The version of the atonement that I grew up with as a conservative evangelical was the penal-substitutionary atonement. The unique claim here isn’t simply that Jesus died for my sins, but that Jesus died in my place. That’s where we get the “substitutionary” language in the title. To expand it a bit further the idea is that we deserved the wrath of God because we’re “fallen” (think Garden of Eden), so Jesus takes our place, satisfies the wrath of God, enabling us to be forgiven without God sacrificing his standards of justice. A common verse to back up some of this thinking is Hebrews 10:1-4, “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us…”

This perspective get’s taken to task sometimes by folks who claim this looks like divine child abuse. You have the angry dad who has to take out his rage on someone, so instead of turning it on us, he “mercifully” takes it out on Jesus. It’s obviously a rather twisted family relationship on display. While I do think there’s something violent about this view (as I’ll discuss in my next post), it’s important to understand the deeply “trinitarian” (Father, Son, Holy Spirit) understanding of God that’s right at the heart of this theory of atonement. Viewed through a trinitarian lens, it’s not quite fair to view this as divine child abuse – as though Jesus is somehow weaker or beneath God the Father, and being forced into this against his will. Rather the idea is that Jesus, while fully human, is fully God as well. Viewed in this way it’s God himself, giving himself, to save us from himself. Which preaches quite nicely you have to admit.

Historically, there have been other theories of the atonement (Cristus Victor and the Ransom Theory come to mind) that were actually more popular early on in church history, but among conservative Protestants penal-substitution is far and away the crown jewel of atonement theories. Which raises the question: why do conservative folks get upset when this understanding of the atonement is called into question? I think the reason is the nature of how interrelated theologies come to be. For example, the way we think about God will have a profound impact on the way we view Jesus which will in turn impact our view of the church, Spirit, sin, gospel, etc. In other words, it’s not as simple as switching out atonement theories like flavors of the month because of the dramatic ripple effect this produces throughout our belief system.

For most folks the messiness of this process is reason enough to avoid questioning something like the penal-substitutionary atonement. However, it also explains why those of us who have ventured outside the confines of conservative Protestant theology inevitably end up taking a good hard look at our understanding of the atonement. With a dramatic shift in our understanding of the God revealed in Jesus comes an openness to a dramatic shift in other areas – including the atonement.

More on this to come in part two.

My first understanding of a pure faith was limited to my local church. Like most children, I believed that we were the pure ones – we had the truth. Of course every kid grows up and realizes that their view of the world was very small and limited, and that for all we had right we also had much that was wrong.

In my teens years I viewed the pure faith as found within the charismatic tradition. We were the folks truly experiencing God – we had the secret – the Spirit.

Third, I found it within the larger conservative tradition. We were the defenders of the faith of the apostles, unlike those straying liberals.

Fourth, I believed the pure faith could be found in versions prior to emperor Constantine. We went wrong when we got in bed with the empire, but before that we were golden.

Fifth, I thought it was in a pre-Pauline version of Christianity. He never even mentioned the sermon on the mount so what did he know!

Finally, I thought it could be found in the pure words of Jesus. However, scholars debate over who exactly the Jesus of history was and what sayings, from the gospel accounts, can be attributed to him as opposed to the person/community that wrote the actual accounts we have in our Bibles. There’s some diversity of opinion on this, however most agree that it’s not as simple as reading Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John and assuming this will give you a “pure” understanding of Christ.

So now I realize, it will never be found. There is no such thing as a “pure” version of Christianity. It has man’s fingerprints on it from the beginning.

Of course, It’s a religious tradition that I still love very deeply but I have to admit that it’s exactly that – a tradition. It doesn’t have the divine pinned down and fully revealed. It is forever trying to name the un-namable and comprehend what it cannot. Maybe for some this confession makes me a betrayer of the faith. But in my mind this humble posture of seeking the divine, rather than thinking we’ve got the niche on all things religious, is actually a humility that’s drastically needed in the church today.

So I’m no longer seeking a pure Christianity and I’m skeptical of anyone who claims to have found it. I’m inclined to think that the messy and incredibly diverse tradition we currently have is more interesting anyway.

Based on his description of the atmosphere surrounding the conversation between religion and science, it’s hard to believe that Whitehead was writing eighty-plus years ago. Whitehead describes the “controversialists” on either side of the science and religion debate who feel that these two disciplines are so fundamentally pitted against each other that to embrace the authority of one is necessarily to reject the other. This is why the word conflict characterizes the relationship between these two behemoths. They seem to be the immovable rock and irresistible force of the modern world. However, Whitehead believed that science and religion could not only “get along” so to speak, but that they were actually mutually enriching. His basis for this perspective was grounded in an evolutionary view of both science and religion, which considered their principles timeless (the observation of natural processes for science and a focus on aesthetic and moral values for religion), but their doctrines as “...in a state of continual development.” (181) Whitehead goes on to list a few examples of this “continual development” beginning with the religious tradition.

Early Christians believed that the return of Christ and the end of the world would occur within their lifetime, of course later generations had to reinterpret and adjust their beliefs to fit reality. In the year 535 a Christian monk named Cosmas wrote a book titled Christian Topography which, based on a literal interpretation of certain biblical texts, deduced that the earth was a flat parallelogram whose length was twice that of it’s width. In the 17th century a Jesuit named father Petavius showed that theologians in the first three centuries of Christianity used phrases and statements that in the fifth century would have been deemed heretical. In the same century (17th) the doctrine of the rotation of the earth was opposed by a Catholic tribunal. In the 19th century the doctrine of an old earth distressed religious people, while in the 20th century it was the doctrine of evolution. Of course, it hasn’t only been religious thought whose doctrines have undergone numerous updates in years past, however Whitehead doesn’t delve as deeply into scientific examples in chapter twelve of Science and the Modern World for the simple reason that the majority of the preceding chapters were focused on this topic. However he does offer a quick summation with the following quip, “Science is even more changeable than theology. No man of science could subscribe without qualification to Galileo’s beliefs, or to Newton’s beliefs, or to all his own scientific beliefs of ten years ago.” (182) He goes on to discuss the insight that in both theology and science certain distinctions and modifications are made through the years so that when a statement is made today it’s understood quite differently than it would have been five hundred, or fifteen hundred, years ago.

For example, logicians assert that a proposition is either true or false – there is no middle ground. However, we now understand that reality is more complex. Often a proposition expresses an important truth, but it isn’t until later that we realize the “truth” was dependent upon certain assumptions which turn out to be misguided in one aspect or another. For example, Galileo said that the earth moves and that the sun is fixed; the Inquisition said that the earth is fixed and the sun moves; while Newtonian astronomers (adopting an absolute theory of space) asserted that both the earth and the sun are moving. Whitehead explains that each of these three statements are “true” provided that you have fixed your sense of ‘rest’ and ‘motion’ by the way required in whichever of the three statements above you’ve chosen to adopt. Another example, is the paradoxical “particle/wave” theories of light. Newton theorized that light traveled in a stream of particles, while Christiaan Huyghens asserted that light traveled in waves. In the 18th century Newton was believed. In the 19th century Huyghens was believed. In the 20th the debate continued as scientist’s awaited a wider vision that reconciles the two perspectives, which as we come into the 21st century, may occur based on changes in our perspective on matter and what constitutes reality at it’s most basic level.

Whitehead felt that we should apply this same principle of “waiting for a wider vision” to areas where science and religion overlap, and thus conflict, with each other. So rather than hastily abandoning doctrines that we have good reason to believe, which inevitably leads to mutual anathemas, Whitehead believed that a clash of doctrines (whether within religion, within science, or between the two disciplines) need not signal a disaster, but rather an opportunity. He states, “The clash is a sign that there are wider truths and finer perspectives within which a reconciliation of a deeper religion and a more subtle science will be found.” (184)

To summarize Whitehead’s position, he believed that science and religion really are two separate projects, focused on two different aspects of our lived reality. With that truth in mind, they should be willing to submit to the other’s area of expertise. Thus in all matters of the observation of physical phenomena, religion should submit itself to the findings of the scientist, and in matters of moral and aesthetic values science should leave that to the ruminations of the theologian (and perhaps – the philosopher). Of course, as the 21st century is showing, the trick is getting the “controversialists” on either side to agree to these boundaries in principle, and then to begin the messy process of negotiating where those boundary lines fall. I’ll close with a few quotes from Whitehead on this topic.

“On the one side there is the law of gravitation, and on the other the contemplation of the beauty of holiness. What one side sees, the other misses; and vice-a-versa. Consider, for example, the lives of John Wesley and of Saint Francis of Assisi. For physical science you have in these lives merely ordinary examples of the operation of the principles of physiological chemistry, and of the dynamics of nervous reactions: for religion you have lives of the most profound significance in the history of the world.” (184)

“Consider this contrast: When Darwin or Einstein proclaim theories which modify our ideas, it is a triumph for science. We do not go about saying that there is another defeat for science, because it’s old ideas have been abandoned. We know that another step of scientific insight has been gained. Religion will not regain it’s old power until it can face change in the same spirit as does science. It’s principles may be eternal, but the expression of those principles requires continual development.” (188)

“Religion is the reaction of human nature to it’s search for God. The presentation of God under the aspect of power awakens every modern instinct of critical reaction. This is fatal; for religion collapses unless it’s main positions command immediacy of assent.” (191)

“Religion is the vision of something which stands beyond, behind, and within, the passing flux of immediate things: something which is real, and yet waiting to be realized; something which is a remote possibility, and yet the greatest of present facts; something that gives meaning to all that passes, and yet eludes apprehension; something whose possession is the final good, and yet is beyond all reach; something which is the ultimate ideal and the hopeless quest. The immediate reaction of human nature to the religious vision is worship.” (191)

“The fact of the religious vision, and it’s history of persistent expansion, is our one ground for optimism. Apart from it, human life is a flash of occasional enjoyments lighting up a mass of pain and misery, a bagatelle of transient experience.” (192)

“The worship of God is not a rule of safety – it is an adventure of the spirit, a flight after the unattainable. The death of religion comes with the repression of the high hope of adventure.” (192)

—

I was Hope’s youth pastor for her highschool years and like many teens they were very challenging for her, however there were a few beautiful things that stuck out to me about Hope.

(As others have said) First, she was incredibly focused, hard-working and determined to get where she wanted to get in life. She had a clear plan and she was willing to put in the work to get there. I found that a rarity for someone her age, and I appreciated her tenacity.

But second, her tenacity was balanced by a deep focus on the relationships in her life. I think she realized that what really matters most is people, and so she loved all of you very much. I could go on about her life, but others before me have done a far better job of that than I ever could so instead I want to offer answers to, two questions.

The first question is this: where is God in our suffering?

Most of us believe in a God who is “out there” and in control of the universe. We envision the world as a big machine and so God is the person pulling the strings and adjusting the levers of the universe – keeping it all running. At times this idea of God can be very comforting to us, because it offers the idea that someone is in control: nothing is happening without a purpose, so within the craziness of life there is some sense of order.

This can be very comforting until tragedy strikes because then all of the questions come flooding over us. If God is “in control” then why didn’t he stop this? If God is really pulling the levers of the universe then did he in fact, cause tragedy to happen and if that’s the case, how can we really call him good? These are important and extremely difficult questions for people of faith to answer but I think we may have some insight in the Christian tradition by looking to Jesus. If we embrace the idea that Jesus, was in some mysterious way God among us, then this entire view of God as “out there” in the “heavens” somewhere is perhaps, not a very Christian way of thinking about God. Perhaps the problem isn’t our questions, which are all spot on, but actually the way we view God.  In Jesus we have a view of God that offers the following answer to the question, where is God in the midst of our suffering, “he’s right here, suffering alongside us.” In the Christian tradition God dies on the cross, God loses, God undergoes suffering. Obviously, this isn’t a rational argument that explains away suffering but is a way of viewing God that may bring us some comfort.

The second question I wanted to turn our thoughts toward today is: How can we better embrace the beauty of life here and now?

I think too often we fail to embrace the beauty and fragility of life and it’s not until we’re sitting here that we’re forced to admit to ourselves that there will come a time when it will end. This is why death, especially of a young person can be so traumatic because it catches us off our guard, it blindsides us and at least for a moment it forces us to confront the idea of our own mortality. We don’t like to think about our own mortality. Which is why, we spend our lives suppressing and running away from the reality of death. It represents our greatest anxiety – something literally unimaginable. That’s scary and it makes sense why we avoid it. But here’s the trick, it’s not until we face that reality head on, that we’re able to fully embrace our life here and now.

What’s interesting is that Christian tradition which I embrace, has at our worst, been guilty of this as well, but in a different way. At times we’ve been part of the problem by saying something like, “This life is just practice, a warmup, or a dress-rehearsal for the one to come – life begins at death.” But the trick here is that by turning this life into a waiting room, we again drained it of it’s meaning and beauty.

So I want to reject both of the options above: the first being a refusal to embrace life because we’re pretending that it will go on forever, or in the second example, a refusal to embrace life because we’re saying life doesn’t begin until we die.

You see, I think we’ve approached the Bible, our religious traditions, and perhaps even this memorial service with the wrong question, we came asking, “Is there life after death?” when what we should have been asking is this, “IS THERE LIFE BEFORE DEATH?” To me that is the key question and I believe that in Jesus we see the answer, and it is a resounding “Yes!” Jesus said, I have come that you may have life and life to the fullest. So what might this life look like?

Perhaps it’s a bit simplistic and old fashioned, but I’d say life and God are best experienced in the act of love. When we turn to the people on our right and our left and say you are beautiful. It’s the times we spend lingering over a meal with the people that mean everything to us. It’s the moments when we take a stand for justice and peace and goodness in this world. At it’s best, the Christian tradition gives us hope in the face of death and the courage to embrace life.

Let us pray.

The second is Historical Theology which was made to be read alongside the systematic book. This is filled with stories about why certain important theological people (Augustine, Calvin, Jonathan Edwards. etc.) came to the conclusions they did. Here are a few examples, which while overly simplistic, still echo the stories I read in the history book.

Martin Luther was a tortured monk, terrified by the thought that the justice of God would send him to hell, terrified that he couldn’t measure up – could never be good enough. It was from that psychological basis, for better and worse, that he embarked on his voyage to understand the book of Romans.

Jonathan Edwards was part of a revival that seemed to be completely out of his control – he just showed up and people started freaking out, repenting, and passing out. These experiences had a profound impact on his Reformed theology – a theology that emphasizes the sovereignty of God and minimizes the will of man, in the process of salvation.

Charles Finney was a revival preacher who worked hard at his craft. Unlike Edwards experience, people weren’t falling out of their seats begging to be saved from the get-go. They had to be persuaded and cajoled to come forward and participate in the workings of the Spirit. With these experiences in mind he tended to emphasize the will of man in the process of salvation.

All of these people read the Bible and attempted to base their theology on it, but clearly their experiences played a significant role in what parts they emphasized and how they interpreted those parts.

I think this is the reason systematic theology feels a bit suspect to me. I’m left wondering how we made the leap from messy narrative to pristine unquestionable truth. Reading the systematic book lends to overconfidence, until the history book rips back the curtain on the awe inspiring Mr. Oz of systematic theology. It’s then that I realize we’re all immersed in our own histories, struggles, and experiences and these have a profound impact on our theological reflections.

This is taken from a book I recently finished called Patience with God: The Story of Zacchaeus Continuing In Us by Tomas Halik. In it he argues that the primary difference between theists and atheists is simply patience.

In other words, both Atheists and Theists have experienced the absence of God: the feeling that we are alone. We both wrestle with the questions that arise when we see the pain and suffering in the world. We both shake our heads in disbelief at times. The primary difference is that Atheists have experienced this absence of God and concluded that there isn’t one. Thoughtful theists, Halik argues, experience this absence, absorb that reality into their bones and let it do it’s work: maturing and deepening their faith.

Sure, this type of Theist is a bit more feeble, less sure of themselves and their grasp of “truth”, but at the end of the day they’re left with a refined faith.

One the one hand, it’s not a week faith destroyed by doubt. On the other, it’s not a muscular faith that has doubt in it’s cross hairs. It’s something in between – a faith that simply bears doubt and unknowing as part of the human condition.

When I talk to friends about my faith now – a faith that’s very hands-on and works focused (read more here) – this topic inevitably comes up. I’ll say something like, “At it’s core, I feel like Christianity is more a way of life than a system of beliefs, it’s less about a personal relationship with God, than obedience to the way of Jesus. Instead of looking at how high someone’s hands are raised during worship or how many hours a day they pray, to determine their “closeness” to God, I’m more likely to look at how they treat the people around them.” Then, as if on cue, my friend responds: “Aren’t you being judgmental? How could you ever say, who is and isn’t close to God? Why are you even asking questions like these? Being a Christian is about the heart, and no one can ever know anyone else’s heart, so we can’t say anything about that. Only God knows, stop playing God.”

Apparently, I’m a judger and I’m never quite sure how to respond to this. I could defend myself by explaining that this isn’t a conclusion I reach within 5 minutes of meeting someone, or that I tend to do this more in the affirmative (e.g. I think that person really loves God because they’re so kind, forgiving, patient, etc.) as opposed to the negative (that person definitely doesn’t love God because they’re so angry, bitter, unkind, etc.) but I don’t think that quite get’s to the root of my discomfort. What knaws at me is that in our “progressive Christianity” we think it’s very Christlike to withhold judgment on things, forever. We’d never say that someone doesn’t love God. Never rise up and call someone out for their shitty behavior. Never question a faith that had no fruit. Instead we’d mutter something about not knowing “their heart” and stay quiet.

I guess what I’m left wondering is this, doesn’t justice require that at some point we “pass judgment” on people? That we take a stand and say, “Stop it. This is absolutely unacceptable.” That could happen on a micro level: individual to individual basis, or a macro level: individual to a group, basis. Martin Luther King Junior didn’t say, “I hope my children grow up in a world where they’re never judged.” He said, “I want my children to grow up in a world where they’re judged, not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” It seems like in our embrace of tolerance (which I happen to think is a very good thing) we’ve overstated our case, promised never to judge anyone, and unwittingly put justice on the sidelines. I’m not a fan of a culture, or a religion, that does that. The reality is that for us to take love and justice seriously we will have to become more judgmental – not less.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer had the insight that pastors had become the worst kind of gutter journalists – always peering into peoples private lives for their dirt and smut – because they felt that it was only by appealing to people’s weaknesses that they could be saved. In other words, he was suspicious of a faith that felt the need to go around convincing people who were perfectly happy with their lives, that they were in fact miserable.

I have a few friends who are really struggling right now but I feel it would be almost sin to push them towards God. Instead, I want to be there for them: listening, crying, and helping them as they go through a difficult time. Maybe later, when they’re back to some semblance of sanity and health, it will be time to re-engage the God talks. Not now though, not now.

We’ve said it’s easy to understand, but this simply isn’t true. It’s history, narrative, poetry, prophetic literature, wisdom literature, and apocryphal literature written over thousands of years by multiple authors with differing viewpoints on various issues. Is it any wonder that when people pick up their Bibles for their morning quiet time they usually flip to Psalms or Proverbs? Psalms is easy to read poetry that resonates with our unfiltered emotion and passion when it comes to the divine. Proverbs is straight forward, practical prose that concerns itself with day to day life. On the other hand, no one is quite sure what the hell is happening in the book of Revelation.

Second, we’ve said that every word is inspired by God. So what are people to make of Yahweh encouraging child sacrifice in Exodus (2:29-30), His divine approval of the slaughter of entire cities (except the virgins which they were free to kidnap and rape) in Judges 21; or wayward church-goers murdered for minor issues in Acts 5. How are we supposed to reconcile these things with our view of a loving God who has a wonderful plan for everyone’s life?

Third, we’ve said it’s without contradiction and error. Yet, this turns a blind eye to dozens of discrepancies – below are a few examples. Was Jehoiachin 18 or 8 years old when he began his reign as King (2 Kings 24:8 vs. 2 Chronicles 36:9)? Was Jesus first sermon on a plain or a mountain (Matt. 5:1-2 vs. Luke 6:17,20)? Did Judas die by hanging himself or did he fall – with the unfortunate consequence that his bowls spilled out (Matt 27:5 vs. Acts 1:18)? What exactly happened at the resurrection of Jesus: did two or three women first encounter the empty tomb – and which women exactly? Did the male disciples believe the women’s account or disbelieve them? Were there two angels at the tomb, one angel or zero angels?).

Points like these and the dozens of others all add up to a view of the Bible that I simply can’t justify anymore.

Read part 2 of this post here.

Turn back the clock 1,700 years and there was a time when Christians were the persecuted ones, the minority – estranged from popular culture and blamed for the bad luck of the Roman Empire. That changed when Constantine came to power and suddenly Christianity was the official religion of the empire. This had some upside. Confiscated church property was returned and Christians were no longer murdered for their beliefs. Of course the downside was that the emperor now weighed in on theological questions and the church was pressured to sign off on wars and atrocities of the state. Strange bedfellows indeed.

In the U.S. in the past 30 years we’ve witnessed the rise of the Religious Right. It’s been fueled by the following: 1. A misguided theology that saw a connection between ancient Israel and modern America. 2. Clever revisionist history that views the U.S. as a “Christian Nation” (instead of a nation where people have a freedom of religion). 3. Shrewd political maneuvering by the Republican party to brand a few issues as central to the moral slippage in our nation, e.g. Abortion and Gay Marriage, at the expense of other biblical issues like care for the environment or the plight of poor and working class people – with the result that Christianity has been largely co-opted by the Republican party. It’s one thing to say, “I’m a Christian who happens to be a Republican.” – it’s another thing entirely to think “Anyone who calls themselves a Christian should be a Republican” or “The Republican Party is God’s hope for America” or “Republicans are the only politicians with any sense of morality.” Of course the same would be true of similar statements about Democrats or any other political party. My point isn’t to pick on Republicans per se, but simply to show how tricky mixing faith and politics can be.

With examples like these in mind, it makes sense why many Christians have retreated from the political arena altogether. Most pastors I know basically refuses to address political issues from the pulpit. They know that there are people in their congregation on both sides of every issue and they don’t want to take sides. They stick to issues like parenting, leadership, finding success both personally and professionally, and a gospel focused on the individual (not society) – while at the same time steering a wide path around hot button political issues.

I think the challenge to this line of thinking is that love inevitably has political dimensions because a love that stays silent in the face of injustice is no love at all. Love demands that we stand up for the downtrodden, demands that we speak up for those whose tongues have been ripped out; requires that we not simply shake our heads at oppression, but join hands to do something about it. It demands that we work for change on a societal level.

Think of Martin Luther King Jr. Armed with a steadfast commitment to racial equality, rhetoric steeped in the tradition of the Old Testament prophets, and an understanding of Christian faith that embraced non violent resistance – he took a stand, not a personal or private stand in the quietness of his own heart, but a public and political stand.

A less well known example is Dietrich Boenhoffer. He was one of the few church leaders who publicly refused to support the Nazi takeover of Germany. Even going so far that he participated in a failed plot to assassinate Hitler – which led to his imprisonment and death. In his book “Letters and Papers From Prison” you see hints that he was struggling with the Protestant Liberalism of his countryman, not because they held different views of the Bible than he did, but because they had capitulated in the face of evil.

My hope is that the Church can continue to find ways to be political (because that’s what love requires) while at the same time refusing to be co-opted by any party. That we can seek to empower the poor and working class people of our nation, instead of befriending the well-to-do in attempts to bolster our own position. That we would encourage vigorous theological and political conversations among our members, instead of spouting the ideological party line or remaining silent. The church is at it’s best not as a political insider – wielding power, wining and dining, kissing ass, etc. – but as the outsider, the critique, the question mark, the prophetic voice of dissent.