Christian political theology is a murky affair. I've always believed this was because Christianity inherited, in Mark Lilla's phrase, an "accidental empire." That is to say, both Judaism and Islam began as explicitly theocratic faiths. Both the Old Testament and the Koran set forth a political theology, the organization and government of a people. Christianity, by contrast, articulated its political vision from a location of political marginalization. The New Testament describes how Christians are to live within existing political arrangements, often hostile political arrangements. Christianity inherited its empire "accidentally," with the conversion of the Roman emperor Constantine. Because of this, the political material within the New Testament provides little guidance for how to run a Christian government, nation, or empire. The assumed powerlessness of the New Testament political vision provides little to no clear Biblical guidance for governing. The New Testament never seems to envision Christians being in charge.

And then, 1776 happened. Democracy was born. Christian political theology, accidental as it was, had to pivot away from describing the virtues of Christian emperors and kings to articulate a vision of how Christians should participate within a democracy. Suddenly, Christian political theology had to turn its reflections away from the Christian sovereign to the distributed electoral power of "We the People." In contrast to the New Testament assumption of powerlessness, now everyone had a bit of power with their voice and vote. And given the lack of New Testament material about how to use democratic power, to say nothing about how to be a Christian king, Christian political theology has raced off in all sorts of directions. The impoverishment of the Biblical material on this particular topic means political theology is pieced together in an ad hoc fashion that does little to persuade anyone outside of the already converted. A lot of political theology is driven by motivated reasoning, using Biblical material to achieve a conclusion you already hold. This is particularly the case with popular expressions of political theology, like what we observe on social media where people grab Biblical texts to support all sorts of political positions. 

For my own part, my political theology was formed within the Anabaptist stream of the Churches of Christ, my denominational home. I was raised to be apolitical. We had no flags in our buildings, never spoke about elections, I never knew which political party my parents were associated with (if at all), and I was taught in Sunday School class that Christians didn't vote. To be sure, the non-voting stream within the Churches of Christ, which goes back to David Lipscomb, was a minority view. But it was the stream I was raised in and heavily influenced by. (My sons, for example, didn't know how Jana and I voted until they were in college and pieced some things together.) Because of this, to this day, my political vision has always focused more upon the local church than upon Washington, DC. In my view, if you want to change the world what you do on Sunday morning is more important than what you do every four years on Election Day.

And yet, there is a restlessness within myself. As a citizen in a democracy, I have a vote. Jesus and Paul didn't have it, but I possess electoral power. Should I not use that power to bless my neighbors? I feel like I should, and so, despite my upbringing, I vote. To be sure, because of my background, I don't put a lot of hope in my vote. And I don't feel a lot of emotion about electoral results. Having always considered governments to be symbolized as Babylon in the book of Revelation, I'm not all that alarmed when nations go sideways. That's what nations do, they go sideways. Still, I vote to lend whatever power I have to making America, in the words of Peter Maurin, a place where it is easier to be good. 

All that said, a central aspect of my political theology, setting aside the exact shape of our political engagement, is that the church is always called to the prophetic task of criticizing the state. The church must continually remind the state that it is not God, and that its current politics fall short of the Kingdom of God. I take this cue from the Bible, where every king of Israel and Judah had his prophet. David had his Nathan. Ahab had his Elijah. Herod had his John the Baptist. Important to note for the Christian nationalists is how Israel was a theocracy, not a Christian nation but a Jewish nation along the lines of what Christian nationalists would like to achieve. And yet, this exact political arrangement, a theocratic state under the Lord God, is portrayed in the Bible as a massive failure and in need of harsh prophetic rebuke. Just look at how many pages of the Old Testament are devoted to the prophets. That's the moral and political portfolio of theocracy! Doom and disaster. 

And that brings us, finally, to the point I want to make. Can prophetic witness co-exist with partisanship? 

Let's set aside the exact shape of Christian political engagement. Maybe you vote for Republicans, or maybe you vote for Democrats. Regardless, in my view, Christians should engage in prophetic criticism of the state, no matter who is in charge. No matter who is the king, the church is the prophet. That's the political mandate of the church: Sustained moral criticism of the state and calling out its idolatry.  

But here's the rub. If you're engaging in electoral politics you have some beliefs, I expect, about which party is a better approximation of Christian values. You'll have a partisan leaning. If so, this complicates the prophetic task. For at least two obvious reasons.

First, if you prophetically call out both Republicans and Democrats you'll be exposed to accusations of bothsiderism. To criticize "both sides" equally makes it seem that "both sides" are equally bad when, as a partisan, you think one side is worse than the other. Wanting to avoid that impression, our prophetic voice becomes asymmetrical. We call out the evils of the other side and go quiet about our side. When that happens the prophetic voice undergoes partisan capture. 

Second, and relatedly, if you think, as a partisan, that one party is better than the other, then you have to win the elections. To win those elections in a democratic contest you have to point out the virtues of your team and the evils of the other team. To engage in prophetic criticism of your team during an election season, or during the term of its administration, is going to undermine its electoral prospects. So, to win elections your prophetic speech has to go silent, permanently silent as an election is always upcoming. Once again, partisanship undermines the prophetic vocation.

To conclude. I understand how visions of Christian political engagement are all over the map. But setting aside the actual content of your engagement--how you vote and participate in democracy--my deeper concerns are about the prophetic vocation of the church in relation to the state. It seems to me that partisanship and the prophetic vocation work at cross-purposes. And as I reflect upon my struggles in articulating a coherent political theology, this seems to be the place of greatest friction for me. My ambivalence with partisan politics isn't, at root, a rejection of using our political power to make the world better for our neighbors. My concern with partisan politics is how partisanship undermines the prophetic vocation of the church. And I think this is a great and tragic loss. All left-leaning Christians do is call out the right. And all right-leaning Christians do is call out the left. Consequently, the prophetic voice of the church, in speaking for the Kingdom of God, is eclipsed by the partisan shouting match. Which means that the Kingdom of God never has a voice. The church is never heard. And that is my biggest and deepest concern. Christians speak for the Republicans. And Christians speak for the Democrats. But no one speaks for God.

Out at the prison we were working our way through Genesis and got snagged on the opening verses of Genesis 6:

When man began to multiply on the face of the land and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of man were attractive. And they took as their wives any they chose. Then the Lord said, “My Spirit shall not abide in man forever, for he is flesh: his days shall be 120 years.” The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown.

My experience as a prison chaplain is limited to only one unit, so I won't generalize this observation, but at my unit passages like these in the Bible draw a huge amount of attention and debate. Perhaps it's just a fascination with the weirdness of the text, how it provides room for wild speculation. But odd passages like these can chew up a lot of our conversation. This is a habit I worry about, how the men seem more interested in speculative arcana than the stuff that really matters. This taste for cryptic esoterica in the Bible is what made getting through Revelation in our study so difficult. And this isn't only a prison population issue. It's a widespread phenomenon, this thirst for hidden, secret, gnostic mysteries. 

Anyway, I was compelled to comment on Genesis 6. What's going on with the "sons of God" having sexual relations with "the daughters of men" along with the "Nephilim" and "mighty men of old"? 

There have been different schools of thought. 

Angelic and mythological interpretations argue that the "sons of God" are divine, angelic beings. The offspring of these angelic/human couplings produce superhumans and demi-gods. Think Hercules. In this view, God's displeasure is triggered by angelic/human miscegenation. 

Others view the "sons of God" as a comment about lineage, a contrast between humans who are descendants of Cain versus descendants of Seth. If you're not familiar with this argument, some readers of the Bible have viewed Cain's line of descent as corrupt. A purer line of descent is found in Seth. Genesis 4 has this description of Seth:

When Adam had lived 130 years, he fathered a son in his own likeness, after his image, and named him Seth.

Notice the same imagery from Genesis 1. Just as Adam was created in God's "image" and "likeness," so Seth is fathered into that same "image" and "likeness." Taking this cue, some readers of Scripture have argued that the line of Seth is the holy lineage of "the sons of God." Abraham, the father of Israel, is a descendant of Seth. And you'll notice that Jesus' genealogy in Matthew and Luke go through Seth, not Cain. So, Genesis 6, in this view, is describing the descendants of Seth producing the "mighty men" of Israelite legend. God's concern in Genesis 6, therefore, seems to be about limiting the lifespans of these powerful humans. Sort of like how God thwarts human aspirations in the Tower of Babel. 

There are other interpretations of Genesis 6, but these are two of the main ones. Personally, I like going down these rabbit holes. But like I said above, I am concerned when we become overly fascinated by passages like these in the Bible. That fascination can become unhealthy. So while I was willing to explore Genesis 6 when the men, I was keen to make some distinctions. "We are just speculating here," I said. "And for many of us, this is a lot of fun. We can really geek out on this stuff. But let's not become overly argumentative or dogmatic about any of these theories. Enjoy the ride, but let's keep focused upon the stuff that really matters."

In Part 1 of The Shape of Joy I describe what I call "the collapse of the self" in the modern world. I tell the story of how thinkers like Rene Descartes and Sigmund Freud turned the focus of the self inward. 

Descartes looked inward for truth. This was his famous use of "Cartesian doubt" to deny the reality of the external world. In doing so, Descartes ultimately grounded truth in the self with his "cogito, ergo sum." I think, therefore I am. 

Freud looked inward for mental health. Deep in our unconscious, said Freud, dwelt the secrets and roots of our neurosis. If we could delve inside ourselves to locate and untangle those unconscious knots, we would emerge from the cave of the self healthier and happier. The impact of this psychoanalytic advice upon the modern world has profoundly shaped our cultural assumptions regarding mental health. Today, mental health is broadly assumed to be achieved through psychological spelunking, going inside to "figure myself out." 

As I describe in The Shape of Joy this inward turn, the collapse of the self, has had deleterious effects upon our well-being. Research over the last few decades has pointed out how excessive self-focus, introspection, and rumination is bad for us. It is not good to be alone in your head. As the psychologist Ethan Kross describes in his book Chatter:

“In recent years, a robust body of new research has demonstrated that when we experience distress, engaging in introspection often does significantly more harm than good. It undermines our performance at work, interferes with our ability to make good decisions, and negatively influences our relationships. It can also promote violence and aggression, contribute to a range of mental disorders, and enhance our risk of becoming physically ill.” (emphasis mine)

In The Shape of Joy I also discuss research on the "default state" of the mind. That is to say, what does the mind do when it has nothing to do? Nothing to focus on or occupy itself? The answer is that the mind wanders. In a 2010 study published in Science it was discovered that 47% of the time our mind is wandering. We're simply not mentally present. Ponder that. We spend half our lives lost within ourselves. And that same study showed how this mental wandering is associated with unhappiness. As the researchers succinctly state, "A wandering mind is an unhappy mind." 

All this helps explain why a practice like mindfulness is so powerful. Mindfulness pulls us out of our heads. Mindfulness walks us out of the cave and back into the world. Mindfulness stops the mental wandering.

And beyond mindfulness, there's more to "the outward turn" I describe in The Shape of Joy. There is gratitude, mattering, awe, and love. But for today, just a simple encouragement:

Get out of your head.

"But"

Following up from our reflections on Psalm 88, Psalm 89 is an interesting reversal from the typical structure of the lament psalms. As I described last week, the typical structure is a plea-to-praise movement. Psalm 89 flips this, the structure is praise-to-plea.

The first part of the psalm recounts the mighty deeds of God, with particular attention to the promises God had made to David and his offspring:

The Lord said,
“I have made a covenant with my chosen one;
I have sworn an oath to David my servant:
‘I will establish your offspring forever
and build up your throne for all generations.’”

Praise of the Lord follows. And then there's an interesting moment in verses 28-37. The poet recognizes that the offspring of David might fall into rebellion and that consequences would follow. But despite that disobedience, the poet underlines how God's promise to David was to last "for all generations." I haven't done a deep dive into this, but it seems to me that the poet has detected and highlighted an interesting contrast between the Deuteronomic and Davidic covenants. In the Deuteronomic covenant there is a promised restoration should Israel repent and return to the Lord. But God's promise to David seems less contingent. God promises to establish David's throne forever and a contingency doesn't seem to be included:

"I will always preserve my faithful love for him,
and my covenant with him will endure.
I will establish his line forever,
his throne as long as heaven lasts.
If his sons abandon my instruction
and do not live by my ordinances,
if they dishonor my statutes
and do not keep my commands,
then I will call their rebellion
to account with the rod,
their iniquity with blows.
But I will not withdraw
my faithful love from him
or betray my faithfulness.
I will not violate my covenant
or change what my lips have said.
Once and for all
I have sworn an oath by my holiness;
I will not lie to David.
His offspring will continue forever,
his throne like the sun before me,
like the moon, established forever,
a faithful witness in the sky.”

So, David's sons may abandon the Lord, they may refuse to live by the Lord's ordinances, they may dishonor the Lord's statutes, they may not keep the Lord's commands, they may rebel. For this, God will punish them. And yet, the "once and for all" promise holds: "But I will not withdraw my faithful love from him. I will not violate my covenant or change what I have said." Like I said, there is no contingency here in sight.

And then, after God has reiterated his "once and for all" promise, the stinging turn in the poem: "But."

That "but" in verse 38 cuts like a knife:

But you have spurned and rejected him;
you have become enraged with your anointed.
You have repudiated the covenant with your servant;
you have completely dishonored his crown.

Ouch. Simply put: "God, you have not kept your word. You have have broken your promise." That's a bold and harsh accusation! Calling the integrity of the Lord into question! 

This week in my Psychology and Christianity class we're talking about my research concerning the Summer versus Winter Christian experience. To kick the week's conversation off, I wrote this on the board: "Is relational distress, negativity, complaint, doubt, and anger in our relationship with God a symptom of faith problems? Or are these experiences normal and to be expected? Might they even be necessary?" 

If the Psalms are any indication, I'd argue that relational distress, negativity, complaint, doubt, and anger in our relationship with God are normal and to be expected. And I'd push further to say even necessary. This is St. John of the Cross' point in The Dark Night of the Soul. Passing through the dark night with God is necessary for spiritual growth and maturity. 

This is well trod territory for regular readers. I've talked about this for years and it's come up a lot in this series. But I'm still surprised by the audacity of the Psalms. That cutting "but" in Psalm 89 makes me gasp. And I'm grateful such audacity is normalized and gifted to us as a model for prayer. 

I was finishing up Joseph Ratzinger's Introduction to Christianity and it came to the part in the Apostles' Creed about how Jesus will "come again to judge the living and the dead."

In reflecting upon how creation culminates in judgment, Ratzinger shares these observations:

"...the final phase of [creation] is based on spirit and freedom...it is by no means a neutral, cosmic drift; it includes responsibility. It does not happen of its own accord, like physical process, but is based on decisions. That is why the second coming of the Lord is not only salvation, not only the omega that sets everything right, but also judgment. Indeed at this stage we can actually define the meaning of the talk of judgment. It means precisely this, that the final stage of the world is not the result of a natural current but the result of responsibility that is grounded in freedom. This must also be regarded as the key to understanding why the New Testament clings fast, in spite of its message of grace, to the assertion that at the end men are judged "by their works" and that no one can escape giving an account of the way he has lived his life. There is a freedom that is not cancelled out even by grace and, indeed, is brought by it face to face with itself..." 

Regular readers know that I attempt to hold together two theological commitments that sit in tension. First, a hopeful eschatology where God, in the end, is "all in all." Second, a fierce prophetic conviction that what we do here on earth matters and that God will judge the evils, injustices, and oppressions at work in the world. There are damnable things afoot, and much of it involves people who claim the name of Christ. 

How are these tensions held in tension? Prophetic indictment and the wrath of God with a generous, hopeful vision of salvation?   

What I believe is necessary is to repeatedly emphasize that wrath, hell, punishment, and judgment are not antithetical to God's love. These are, rather, relational terms that describe our distance from the love of God, even our self-exclusion. And given that "all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God" we all will face, as Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 3, a "day" where the moral quality of our lives will face a fiery examination. Salvation comes "through the fire," an ordeal everyone must undergo. No matter who you are, you will, in the end, face the music.

As Ratzinger observes, our freedom and responsibility before God are not "cancelled out even by grace." This accountability is the only way we can become truly and fully human. Becoming a human being is a grave concern and weighty task, and to reach that goal we have to assume that burden. Again, what we do with our lives and freedom matters. More, what we do affects others. We can make the lives of others easier or harder, lighter or heavier, blessed or cursed, healed or harmed, loved or wounded, cared for or abused, filled with light or cast into darkness. All this must be faced. Grace does not spare us this accounting or absolve us from taking responsibility for our lives. Rather, grace enables us to assume this responsibility, the price of our freedom and the cost of stepping into our humanity. To avoid Judgment Day, to avoid the weight of our freedom is, therefore, to avoid becoming a human being in all its fulness. 

And if all this seems overly complicated, just reflect upon the love of a parent for a child. A loving parent will ask their child to assume responsibility for their actions and it often involves facing the consequences of their choices and mending the harms they have inflicted upon others. This is the only way the child can grow into their humanity. But is asking the child to assume responsibility for their lives antithetical to the parent's love? Of course not. In fact, it is the very expression of the parent's love. This isn't very complicated. And, as Jesus said, if we know how to give good gifts to our children how much greater will God's parenting be toward us.  

Grace will not treat us as our sins deserve. But taking responsibility for your life cannot be evaded. Becoming a human being is a difficult grace.

I was reading once more Eberhard Bethge's biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and was delighted to encounter again one my favorite parts of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's life. This was the dramatic spiritual transformation Bonhoeffer underwent in the early 1930s. 

Prior to these years, Bonhoeffer had mainly pursued theological studies as an academic, intellectual endeavor. The Bonhoeffer family was Christian, but they weren't particularly devout by way of church attendance or personal devotion. But in the early 1930s, something happened to Bonhoeffer. As Eberhard Bethge describes it, these were the years Bonhoeffer became a Christian.

What caused the change? Bonhoeffer's time in America, a post-doctoral year in 1930 studying in New York at Union Theological, seems to have played an important part. During that time, two critical things happened.

First, Bonhoeffer was exposed to the black church. During his year in New York, Bonhoeffer attended and taught Sunday School at Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem.

Second, through his relationship with the Frenchmen Jean Lasserre, who was also studying at Union, Bonhoeffer was exposed to the Sermon on the Mount as the Word of God. Prior to this time, Bonhoeffer had used his Lutheran theology to keep the Sermon on the Mount in a box. But after 1930, Bonhoeffer began to see the Sermon as a command to be obeyed.

And beyond his experiences in America, I also think Bonhoeffer's pastoral work with churches, like his confirmation class in the Wedding parish working with children from lower-class families, also had a profound impact upon his faith.

All these experiences changed Bonhoeffer profoundly. The academic and theologian became a Christian. Here's how Eberhard Bethge, Bonhoeffer's best friend, described the change:

He now went regularly to church...Also he engaged in systematic meditation on the Bible that was obviously very different from exegetic or homiletic use of it...He spoke of oral confession no longer merely theologically, but as an act to be carried out in practice. In his Lutheran ecclesiastical and academic environment this was unheard of. He talked more and more often of a community life of obedience and prayer...More and more frequently he quoted the Sermon on the Mount as a word to be acted on, not merely used as a mirror. He began taking a stand for Christian pacifism among his students and fellow-ministers...To his students his piety sometimes appeared too fervent, and was impressive only because it was accompanied by theological rigour and a broad cultural background. This reminiscence from a student dates from 1930:

"There, before the church struggle, he said to us near to Alexanderplaz, with the simplicity that was perhaps used by Tholuck in the old days, that we should not forget that every word of Holy Scripture was a quite personal message of God's love for us, and he asked us whether we loved Jesus."

There's a passage in James 4 that gets a lot of attention in conservative Christian circles:

Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God. (James 4.4)

Taken out of context the passage is often used to make the argument that we shouldn't associate with worldly, sinful people. Or indulge in worldly, sinful pleasures. To be sure, those exhortations could be made using other texts in the Bible, but this is not what James 4 is talking about.

James 4 isn't talking about associating with people outside of the church or dabbling in worldly pleasures. James 4 is about the church fighting with itself. According to James 4, "friendship with the world" is strife and conflict within the Body of Christ. The question that kicks off the whole passage in James 4 is this question:

What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? (James 4.1)

And the exhortation that comes right after the "friendship with the world" passage is this:

Do not speak evil against one another, brothers and sisters. (James 4.11)

It's clear from the context that "friendship with the world" isn't about personal associations with non-Christians. "Friendship with the world" is, rather, friendship with a selfish, combative, domineering attitude and posture within oneself. "Friendship with the world" is friendship with, in the words of James 3, the demonic, worldly wisdom that "comes from below":

But if you have bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not be boastful and false to the truth. Such wisdom does not come down from above, but is earthly, unspiritual, devilish. For where there is envy and selfish ambition, there will also be disorder and wickedness of every kind. (James 3.14-16)

Note the symptoms of the demonic: bitter envy, selfish ambition, and boasting. That is what being an "enemy of God" looks like. By contrast, the wisdom of heaven traffics in peace:

But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace. (James 3.17-18)

This is what purity and holiness look like: peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy, without a trace of partiality. Sowing and making peace.

Again, the context makes it all very clear. "Friendship with the world" in James has nothing to do with associations with worldly people or indulging in worldly pleasures. "Friendship with the world" is the envy, selfishness, and ambition that create quarreling and fighting. It's this attitude toward others, this failure to sow peace, that makes a person an enemy of God.

I recently picked up Eugene Peterson's The Message to see how he rendered a text from the book of Isaiah. I've shared this before, but in Peterson's intro to Isaiah he has some really delightful things to say on the topic of holiness. Holiness isn't something I think many people are attracted to. It smacks of a puritanical piety and not a lot of fun. But here's Peterson's take on holiness:

The more hours we spend pondering the words of Isaiah, the more the word "holy" changes in our understanding. If "holy" was ever a pious, pastel-tinted word in our vocabularies, the Isaiah-preaching quickly turns it into something blazing. Holiness is the most attractive quality, the most intense experience we ever get of sheer life--authentic, firsthand living, not life looked at and enjoyed from a distance. We find ourselves in on the operation of God himself, not talking about them or reading about them. Holiness is a furnace that transforms the men and women who enter it. "Holy, Holy, Holy" is not needlepoint. It is the banner of a revolution, the revolution.

Peterson's descriptions of holiness put me in mind of Katherine Sonderegger's description of God's holiness as this very life and power: 

God's very Being is alive, vital. It is not inert, nor static, not material nor stable. God is not thinglike in that sense, not an object, or, better, never a mere object. Holy Scripture sets aside a term for this living Vitality: the Lord God is Dunamis, forceful, powerful Life. We can never exhaust our praise for this holy Dynamism. To stand in its Presence is to be swept over and swept away by its mighty wind, its Spirit that broods and blows where it will, lashed by tongues of fire, quickened by its relentless life, superabundantly pouring forth from its infinite caverns, calling forth life out of death, reality out of nothing. In prayer, in times of testing and trial, in the haunting melancholy and passion of this life, we simply know this Vitality; more we encounter its mighty Power that crushes death and sin, an encounter registered in our whole being, organic and total, body and soul, that is the claim of this Life upon ours...

It is the most fundamental metaphysical claim of all that Dynamic Life exists, the primal fire burns...The Force that is God's very Being radiates outward, expands and explodes, never ceases or wearies, does not stand in reserve but is always, everywhere, Alive...

Holiness is stepping into this Life, this Fire. A famous story from the desert fathers: 

Abba Lot came to Abba Joseph and said, "Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence; and, according as I am able, I strive to cleanse my heart of thoughts. What more should I do?"

The elder rose up in reply and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. 

He said, "Why not become fire?"

"the darkness is my closest friend"

Psalm 88, the darkest of the dark psalms.

In his famous taxonomy of the Psalms, Walter Brueggemann describes psalms of orientation, disorientation and reorientation. Psalms of disorientation are more commonly called "lament psalms." Complaint, distress, and doubt are expressed to God.

Practically all the lament psalms are characterized by what Brueggemann calls the plea-to-praise movement. After crying out to God (the plea) the psalm ends with an expression of trust (the praise). As Brueggemann describes, this quick shift from lament to doxology is one of the most jolting transitions in Scripture, and I've used it in my published research to describe the experiential cross-currents of the Winter Christian experience. 

Psalm 88 is noteworthy in that, of all the lament psalms, it alone never makes the turn toward praise. The psalm sounds a note of complaint all the way through to the final, shattering line: "the darkness is my closest friend." 

The other aspect that makes Psalm 88 the darkest psalm concerns the nature of its compliant. Most Biblical lament cries out to God for rescue from "the enemy." This third person in the drama--the enemy--is the antagonist. The enemy is oppressing, tormenting, lying, taunting, or hurting. In the face of this attack, God is being called upon to intervene. 

Sometimes, however, Biblical lament dares to name God as the antagonist. My pain isn't coming from the enemy but from God. God is the one hurting me, directly so. Psalm 88 is an example of this risky, direct confrontation:

You have put me in the lowest part of the Pit,
in the darkest places, in the depths.
Your wrath weighs heavily on me;
you have overwhelmed me with all your waves. Selah
You have distanced my friends from me;
you have made me repulsive to them.

Notice the You, You, You. You, God, have done this to me.

Those two things, no final turn toward praise and direct accusations toward God, make Psalm 88 the darkest of the dark psalms.

And we're glad for this. To be sure, a steady diet of Psalm 88 would be unhealthy. But sometimes you need to go there. Darkness is a part of the human experience and the poetry of the Psalms descends to that nadir to give it voice. That's what the darkness needs. The darkness putrefies if hidden, repressed, closeted, or secreted away. The darkness needs air. The darkness needs to be spoken aloud. The lament of Psalm 88 is the first step back into the light. 

Let me summarize the main points from Parts 1 and 2.

First, I agree with the Catholic view that when pleasure becomes the goal and telos of eros, as it has with the advent and widespread use of artificial contraception, eros tends to become malformed and disordered. Pleasure-seeking rather than other-concern begins to dominate human sexuality. 

By prohibiting the use of contraceptives, the Catholic argument continues, eros remains open to reproduction as its "natural end." This openness decenters sexual pleasure and directs eros toward other-concern, in this case the possibility of a future child. Sex thereby becomes more than just being about me. 

As I've described it, in this view nature is being used to mortify eros. That is to say, the biological realities of reproduction work against a sexual economy that is wholly focused upon pleasure and gratification. To be sure, this isn't the whole of the Catholic argument against the use of contraceptives, but the mortification of eros in leaving sex open to reproduction is a part of the vision.

However, in the last post I shared my concern about using nature to mortify eros. Since the burdens of reproduction are asymmetrical for men and women, a truth both Biblical and biological, the use of nature to mortify eros leads to unbalanced outcomes. Specifically, increased female hardship and the perpetuation of patriarchal oppressions. These are hardships and oppressions that demand, in my estimation, grave moral consideration that cannot be dismissed by an appeal to nature. In light of these moral concerns, I believe a thoughtful use of artificial contraception within marriage can be an expression of agapic, other-concern in alleviating female hardship along with promoting egalitarian gender relations. 

And yet, with this conclusion the concern over eros returns. If eros is decoupled from reproduction will it not become disordered?

Here are my thoughts about that.

As I read Scripture, the mortification of eros happens through covenantal fidelity. That is to say, binding sex to marriage creates the arena of spiritual formation. As anyone who has been married knows, lifelong fidelity mortifies selfishness, across the board, and promotes other-concern. Covenant forms eros into agape. Here's how Joseph Ratzinger, Benedict XVI, makes this point:

Love involves a real discovery of the other, moving beyond the selfish character that prevailed earlier [when we first fell in love] ... Love now becomes concern and care for the other. No longer is it self-seeking...instead it seeks the good of the beloved; it becomes renunciation and it is ready, and even willing, for sacrifice.

[Love is] a journey, an ongoing exodus out of the closed inward-looking self toward its liberation through self-giving...

[Love is] drawing near to the other, it is less and less concerned with itself, increasingly seeks the happiness of the other, is concerned more and more with the beloved, bestows itself and wants to 'be there for' the other. The element of agape thus enters into this love, for otherwise eros is impoverished and even loses its own nature.

In short, the Christian commitment to binding sex to marriage and martial fidelity is, in my estimation, sufficient for transforming eros into agape. I do not think using nature to supplement this mortification is necessary, for the reasons I've described. To be sure, any given couple may decide to keep the possibility of having children more or less open whenever they have sex, but limiting this openness by using artificial contraceptive isn't, in my view, "intrinsically evil." Of course, the use of artificial contraceptives could signal moral problems within a marriage. We can think of a couple who uses artificial contraception to avoid children in the selfish pursuit of success and hedonistic autonomy. There are Catholics who have written passionately and persuasively about how, in the modern world, we have privileged autonomy over dependency. We can use artificial contraceptives to extract ourselves from this web of dependency. So my point here isn't that the use of artificial contraceptives isn't a location for moral discernment. Using artificial contraceptives could signal a spiritual failure, but I don't think they represent an intrinsic failure. The moral discernment is going to be contextual. And that discernment, in my view, is best handled Christologically than through an appeal to nature. Christ is the telos of all our loves, and our desires for both sex and success must be properly ordered in light of that end. Nature may aid ordering our loves toward Christ, by not always or intrinsically so given that nature is, at present, in a cursed condition. 

To conclude and summarize. My view is that nature is too morally ambiguous and human reproduction too asymmetrical in its impacts for nature serve as the means for ordering eros. My view is that, while nature can play a part in the ordering of eros, the covenant of marriage with Christ as our telos provides sufficient spiritual formation to transform eros into agape. 

In the last post I described how Catholic thinking concerning artificial contraception makes an appeal to what is called "natural law." That is to say, Catholic thought reads a moral logic into the biology of human reproduction. Sex is biologically "for" reproduction. That is the biological "purpose" of sex. Thus, to artificially block that purpose is to thwart God's creative intentions for human sexuality. 

Now, I am not a theologian or a Christian ethicist. So any concerns I raise here likely have excellent, even standard, rejoinders. But if I were to have a long conversation with a Catholic theologian or ethicist about the role of natural law in reproductive ethics, there are two issues I'd bring up. 

The first issue is biblical. 

I'm not going to quibble with anyone who points to Genesis 1's "be fruitful and multiply" to make the point that God created human sexuality for human reproduction. This is a biological given. However, Genesis goes on to describe how human reproduction became wounded by the Fall. And while men have their own burden to carry, the reproductive burden of the Fall lands upon women. God says to Eve:

“I will make your pangs in childbirth exceedingly great;
in pain you shall bring forth children,
yet your desire shall be for your husband,
and he shall rule over you.”

Much can be said about this text and its implications. I simply want to make the point that, due to the Fall, there is something cursed about human reproduction, a curse that is carried specifically by women. A curse that also seems directly implicated in patriarchal gender roles ("he shall rule over you"). 

Now, when it comes to the cursed aspects of human life we generally haven't minded, from an ethical or theological perspective, interventions which lighten that burden. For example, I wear contacts. We go to doctors for medical help. The ground was cursed for Adam, making agricultural labor difficult and burdensome. In response, man invented the wheel, the plow, the cotton gin, and on and on. My point here is that we generally don't object to technological interventions that ease the burdens of the cursed aspects of human existence. So while it is true that sex is "for" reproduction, reproduction is also cursed. Reproduction is burdensome upon women. Genesis 1 is followed by Genesis 3. Consequently, it seems legitimate to create technologies that ease the curse when it comes to human reproduction. 

A rejoinder here is that there isn't a Catholic prohibition about using painkillers during childbirth. So if we read the pain of childbirth narrowly in Genesis 3 the curse upon Eve doesn't have any moral implications for the use of artificial contraception. Interestingly, however, the Hebrew of Genesis 3:16 literally means, not "labor pains," but "your pain and conception." Which is curious given that conception is not painful. That is, unless, conception is itself the onset of a painful burden, that there is some dismaying aspect upon discovering oneself to be pregnant. Consequently, if we read "in pain you shall bring forth children" more broadly, to include the entire burden of pregnancy and the prolonged childcare afterwards, as well as note how these burdens have been implicated in men "ruling over" women, then our moral attention shifts towards these burdens along with how they have twisted egalitarian gender relations. 

My second issue converges upon the first and concerns the impact of evolutionary history upon human sexuality and reproduction. To be sure, not everyone will be willing to entertain this line of inquiry. But if we are willing to admit, or assume for the sake of argument, that human sexuality has been shaped by a long evolutionary history that history should be taken into account when we speak of nature. If so, I have a concern about extracting moral imperatives from human reproduction. 

Specifically, if you look at evolutionary accounts of human sexuality, like David Buss' The Evolution of Desire or Geoffery Miller's The Mating Mind, the biological imperative to "be fruitful and multiply" has had asymmetrical impacts upon the sexual psychologies of men and women. Simplifying greatly, from a biological perspective sex has been "low stakes" for men. Consequently, "being fruitful and multiplying" for men has meant maximizing sexual opportunity. Evolutionary psychologists point to this adaptive history to explain why men, across cultures, are more open to casual and anonymous sexual encounters. 

For women, by contrast, sex has been "high stakes." In ancestral hunter-gather contexts, getting pregnant put a woman's life at risk. Along with the burden of caring for a newborn infant. Facing this adaptive burden, so the evolutionary argument goes, women evolved a more discriminating approach to sex in seeking out a "high-investment" mate. Evolutionary psychologists point to this history to account for cross-cultural female mate preferences that prioritize emotional attachment and material resources.

Interestingly, this evolutionary history points toward the same conclusion of Genesis 3: Reproductive burdens are asymmetrical for men and women. Women have had to evolve sexual strategies to protect themselves when having sex in ways men have never had to do. This brings me to my point: Nature draws our attention toward procreation but also toward an asymmetrical burden that demands attention and care. 

Now, I'm not suggesting that these observations about Eve's curse and evolutionary biology invalidate the Catholic position regarding the use of artificial contraception. I am merely suggesting that there is more to "nature" than the simple observation that having sex is "for" procreation. On one reading of nature, yes, you could say that the "natural" telos of sex is having children and then read some moral content into that observation. But upon another reading of nature you see an asymmetrical burden, a locus of suffering, and read some moral content into that observation as well. That is to say, when the Catholic church teaches that "each and every marriage act remain ordered per se to the procreation of human life" because "conjugal love naturally tends to be fruitful," a lot seems to be missing from this picture of nature.

This isn't to imply that eros isn't in need of mortification. As I shared in the last post, the Catholic vision of transforming eros into agape sits at the heart of the Christian vision of sex. So the concerns I've raised in this post do not challenge that moral imperative. Rather, my concern here is that, when we use nature to mortify eros, this mortification is inherently asymmetrical making it an unfair tool for spiritual formation. I think there's a better, symmetrical path for the mortification of eros. I'll turn to that in the next post.

As debates about reproductive health and science continue to dominate our cultural discourse--from IVF to abortion--I've repeatedly, as Protestant, had opportunity to reflect upon the Catholic teachings concerning the use of contraceptives and birth control. 

As you likely know, the Catholic Church prohibits the use of artificial contraceptives (see CCC 2366-2372). The reason for this is that, according to the Catholic Church, the sex act must always remain open to its natural end, which is biological reproduction. To artificially close off that reproductive end is, according to the Church, "intrinsically evil" (CCC 2370).

Now, what is the theological logic behind these prohibitions? 

Much of it comes from the Catholic use of what is called "natural law." That is to say, human reason can reflect upon nature--God's good creation--and extract from that reflection moral precepts. When it comes to human reproduction, the argument continues, reason apprehends the biological complementarity in the sex act and its role in human procreation. Sex is naturally ordered toward reproduction. Children are the telos of sex. From these reflections on nature moral prohibitions are extracted. To block the natural telos of sex with artificial contraception is to violate God's creative intents and, therefore, sinful. As set forth in Humanae Vitae, the Catholic church urges couples to observe "the precepts of the natural law" which, as interpreted by the church, "teaches that each and every marital act must of necessity retain its intrinsic relationship to the procreation of human life." This openness to reproduction mortifies eros, forming it into a well-ordered love. As Humanae Vitae puts it: "To experience the gift of married love while respecting the laws of conception is to acknowledge that one is not the master of the sources of life but rather the minister of the design established by the Creator."       

Protestants have been traditionally less likely to appeal to natural law. Given their dimmer view of nature, Protestants are more likely to rely upon special revelation (the Bible) than natural revelation. Consequently, while many Protestants will join forces with Catholics on Pro-Life issues, they tend not to share Catholic views regarding the use of artificial contraception. For example, Protestants object to abortion simply on the grounds of killing. Catholics, by contrast, also object to abortion because abortion is another, very drastic, version of interrupting the natural telos of human sexuality. This additional aspect of Catholic thought is largely missing in Protestant Pro-Life discourse. 

I will have more to share about sex and natural law in the next post. To show my cards, in this series I'll share why I disagree with the Catholic position on artificial contraception. But before I do that, I do want to express in this post what I appreciate about the Catholic view. I think the theological discourse about contraception in Protestant spaces has been pretty thin and impoverished. If Protestants want to disagree with Catholics about contraception they should have good theological reasons for that disagreement. This series will share my attempt to share those reasons, from my perspective at least.

To start, though, here's what I appreciate about the Catholic position. 

One aspect of the Catholic view concerns how eros requires mortification and purification. Sex, when it becomes an end in itself, will become disordered. Eros, therefore, has to be a means toward an end. And that end, as is the end of all our loves, is agape. Seeking the good of another rather than myself. 

From the Catholic perspective, the natural telos of sex--reproduction--provides an intrinsic, natural mortification of eros. When reproduction is "open" in the sex act, eros is deflected away from becoming an end in itself and is, rather, serving as a means (at least potentially) for another end--the gift of a child. And that end, the child, is not myself. 

When reproduction is "open" eros is prevented from becoming an end in itself. Sexual pleasure cannot become the sole or only telos of sex. I am decentered from the sex act. Selfishness is mortified. Sexual and erotic pleasure becomes a means toward a greater, self-giving love. In this way, the natural telos of reproductive biology mortifies eros and functions as a crucible of spiritual formation for human sexuality. 

To be clear, what I've shared here is not the whole of the Catholic view. But in this part of the Catholic vision, if I have it correctly, I find much to admire. The cultural impact of artificial contraception, what we call "the Sexual Revolution," tells some of the story. This was one of the concerns raised in Humanae Vitae. With the advent and widespread use of artificial contraception, for the first time in human history, eros--sexual pleasure--became the sole goal and telos of sex. Sex for the sake of orgasm. This has led to the disordering of eros. Sex has become selfish, greedy, and consumptive. We now use the bodies of others for our own erotic pleasure. Sex has drifted away from its natural telos and has become deformed and twisted.   

In prohibiting the use of contraceptives, eros would also be disciplined through larger families. It is hard to be selfish if you have a large family. Very nostalgic and traditionalist Catholic thinkers frequently lament the loss of the sociological pressures large families once placed upon American culture. For example, imagine a world where artificial contraception vanished. There would be a whole lot more children, sex would become more discriminating, and family size would explode. Now, would all this have a significant impact upon American society? Would, for example, we come to reprioritize stable marriages and families? Would our sexual license and rampant individualism become chastened? I believe so, or can at least imagine effects likes these. So you can see how nostalgic and traditionalist Catholic thinkers look at contraception not just as a moral issue but as a tool of social engineering. Reconnecting eros to biology, creating more children and bigger families, would discipline and shape our society. For a lot of traditionalist Catholics, along with sympathetic Protestants, this reshaping of society is what is at sake in debates about reproductive science. Obeying God's laws, sure, that's a win, but also social transformation. 

Now, of course, the problem here concerns the reproductive asymmetry between men and women. The sexual revolution created opportunities for female flourishing. No longer tethered to the home by reproductive biology, women entered the workforce and experienced the freedom of choosing their own lives, futures, and happiness. The telos of biology that kept women "barefoot and pregnant" was no more. 

This is why, of course, debates about reproductive health create clashes between patriarchal and feminist perspectives within Christian spaces. Given the reproductive asymmetries between men and women, any conversation about birth control affects women more than men. For example, I might advocate for Pro-Life policies and have good moral reasons do so do. And yet, those policies will, due to biological asymmetries, create asymmetrical burdens upon women. The same goes for the Catholic position concerning the use of artificial contraceptives. People will therefore look upon the asymmetrical burdens being carried by women and demand that they be given serious recognition and grave consideration in our moral and political calculations. 

For my part, I weigh the biological burden upon women very heavily, which is one of the reasons I don't subscribe to the Catholic position on the use of artificial contraception. Jana and I used artificial contraception in our own family planning. Like, I expect, many of you did. Even Catholics!

And yet, I don't want this very Protestant position that I hold to be thin and unthoughtful. Because I do deeply resonate with the Catholic view that eros needs mortification, and that when eros becomes the telos of sex it becomes disordered. Eros needs to be purified in a crucible of spiritual formation into agape. I think our society has been adversely affected when sexual pleasure became disconnected from concern for the other. 

The question becomes, however, whether nature is the best and/or only route for this mortification. Of course it can be, as the Catholics point out, but I don't think has to be. In the posts to follow I'll share why.

Theologically, I've always had an ambivalent relationship with power. Top-down coercive power isn't anything Christians should be involved with. Domination and conquest are not the way of Jesus.

And yet, over the years my attitude toward power has nuanced. The same power that can tip into domination and conquest can be used to create spaces of flourishing. 

There's a moment in The Lord of the Rings when Gandalf faces off with Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. In their testy exchange, Denethor pontificates that, in his role of Steward, his duty is clear: Put Gondor first, above any other interests or considerations. To which Gandalf responds:

“The rule of no realm is mine, neither of Gondor nor any other, great or small. But all worthy things that are in peril as the world now stands, those are my care. And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come. For I also am a steward. Did you not know?”

In many ways, The Lord of the Rings is a prolonged meditation upon power. At the center of the saga is the Ring of Power. To one side of a moral divide are those who seek power, Sauron and Saruman and those who follow them. On the other side are Gandalf, Aragorn, Elrond, Tom Bombadil, and Galadriel,  individuals of enormous power who put their power to work in the service of others and the natural world. Eventually, we even see Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin return to the Shire to use their hard-won power to rescue and heal the Shire. I'm particularly struck by Sam's work as a gardener, and how he eventually becomes the mayor. Sam turns his entire world into a garden.

The point is that power is really a neutral thing. It's just an ability to affect the world. The critical thing is how that power is directed and toward what ends. We can use our power to dominate or we can use our power to steward and heal, to carve out places where fair and fruitful things might grow.

Jana and I have adopted a saying. We cannot remember where we first heard it, but the saying is this: "Who flourishes because you have power?"

"Among those who know me I mention Rahab and Babylon"

Psalm 87 is a dance between particularity and universality. 

Concerning particularity, the poem opens with these lines:

On the holy mount stands the city he founded;
the Lord loves the gates of Zion
more than all the dwellings of Jacob.
Glorious things are spoken of you,
O city of God.

The Lord shows a particular affection for Zion. This particularity extends to Israel herself, the chosen people of God. This is a particularity Christians have historically lost track of and have been tempted into supersessionism. As Gentiles, the story of salvation is not our story. As Paul describes in Romans, we are grafted into Israel "contrary to nature." Salvation is particular and we must recognize and submit to that particularity.

But then, in the next lines, a universal note is sounded:

Among those who know me I mention Rahab [Egypt] and Babylon;
Philistia, too, and Tyre, with Cush—
“This one was born there,” they say.

These lines are radical in their vision. Israel's enemies and oppressors, from Egypt to Babylon, are included among God's people. And the vision may be even more radical depending upon the interpretation of the line "This one was born there." Where is "there"? Some interpreters believe "there" refers to Zion, connecting back to the opening lines of the psalm. If so, then Egypt, Babylon, Philistia, Tyre, and Cush are "born in Zion." A truly remarkable claim. It's a stunning vision of inclusion. The nations do not just visit Zion to worship God, they are born citizens. The nations are given birthright citizenship.

In my upcoming book The Book of Love I talk about how salvation is a dance between the particular and the universal. Psalm 87 illustrates that dance. In God's favor toward Zion and Israel salvation is particular. But the particularity of salvation is not narrow, exclusive, or ethnonationalistic. The embrace and scope of the Lord's mercy is universal. In the end, every nation becomes a citizen of Zion.