people of other faiths does not always extend to Muslims or Buddhists), the article approvingly suggests that acquaintance with people from other religious traditions has beneficial social implications. So far so good. The fact is, knowing people from other faith traditions and religious beliefs is good for social harmony. Of course, there are debates over the balance between individual diversity and the integrity of social and communal norms. But, as Christians, we can agree with the potential benefits (I say “potential”, since they are not always actual) of social interaction between diverse people. Knowing people personally, rather than as ciphers or as faceless representatives of an alien belief system, affords us the opportunity to witness the image of God embodied in others. That is something that all of us – regardless of colour, faith or creed – share, and our getting to know others will help us to realize that. In this, at least, Lexington is on the money (even without the injection of Christian wisdom).

However, things take a decidedly worrying turn when our author conflates social tolerance (“Even though we are of different faiths, and I may disagree with you, I will treat you with respect and dignity”) with epistemological and spiritual equality (“Even though we are of different faiths, we are all on our own journeys towards God, and all of us will enter Heaven”). Indeed, at one point, he says that if one was a Jew, but was well-acquainted with the hypothetical “Aunt Susan”, a Methodist, one would nonetheless “know that Aunt Susan deserves a place in Heaven”. Our sagacious pundit later states things slightly differently, by citing statistics that indicate 9 out of 10 Americans believe that people of other faiths can get into Heaven. Something is amiss.

Such statements of belief are widespread in the contemporary west, and they are as philosophically inaccurate as they are tediously common. There is no reason why tolerance of another’s beliefs should give rise to the belief that they, too, are on the way to Heaven. It’s one thing to suggest that people of different faiths get along and tolerate each other in a social setting – vitally important in any cosmopolitan environment. It’s quite another to then go and suggest, as Lexington does, that tolerance of another’s views extends into the realm of epistemology and truth claims. This is simply not so, and there is nothing compelling us to accept such a claim (Christian or otherwise). In the final analysis, it is a confusion of categories. To use an analogy, my acceptance of another’s Marxist beliefs does not thereby compel me to accept their epistemic equality – relative to my own political beliefs – or that Marxists have a roughly equal chance of building a prosperous society, with a good standard of living, as advocates of free market capitalism do. To suggest otherwise is folly, since once we do that, we throw the whole notion of truth-seeking and discursive engagement out the window. If one belief is as good as any other, then what is the point of civil discourse? What use is there in discussing such matters? I imagine that Lexington would not be so quick to suggest such things if he were referring to political disagreements; why, then, does he accept the provisional equality of religious beliefs? Our pundit may not go so far as to say it, but by merging these two types of tolerance, he effectively inhibits religious disagreement. I mean, if tolerance means accepting the epistemic equality of (in this case) all religious truth claims, then there is very little point in debating their respective merits or whether any of them is commensurate with reality.

I can offer several explanations, but I will save that for the end of this article. In any case, tolerance of another’s views plainly does not mean that one has to agree with them. In fact, tolerance points in the other direction; you don’t have to tolerate someone whose beliefs elicit nothing more than passivity or blind acceptance. Similarly, just because I disagree with the Muslim down the road, and believe that he will not “get into Heaven” if he persists in his beliefs, does not mean that I will not treat him with dignity and civility. Indeed, my openly disagreeing with his beliefs is a mark of the utmost respect and, one might say, love. It’s respectful, since I am treating my Muslim neighbour as a real person who is capable of handling differing views in a mature manner; and it’s loving, since, from a Christian point of view, there is nothing more compassionate than telling another of the way in which God has revealed himself exclusively and uniquely in the life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. Be that as it may, Lexington, in his rush to commend the kind of religious tolerance that flattens out all theological differences, fails to perceive just how real and deep those differences are. Even when it comes to the notion of ultimate hope, he is painfully naïve (and, ironically, comes across as rather “religio-centric”, in his use of the Judeo-Christian term, “Heaven”). Although he may approve of the person who says that people of other faiths can get into Heaven anyway, he seems unaware of just how different various conceptions of ultimate hope actually are. Christians believe that only those in Christ Jesus will take their places in a renewed creation. The Buddhist conception of Nirvana, however, is vastly different. Even if God were not so worried about various religious differences, and only concerned about letting everyone into the great Heavenly rave party, why should we expect Buddhists to fit themselves into that particular notion of “the end”?

It’s not just eschatology that Lexington seems to ignore. He also ignores the very, very different truth claims the various religions make regarding the past and the present; about the current state of humanity, and the remedy for it. Each religion contains within it a distinct narrative. Again, only someone who is able to completely ignore such distinctions, or who believes that religious truth is merely a matter of myth, could suggest that religious tolerance means accepting that all people have an equal shot at Heaven (and are, therefore, all on the right track). Christians believe that Jesus was God “in the flesh”. Muslims, on the other hand, strenuously resist this theological claim as a lapse into idolatry. Similarly, Christians believe that Jesus rose bodily from the dead, which signified God’s complete triumph over sin and death, and the commencement of new creation. Again, Muslims deny this claim outright. These are not minor differences on the minutia of religious truth; they are fundamentally at odds in their conception of reality, and the respective solutions they offer to a world in need. With beliefs of such wide variance being propagated (and this is only amongst the so-called Abrahamic, monotheistic religions), it is strange that Lexington should then nonchalantly claim that all will end up seeing God anyway.

Lexington may claim that he did not actually say that all religions are equal. He may argue that he simply suggested that people, of whatever religious stripe, have a chance of entering Heaven, regardless of the very real differences that exist between religions. But this seems unlikely, for as I have stated, only a person who does not think religious and theological differences are important could argue what Lexington has argued in his piece. In any case, his easy acceptance of all beliefs jars horribly with the Christian belief that God is deeply interested in truth – chiefly, in truth about himself and his interaction with the world. For Christians, there is no easy acceptance of other religious beliefs, even as we treat the adherents of said beliefs with the utmost dignity. Of course, our pundit rules exclusivity out of court: “strong and inflexible” is how he describes these kinds of believers. But, given the profusion of contradictory religious beliefs (to which I have already referred), it is difficult to be anything other than exclusive, at least philosophically and theologically. To do otherwise commits one to an insurmountable logical flaw.

There are a couple of other noteworthy points, both of which speak volumes about Lexington’s – and, increasingly, the west’s – perspective on religion and religious truth. First, our author speaks of people “deserv[ing] a place in Heaven…” This claim runs into trouble when one considers the cardinal Christian belief that salvation is by grace. No one deserves a place in Heaven, for as the Apostle Paul puts it, “…all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23); it is only via the mercy of God that any of us will escape the pernicious effects of sin and the holy opposition that accompanies it. Proof-texts notwithstanding, that biblical quote teaches an important point: our alienation from God is the inevitable consequence of sin’s hold over humanity. Our only way out of it is, as I have just said, God’s grace and mercy. Lexington’s approval of some sort of inherent right for all to a place in the hereafter reflects the widespread belief in the undifferentiated tolerance of the liberal God. Our pundit may not think that religious truth matters enough to conduct debates over it, but in suggesting that all people deserve a spot in the big bash in the sky means that he has (ironically, it turns out) already bought into specific truth claims regarding God and his nature. Aside from advocating an utterly anaemic view of God, our author seems to have adopted a self-contradictory stance: on the one hand, he seems to think that differences between religions are of no importance; on the other, however, he himself seems to approve of a very specific claim about the divine.

Second, he also approves of the increase in inter-faith marriages as a sign that American society is becoming more tolerant. That may well sound fine for someone who is enamoured with a religious and spiritual potpourri (which, again, leads that person to accept a false notion of tolerance as naïve acceptance), but the sociological literature tells a very different tale. Naomi Schaefer Riley, writing in The Washington Post (“Interfaith Marriages are Rising Fast, but they’re Failing Fast, too”, June 6th, 2010), argued from the literature that inter-faith marriages fail at much higher rates than same-faith ones. Inter-faith marriages may be a sign that people from different traditions are mixing more, but their failure – aside from the grievous harm it does to estranged spouses and their children – reflects the deep-seated nature of religious belief. Some may decry this persistent fact, but in dealing with beliefs of such deep existential import, it seems inevitable that marriages conducted under the auspices of religious pluralism should run into trouble. The only way out of that trouble, whilst still maintaining some commitment to religious pluralism – that is, ignoring religious differences and their impact on every arena of life – would mean divorcing oneself from deeply-held convictions (in some cases), or committing oneself to a philosophical fallacy (in all cases).

The reasons for Lexington’s views, reflecting as they do the views held by many in the western world, are manifold. One might suggest the increasingly pervasive influence post-modernism has within contemporary society, reducing truth claims to personal opinion and reality to an individual construct. Or one might go further back in time, and cite the influence of the Enlightenment project, which relegated religious truths to the status of unverifiable values in a scientific, empiricist age. That split meant that theological truth claims could never be seen as true knowledge; thus, all truth claims in that field had to be treated with equal openness (and scepticism). Lastly, it’s possible that a particularly American brand of civic religion – nice, pleasant, socially acceptable, and founded upon civility and good works – has been woven into the fabric of contemporary thinking in that country, and has found its way into our pundit’s article. All of these explanations are possible, perhaps simultaneously. One thing is for certain, however: as Christians, we can never buy into such claims, no matter how “inflexible” we may appear to be.

The Tragedy of Queensland’s Floods

Over the past days and weeks, I have watched with dismay and horror as Queensland has been lashed by nature’s fury. So, I thought it necessary to offer some remarks over the coming days and weeks regarding this calamity. For now, I can only say that I will pray for God’s protection and ask that he would move during this time. Although it may be of scant comfort to those who have lost so much, I want to assure people that the Creator God is also the Redeemer God. He is the one who has triumphed over every manifestation of brokenness and sin, of corruption and decay. He is the one who has paved the way for a world where pain and suffering are not known, and in this we may be encouraged. Floods may have inundated parts of Queensland recently – causing great harm and anguish – but for those who place their faith in what God has accomplished through Jesus, there will eventually come a time where such hardships, of whatever kind, will vanish completely.  

We may not see that triumph in the present, but we know that God has achieved it through the death of his own Son, Jesus – verily God and verily man, the perfect human and the embodiment of divine wisdom. However, through Christ’s life, ministry, death and resurrection, God has not only made a way for sin’s defeat (and with it, the redemption of the world); he has also experienced humanity in the most intimate of ways, even to the point of giving up his own life. Thus, to those who may be wondering why this has happened, all I can say (at this point, anyway) is that we Christians follow a god who is not distant or aloof, nor impassable or unmoved by the suffering of his creation. He actually knows what it is to suffer, because he himself has experienced it as one of us. That, too, is a comfort.

Stay tuned for further posts on the question of evil, suffering and God.