In the two years since I've taken a Greek class, I've grown a bit rusty, so I've been studying my Greek. As I've studied my vocabulary lists, I came across something that I think is worth sharing:
The greek word for bearing witness or testifying is μαρτυρεω ("martureo"). This is the word that is often used when the Paul is to defend himself and present the gospel before authorities. It is the word that describes John the Baptists's ministry. The Holy Spirit itself is said to testify in this way about Jesus' identity. Perhaps the most insightful aspect of this word is its eventual connection with another important concept in the early church: martyrdom. Indeed, the word martyr itself comes from the word μαρτυρεω and refers to one who bears witness before the governmental authorities. In several early persecutions under Nero, Maximinus Thrax, Decian, and Diocletian the Roman Empire sought to publicly oppose Christianity. Often, this was because Christians failed to swear allegieance to Caesar as Lord, reserving that term for Christ alone. When called before the authorities, a Christian had two options. The first was to bow to Caesar as Lord, often offering him a sacrifice, and to hand over the copies of the Christian Scriptures in their possession. Those who did so were called "traditores", from the latin for "handing over." The word eventually became the English "traitors." The other option was to bear witness and testify that there is but one Lord, Jesus Christ, and one Spirit, and one Father of all. Those who bore witness in this way were executed, often being burned at the stake.
This has tremendous significance for evangelism. Today, we tend to think of evangelism as a communication of information. We must pass the essential truths of the Christian faith to a non-believer, and so we use rhetorical tools such as the "four spiritual laws" or the "Romans road." To be sure, these tools can be helpful, and there must be some propositional content to the gospel. Still, bearing witness to Christ is not most essentially about this information. It is more about the link between the information we share and the affect that this information has had on our lives. Our credibility in evangelism is directly proportional to the degree to which the message we bear witness to has led us to sacrifice our lives. We are to die to ourselves for Christ, just as the martyrs died for him. Our evangelism is a reflection of their lives, and our testimony must bear the weighty significance which theirs did. If the gospel has not caused us to die to ourselves to live for Christ, it will be nothing more than rhetoric. In this way, evangelism is good for the evangelist as well as for the one to whom we evangelize. For the evangelist it is a call to heed Jesus' words, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). To the one who hears the message, it is a statement grounded in the truth of our lives and in the Scriptures: "To live is Christ and to die is gain" (Philippians 1:21).
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
In the Company of Angels
I was reading Bullinger the other day, the little-known Swiss reformer who took over the Reformation in Geneva. (He was the successor of Uldrich Zwingli and the precursor of John Calvin.) I've read a decent amount on the Church, but Bullinger was the first to really introduce me to an idea that I think is critical for a solid understanding of worship.
According to Bullinger, there are two churches: the church militant, and the church triumphant. The church millitant is that part of the church which remains here on earth, combating sin, mortality, and the devil. The church triumphant is that part of the church which, through Christ, has attained victory over sin, death and the devil. The church triumphant is that group of believers which consists of the angels and the deceased saints, the "great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried in a loud voice, 'Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.' All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshipped God, saying: 'Amen! Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever. Amen!.'" (Revelation 7:9-11)
This is the entire church, and when we gather to worship, we gather as one. That's what is so revolutionary. A sermon, the proclamation of the gospel, is a participation in the declarations of the saints and martyrs in heaven, those who have conquered death by sharing in Christ's death. When we preach the gospel, we echo their cry of the gospel: 'Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the lamb.' When we sing hymns and songs of worship, we join in the company of angels who proclaims, 'Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever.'
When my wife and I go to our church on Sunday, I am not conscious of this fact. Half the congregation arrives late. We sing songs, but often my heart is not in it, and I am almost never aware of the sacred nature of the song I sing. This is true for my present church and for all I have attended. A sermon is a time to take notes and to learn, but it is never viewed as a participation in the gospel sung by the martyrs. I need to try to enter worship with a sense of the holiness and sacredness of it all.
That is why Bullinger's distinction between the church triumphant and militant is so important. We proceed as a church militant as if alone, as if we the entirety of the church. And a church militant which is stripped of the church triumphant has little to triumph in, and often resorts to militancy. We strive in worship to learn, to feel something poignant, to defeat sin, and to worship. We strive when we could rest in the company of angels, joining in the heavenly song and resting in the promised triumph which those who have gone before us experience through Christ, and which we will know on the other side of the grave.
I think our worship loses something when we believe we worship God alone in a building. Better to see our building as the foyer for the throne room in which the heavenly host crowds.
According to Bullinger, there are two churches: the church militant, and the church triumphant. The church millitant is that part of the church which remains here on earth, combating sin, mortality, and the devil. The church triumphant is that part of the church which, through Christ, has attained victory over sin, death and the devil. The church triumphant is that group of believers which consists of the angels and the deceased saints, the "great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried in a loud voice, 'Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.' All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshipped God, saying: 'Amen! Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever. Amen!.'" (Revelation 7:9-11)
This is the entire church, and when we gather to worship, we gather as one. That's what is so revolutionary. A sermon, the proclamation of the gospel, is a participation in the declarations of the saints and martyrs in heaven, those who have conquered death by sharing in Christ's death. When we preach the gospel, we echo their cry of the gospel: 'Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the lamb.' When we sing hymns and songs of worship, we join in the company of angels who proclaims, 'Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever.'
When my wife and I go to our church on Sunday, I am not conscious of this fact. Half the congregation arrives late. We sing songs, but often my heart is not in it, and I am almost never aware of the sacred nature of the song I sing. This is true for my present church and for all I have attended. A sermon is a time to take notes and to learn, but it is never viewed as a participation in the gospel sung by the martyrs. I need to try to enter worship with a sense of the holiness and sacredness of it all.
That is why Bullinger's distinction between the church triumphant and militant is so important. We proceed as a church militant as if alone, as if we the entirety of the church. And a church militant which is stripped of the church triumphant has little to triumph in, and often resorts to militancy. We strive in worship to learn, to feel something poignant, to defeat sin, and to worship. We strive when we could rest in the company of angels, joining in the heavenly song and resting in the promised triumph which those who have gone before us experience through Christ, and which we will know on the other side of the grave.
I think our worship loses something when we believe we worship God alone in a building. Better to see our building as the foyer for the throne room in which the heavenly host crowds.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Paradox of Human Nature
"[The incarnation] reaffirms that man is truly man when he participates in the life of God; that he is not autonomous, either in relation to God, or in relation to the world; that true human life can never be 'secular.'" (John Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, p. 152)
After a friend's recent question, I've been wondering what it means to be human in relation to God. A standard take on this question in our time is that of Neo-Calvinism, which suggests (perhaps not intentionally) that human nature, experience, and identity is most fully described in the experience of the sinner justified by God apart from will or choice. It is the experience of passively receiving grace, love, and goodness when we did not yet imagine that such things existed. To be sure, something rings true in this perspective, and there is much scriptural support to it. On the other hand, Neo-Calvinism seems to be lacking in another respect. It suggests that humanity is validated through an imposed external, which conversely emphasizes the difference between humanity and God. God is holy, and I am a wretch, and my own nature is only fully known in that instant of recognition where I see the great divide between myself and God. In this way, we risk making human nature only secular, only separate from God.
This is a proper theological anthropology derived from the cross. Immortal God dies for mortal man, and the monstrous paradox of it all symbolically highlights the difference between humankind and God. God's death in Christ is only noteworthy given the dramatic difference between God and humanity.
What might a theological anthropology of the incarnation look like? Instead of the terrible moment of the mortality of immortality, we see the awe of the union of mortality and immortality as an opportunity. Humanity was only fully realized in the incarnation, where human nature fully participated in the divine nature. This is a symbol of potential, which highlights the Biblical notion of our creation in the image of God. I know myself through the incarnation, where I see that I am fully dependent on God and only fully human in communion or participation with God. This discovery is one of openness, where I am surprised that human nature can be holy where it was not expected. No one looks to their neighbor expecting to encounter Perfection, and yet, in Christ, there the union is. This demonstrates the holy aspects of human nature, identity, and existence.
Perhaps a correct theological understanding of human nature is present in the combination of the two. Human life is never "secular." We know ourselves most fully in our communion with God. However, our communion with God equally exposes to our eyes the reality that we are not God. And yet God's life and death in Christ, the Son of God, consistently challenges both of these poles. Against our insistence on the divide between God and man, the incarnation insistently calls us to participate in a relationship with the Triune God, that we might be fully human. Against our prideful ambitions to become God through this participation, the crucifixion reminds us that our participation is only possible through the dissolution of ourselves in death. We die with Christ that we might live a life of participation with God. In the very instant that we know we have lost everything, we discover that we had something to lose all along, and that it has already been restored to us all along.
This is a discovery that is not alien to Neo-Calvinism. Tim Keller, for example, has taught, "e are more wicked than we ever dared believe, but more loved and accepted in Christ than we ever dared hope — at the very same time." However, it is one that is too often lost in the noise, just as Orthodoxy has, at times, minimized sin too heavily. I wish to explore both extremes, that I might learn to participate in God in every aspect of my life an experience, just as I learn to recognize and repent from the sins I commit in every aspect of life. If I attain this understanding, then I will have true Christian wisdom.
After a friend's recent question, I've been wondering what it means to be human in relation to God. A standard take on this question in our time is that of Neo-Calvinism, which suggests (perhaps not intentionally) that human nature, experience, and identity is most fully described in the experience of the sinner justified by God apart from will or choice. It is the experience of passively receiving grace, love, and goodness when we did not yet imagine that such things existed. To be sure, something rings true in this perspective, and there is much scriptural support to it. On the other hand, Neo-Calvinism seems to be lacking in another respect. It suggests that humanity is validated through an imposed external, which conversely emphasizes the difference between humanity and God. God is holy, and I am a wretch, and my own nature is only fully known in that instant of recognition where I see the great divide between myself and God. In this way, we risk making human nature only secular, only separate from God.
This is a proper theological anthropology derived from the cross. Immortal God dies for mortal man, and the monstrous paradox of it all symbolically highlights the difference between humankind and God. God's death in Christ is only noteworthy given the dramatic difference between God and humanity.
What might a theological anthropology of the incarnation look like? Instead of the terrible moment of the mortality of immortality, we see the awe of the union of mortality and immortality as an opportunity. Humanity was only fully realized in the incarnation, where human nature fully participated in the divine nature. This is a symbol of potential, which highlights the Biblical notion of our creation in the image of God. I know myself through the incarnation, where I see that I am fully dependent on God and only fully human in communion or participation with God. This discovery is one of openness, where I am surprised that human nature can be holy where it was not expected. No one looks to their neighbor expecting to encounter Perfection, and yet, in Christ, there the union is. This demonstrates the holy aspects of human nature, identity, and existence.
Perhaps a correct theological understanding of human nature is present in the combination of the two. Human life is never "secular." We know ourselves most fully in our communion with God. However, our communion with God equally exposes to our eyes the reality that we are not God. And yet God's life and death in Christ, the Son of God, consistently challenges both of these poles. Against our insistence on the divide between God and man, the incarnation insistently calls us to participate in a relationship with the Triune God, that we might be fully human. Against our prideful ambitions to become God through this participation, the crucifixion reminds us that our participation is only possible through the dissolution of ourselves in death. We die with Christ that we might live a life of participation with God. In the very instant that we know we have lost everything, we discover that we had something to lose all along, and that it has already been restored to us all along.
This is a discovery that is not alien to Neo-Calvinism. Tim Keller, for example, has taught, "e are more wicked than we ever dared believe, but more loved and accepted in Christ than we ever dared hope — at the very same time." However, it is one that is too often lost in the noise, just as Orthodoxy has, at times, minimized sin too heavily. I wish to explore both extremes, that I might learn to participate in God in every aspect of my life an experience, just as I learn to recognize and repent from the sins I commit in every aspect of life. If I attain this understanding, then I will have true Christian wisdom.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Why Another Blog?
This will be my second theological blog. The first, Locke and the Keys, is simply an echo chamber for my own thoughts on political theology and economics. Perhaps it is helpful for my future in writing, but it is not beneficial to the world in any real sense. It might be vanity, but I do want to benefit the world in some way. I spent three years in seminary, working in ministry positions in churches, prisons, hospitals, and homeless shelters, and I had a sense that the work I was doing benefitted God and His kingdom. Now I've moved to Illinois so that my wife can get a degree in mental health counseling from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. I am certain that God has called us here, but I am conscious of the fact that I have no ministry, no mission, and hardly any potential for that to change in the near future. I live on a seminary campus, but I am not a student. This isolates me both from the world and from my immediate neighbors. Most of the work I do is manual labor. While it is good for the body and the soul, my mind and heart lie fallow unless I intentionally put them to work. So, that is what I plan to do. I will use this blog, potentially another echo chamber, to focus my heart and my mind, sharing what I know and am learning about God in hopes that someone, somewhere might benefit. I pray for the possibility, even if I am only writing that I might benefit.
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